Precisely at the time of which M. Guizot speaks, we observe a fact which proves that the Church allows free scope to the exercise of thought. The high reputation which St. Anselm sustained during his whole career, and the great esteem in which he was held by the Sovereign Pontiffs of his time, are well known; yet St. Anselm philosophised with great freedom. In the introduction to his Monologue, he tells us that some persons entreated him to explain things by reason alone, without the aid of the sacred Scriptures. The Saint was not afraid to comply with their request, and he accordingly wrote the little work we have just named. In other parts of his works, too, St. Anselm adopts the same method. Very few persons concern themselves now-a-days about ancient writers, and doubtless very few have read the works of the holy Doctor of whom we are speaking. They display, however, such perspicuity of thought, such solid reasoning, and above all such a discreet and temperate judgment, that we are surprised to find the human mind, at the very commencement of the intellectual movement, attaining to so high an elevation. In him we find the greatest freedom of thought combined with the respect due to the authority of the Church; and far from impairing the vigor of his ideas, this respect augments their force and perspicuity. From his works we learn that Abelard was not the only one who taught, not merely to repeat his lectures, but also to understand them; for St. Anselm, some years previous, followed the same method with a clearness and solidity far beyond what could be expected at that time. We there discover, also, that in the bosom of the Catholic Church men carried the operations of reason to the greatest possible extent, though always within the bounds prescribed by its own weakness, and with reverential regard to the sacred veil that shrouds august mysteries.
The works of St. Anselm prove that Abelard was not exactly the man to teach the world that the end of philosophical studies is to lead the mind to the contemplation of God, to whom all things should be referred; and that we should avail ourselves of all our reasoning powers, lest on questions so difficult and complicated as those that form the object of Christian faith, the subtilties of our opponents should too readily injure the purity of our faith. But from the Saint's profound submission to the authority of the Church, from the candor and ingenuousness with which he acknowledges the limits of the human mind, we see that he was persuaded that it is not impossible to believe what we do not comprehend; and, in fact, there is a wide difference between the conviction that a thing exists, and a clear knowledge of the nature of the thing in the existence of which we believe.
CHAPTER LXXI.
RELIGION AND THE HUMAN MIND IN EUROPE
As we are to examine what was, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, the conduct of the Church in reference to innovators, we will avail ourselves of the excellent opportunity afforded by this epoch for noticing the progress of the human mind. It has been said that in Europe intellectual development was exclusively theological. This is true, and necessarily so; all the faculties of man receive their development according to the circumstances that surround him; and as his health, his temperament, his strength, his color even, and his stature depend upon climate, food, mode of life, and other circumstances affecting him, so in like manner his moral and intellectual faculties bear the stamp of the principles which predominate in the family and society of which he forms a constituent part. Now, in Europe, religion was the predominating element; in every thing religion made herself heard and felt; nowhere was there a principle of life or action discoverable unconnected with religion. It was quite natural, therefore, that in Europe all the faculties of man should have their development in a religious sense. A little attention will show us that this was the case not with the intellect only, but likewise with the heart, with the passions even, and with the whole moral man; just as, in whatever direction we go in Europe, we meet at every step with some monument of religion; so whatever faculty we examine in the individual European, we find upon it the impress of religion.
And the case was the same with families and society as with individuals; religion was equally predominant in both. Wherever man has progressed towards a state of perfection, we observe a similar phenomenon; and it is an invariable fact in the history of the human race, that no society ever entered on the road to civilization, save under the direction and impulse of religious principles. True or false, rational or absurd, wherever man is on the road to improvement, these principles are found. Some nations, indeed, may well excite our pity at the monstrous superstitions into which they have fallen; but we still must acknowledge, that, under these very superstitions, lay concealed germs of good that did not fail to produce considerable benefits. The Egyptians, Phœnicians, Greeks, and Romans were all extremely superstitious; yet the progress they made in civilization and intellectual culture was such, that their monuments and memorials strike us even yet with admiration. It is easy to smile at an extravagant observance or a senseless dogma; but we should remember that the growth and preservation of certain moral principles cannot be otherwise secured than under the protecting shade of religious belief. Now, these principles are most indispensably necessary to prevent individuals from being monstrously changed, and to maintain the social and family ties unbroken. Much has been said against the immorality tolerated, permitted, and sometimes even taught by certain forms of religion; and certainly nothing is more lamentable than to behold man thus led astray by that which ought to be his best guide. Let us, however, look for a reality beneath these shadows, which appear at first so gloomy, and we shall soon discover some rays of light that may lead us to regard false religions, not indeed with indulgence, but with less horror than those infamous systems which make matter self-existent, and pleasure the only divinity.
To preserve the idea of moral good and evil, an idea without meaning except in the supposition that there exists a divine power, is itself an inestimable advantage. Now this advantage adheres inseparably to every form of religion, even to those that make the most absurd and most criminal applications of the idea of good and evil. Doubtless, the people of antiquity, and those of our own time who have not received the light of Christianity, have gone most deplorably astray; but, in the midst of their very wanderings, there always remains a certain degree of light; and this light, however dimly it shines, however faint and feeble its rays, is incomparably better than the thick darkness of atheism. Between the nations of antiquity and those of Europe there is this very remarkable difference, that the former passed from a state of infancy to a state of civilization; while the latter advanced to this, in passing from that undefinable state which, in Europe, was the result of the invasion of the barbarians, of the confused mixture of a young with a decrepit society, of rude and ferocious nations with others that were civilized, cultivated, or rather effeminate. Hence, amongst the ancients the imagination was developed before the intellect, whilst amongst Europeans the intellect came before the imagination. With the former, poetry came first; with the latter, what is termed dialectics and metaphysics.
What is the reason of so striking a difference? When a people are yet in their infancy, either an infancy properly so called, or having lived long in ignorance, in a state similar to that of an infant people, we find them rich in sensations, but very poor in ideas. Nature, with her majesty, her wonders, and her mysteries, affects such a people the most; their language is grand, picturesque, and highly poetical; their passions are not refined, but, on the other hand, they are very energetic and violent. Now an intellect that ingenuously seeks the light, loves truth in its purity and simplicity, confesses and embraces it readily, lending itself neither to subtilties, artifices, nor disputes. The least thing that makes a vivid impression upon the senses or the imagination of such a people fills them with surprise and wonder; you cannot inspire them with enthusiasm without setting before them something heroic and sublime.
On the first glance at the state of the people of Europe in the middle ages, we perceive in them a certain resemblance to an infant people, but, at the same time, a very striking difference on several points. Their passions are very strong, they are pleased beyond every thing with the wonderful and the extraordinary, and, for want of realities, their imagination conjures up gigantic phantoms. The profession of arms is their favorite occupation; they rush eagerly into the most perilous adventures, and meet them with incredible courage. All this indicates a development of the feelings of sensibility and imagination, inasmuch as they produce intrepidity and valor; but, strange to say, together with these dispositions, we find a singular taste for things the most purely intellectual; with the most lively, ardent, and picturesque reality, we find associated a taste for the coldest and barest abstractions. A knight, with the cross on his shoulder, gorgeously clad, covered with trophies, beaming with glory won in a hundred combats; a subtile dialectician, disputing on the system of the Nominalists, and urging his subtilely devised abstractions till he becomes unintelligible; – these are certainly two characters very dissimilar, and yet they exist together in the same society; both have their prestige, receive the greatest homage, and are followed by enthusiastic admirers. Even when we have taken into account the singular position of the European nations at that period, it is not easy to assign a cause for this anomaly. We can easily understand how the people of Europe, emerging, for the most part, from the forests of the North, and engaged for a long time either in intestine wars or in conflicts with vanquished tribes, should have preserved, together with their warlike habits, a strong and lively imagination and violent passions; but it is not so easy to account for their taste for an order of ideas purely metaphysical and dialectical. When, however, we come to look deeply into the matter, we discover that this apparent anomaly had its origin in the very nature of things. How is it that a people in their infancy have so much imagination and sensibility? Because the objects by which these faculties are naturally excited abound around them; because individuals, being continually exposed to the influence of external things, these objects operate upon them more forcibly. Man first feels and imagines; later he understands and reflects: this is the natural order in which his faculties begin to operate. Hence, with every people the development of the imagination and of the passions precedes that of the intellect; the passions and the imagination finding their object and aliment before the intellect. This accounts, also, for the fact that the poetical always precedes the philosophical era. From this it follows, that nations in their infancy think little, as they want ideas; and this is the chief distinctive mark between them and the people of Europe at the period we are speaking of. In fact, ideas at that time abounded in Europe; and hence the purely intellectual was held in such repute even amidst the most profound ignorance. Hence, also, the intellect strove to shine even before its time appeared to have arrived. Sound ideas respecting God, respecting man and society, were already everywhere disseminated, thanks to the incessant teaching of Christianity; and as there still remained numerous traces of the wisdom of antiquity, both Christian and Pagan, the consequence was, that every man possessed of a little learning had, in fact, a great fund of ideas.
It is clear, however, that notwithstanding these advantages, the minds of men could not, amidst the chaos of erudition and philosophy that then presented itself, escape the confusion naturally resulting from the wide-spread ignorance, occasioned by a long succession of revolutions. They could not possess sufficient discrimination and judgment to pursue all at once, and with success, the study of the Bible, of the writings of the holy Fathers, of the civil and canon law, of the works of Aristotle, and of the Arabian commentaries. Yet these were all studied at the same time; on all these, disputes were zealously maintained; and the errors and extravagances which in such a state of things were inevitable were accompanied by the presumption that is invariably inherent in ignorance. To succeed in explaining certain passages of the Bible, of the Fathers, of the codes, and of the works of philosophers, great preparatory labors were necessary, as the experience of subsequent ages has proved. It was necessary to study languages, to examine archives and monuments, to collect together from all parts an immense mass of materials; then, to reduce these to order, to compare them together, and to discriminate between them; in a word, it was necessary to possess a rich fund of learning, enlightened by the torch of criticism. Now all this was then wanting, and could only be attained in the course of ages. The consequence was inevitable, considering the mania that existed for explaining every thing. If a difficulty arose, and the facts and knowledge requisite for its solution were wanting, they adopted a roundabout way; instead of seeking the support derivable from facts, the disputants took their stand upon an idea; substituting some subtle abstraction for solid reasoning; where they found it impossible to form a body of sound doctrine, they threw together a confused mass of ideas and words. Who could repress a smile, or not feel pity for Abelard, for instance, promising his disciples to explain to them the prophet Ezechiel, with very little time for preparation, and actually fulfilling his promise? I would ask the reader whether, in the middle of the thirteenth century, an explanation of Ezechiel, given with only a slight preparation, could have been successful or interesting?
The study of dialectics and metaphysics was embraced with so much ardor, that in a short time these branches of knowledge superseded all others. The consequences were prejudicial to the minds of men; their attention being wholly engrossed by this object of their choice, the pursuit of more solid learning was regarded with indifference – history was neglected, literature unnoticed, in a word, the mind was only half developed. Every thing appertaining to the imagination and the feelings was sacrificed to the cultivation of the intellect; not, indeed, in its most useful operations, – the formation of a clear and perfect perception, of a mature judgment, of a habit of sound and accurate reasoning, – but in those which are astute, subtle, and extravagant.
Those who would reproach the Church for her conduct at that period in reference to innovators have a very imperfect understanding of the actual condition of Europe as regards science and religion. We have already seen that the intellectual development was religious; consequently, even when it deviated from the right path, it still retained this character, and the oddest subtilties were applied to mysteries the most sublime. Almost all the heretics of the time were renowned dialecticians, and their errors arose from an excess of subtilty. Roscelin, one of the leading dialecticians of his time, was the founder, or at least one of the leaders of the sect of the Nominalists. Abelard was celebrated for the readiness of his talents, his skill in disputation, and his address in explaining every thing to suit his thesis. The abuse of his intellect led him into the errors which we have already spoken of – errors which he would have avoided, had he not proudly yielded himself up to his own vain thoughts. The mania for subtilising every thing drew Gilbert de la Poirée into the most lamentable errors on the subject of the Divinity; Amaury, another celebrated philosopher, after the fashion of the time, took up so warmly the question of Aristotle's primordial matter, that he ended by declaring matter to be God. The Church strenuously opposed these errors, which arose in great numbers in minds led astray by vain arguments, and puffed up with foolish pride. It would argue a strange misconception of the true interests of science, to suppose that the Church's resistance to these raving innovators was not most favorable to intellectual progress.
These headstrong men, eager in the pursuit of knowledge, and captivated by the first chimera presented to their imagination, stood greatly in need of some discreet authority to restrain them within the bounds of reason and moderation. The intellect had scarcely taken the first steps in the career of knowledge, and yet fancied it already knew every thing, "pretending to know all things except the nescio, I know not," as St. Bernard reproaches the vain Abelard. Why should we not, for the good of humanity, and the credit of the human intellect, approve the condemnation pronounced by the Church against the errors of Gilbert, which aimed at nothing less than the overthrow of the ideas that we have of God? If Amaury and his disciple David de Dinant are smitten by the sentence of the Church, it is because they destroy the idea of the Divinity by confounding the Creator with primordial matter. Was it for the advantage of Europe that its intellectual movement should be commenced by precipitating itself at the very outset into the abyss of pantheism?
Had the human intellect followed in its development the way marked out for it by the Church, European civilization would have gained at least two centuries; the fourteenth century would have been as far advanced as the sixteenth was. To convince ourselves of the truth of this assertion, we have only to compare writings with writings, and men with men; the men most firmly attached to the faith of the Church attained to such eminence that they left the age in which they lived far behind them. Roscelin's antagonist was St. Anselm; the latter always remained faithful to the authority of the Church; the former rebelled against her: and who, let met ask, would have the hardihood to compare the dialectician of Compiègne with the learned Archbishop of Canterbury? How vast the difference between the profound and skilful metaphysician who composed the Monologue and the Prosologue, and the frivolous leader of the disputes of the Nominalists! Have the subtilties and cavillings of Roscelin any weight whatever against the lofty thoughts of the man who, in the eleventh century, to prove the existence of God, could reject all vain and captious reasonings, concentrate himself within himself, consult his own ideas, compare them with their object, and demonstrate the existence of God from the very idea of God, thus anticipating Descartes by five hundred years? Who best understood the true interests of science? Show me how the intellect of St. Anselm was degraded or shackled by the influence of the formidable authority of the Church, by any usurpation on the part of Popes of the rights of the human mind. And can Abelard himself be compared, either as a man, or as a writer, with his Catholic adversary, St. Bernard? Abelard was a perfect master of all the subtilties of the schools; noisy disputes were his amusement; he was intoxicated with the applause of his disciples, who were dazzled by their master's talents and courage, and still more by the learned follies of the age; yet what has become of his works? Who reads them? Who ever thinks of finding in them a single page of sound reasoning, the description of a single great event, or a picture of the manners of the time, in other words, the least matter of interest to science or history? On the contrary, what man of learning has not often sought this in the immortal works of St. Bernard?
It is impossible to find a more sublime personification of the Church combating against the heretics of his time than the illustrious Abbot of Clairvaux, contending against all innovators, and speaking, if we may use the term, in the name of the Catholic faith. No one could more worthily represent the ideas and sentiments which the Church endeavored to diffuse amongst mankind, nor more faithfully delineate the course through which Catholicity would have led the human mind. Let us pause for a moment in the presence of this gigantic mind, which attained to an eminence far beyond any of its contemporaries. This extraordinary man fills the world with his name – upheaves it by his words – sways it by his influence; in the midst of darkness he is its light; he forms, as it were, a mysterious link, connecting the two epochs of St. Jerome and St. Augustine, of Bossuet and Bourdaloue. In the midst of a general relaxation and corruption of morals, by the strictest observances and the most perfect purity he is proof against every assault. Ignorance prevails throughout all classes; he studies night and day to enlighten his mind. A false and counterfeit erudition usurps the place of true knowledge; he knows its unsoundness, disdains and despises it; and his eagle eye discovers at a glance that the star of truth moves at an immense distance from this false reflection, from this crude mass of subtilties and follies, which the men of his time termed philosophy. If at that period there existed any useful learning, it was to be sought in the Bible, and in the writings of the holy Fathers; to the study of these, therefore, St. Bernard devotes himself unremittingly. Far from consulting the vain babblers who are arguing and declaiming in the schools, St. Bernard seeks his inspirations in the silence of the cloister, or in the august sanctuary of the temple; if he goes out, it is to contemplate the great book of nature, to study eternal truths in the solitude of the desert, and, as he himself has expressed it, "in forests of beech-trees."
Thus did this great man, rising superior to the prejudices of his time, avoid the evil produced in his contemporaries by the method then prevailing. By this method the imagination and the feelings were stifled; the judgment warped; the intellect sharpened to excess; and learning converted into a labyrinth of confusion. Read the works of the sainted Abbot of Clairvaux, and you will find that all his faculties go, as it were, hand in hand. If you look for imagination, you will find the finest coloring, faithful portraits, and splendid descriptions. If you want feeling, you will learn how skilfully he finds his way into the heart, captivates, subdues, and fashions it to his will. Now he strikes a salutary fear into the hardened sinner, tracing with great force the formidable picture of the divine justice and the eternal vengeance; then he consoles and sustains the man who is sinking under worldly adversity, the assaults of his passions, the recollection of his transgressions, or an exaggerated fear of the divine justice. Do you want pathos? Listen to his colloquies with Jesus and Mary; hear him speaking of the blessed Virgin with such enrapturing sweetness, that he seems to exhaust all the epithets that the liveliest hope and the most pure and tender love can suggest. Would you have vigor and vehemence of style, and that irresistible torrent of eloquence which nothing can resist, which carries the mind beyond itself, fires it with enthusiasm, compels it to enter upon the most arduous paths, and to undertake the most heroic enterprises? See him with his burning words inflaming the zeal of the people, nobles, and kings; moving them to quit their homes, to take up arms, and to unite in numerous armies that pour into Asia to rescue the Holy Sepulchre. This extraordinary man is every where met with, every where heard. Entirely free from ambition, he possesses, nevertheless, a leading influence in the great affairs of Europe: though fond of solitude and retirement, he is continually obliged to quit the obscurity of the cloister to assist in the councils of kings and popes. He never flatters, never betrays the truth, never dissembles the sacred ardor which burns within his breast; and yet he is every where listened to with profound respect; his stern voice is heard in the cottages of the poor and in the palaces of kings; he admonishes with terrible severity the most obscure monk and the Sovereign Pontiff.
In the midst of so much ardor and activity, his mind loses none of its clearness or precision. His exposition of a point of doctrine is remarkable for ease and lucidity; his demonstrations are vigorous and conclusive; his reasoning is conducted with a force of logic that presses close upon his adversary, and leaves him no means of escape: in defence, his quickness and address are surprising. In his answers he is clear and precise; in repartee, quick and penetrating; and without dealing in the subtilties of the schools, he displays wonderful tact in disentangling truth from error, sound reason from artifice and fraud. Here is a man formed entirely and exclusively under the influence of Catholicity; a man who never strayed from the pale of the Church, who never dreamed of setting his intellect free from the yoke of authority; and yet he rises like a mighty pyramid above all the men of his time.
To the eternal honor of the Catholic Church, and utterly to disprove the accusation brought against her, of exerting an influence hostile to the freedom of the human mind, I must observe that St. Bernard was not the only man who rose superior to the age, and pointed out the way to genuine progress. It is unquestionably certain, that the most distinguished men of that period, those least influenced by the evils that so long kept the human mind in pursuit of mere vanities and shadows, were precisely the men most devotedly attached to Catholicity. These men set an example of what was necessary to be done for the advancement of learning; an example that for a long time had, it is true, but few followers, but which found some in subsequent ages: now it is to be observed that the progress of learning was due to the credit obtained by this method – I speak of the study of antiquity.
The sacred sciences were the chief object of attention at this period; as the intellect was theologically developed, dialectics and metaphysics were studied with a view to their application to theology. With Roscelin, Abelard, Gilbert de la Poirée, and Amaury, the phrase was: "Let us reason, subtilise, and apply our systems to all sorts of questions; let our reason be our rule and guide, without which knowledge is impossible." With St. Bernard, St. Anselm, Hugh and Richard de St. Victor, Peter Lombard, on the contrary, it was: "Let us see what antiquity teaches; let us study the works of the holy Fathers; let us analyse and compare their texts; we cannot place our dependence exclusively on arguments, which are sometime dangerous and sometimes futile." Which of these two judgments has been actually confirmed? Which of these methods was adopted when real progress was to be made? Was not recourse had to an unremitting study of ancient works? Was it not found necessary to throw aside the cavils of the dialecticians? Protestants themselves boast of having taken this way; their theologians consider it an honor to be versed in antiquity; and would be offended if treated as mere dialecticians. On which side, then, was reason? With the heretics, or with the Church? Who best understood the method most favorable to intellectual progress? The heretical dialectician, or the orthodox doctor? To these questions there can only be one reply. These are not mere opinions – they are facts; not an empty theory, but the actual history of learning, as known by all the world, and as represented to us in irrefragable documents. Unless prepossessed by the authority of M. Guizot, the reader certainly cannot complain that I have eschewed questions of history, or claimed his belief on my own bare word.
Unhappily, mankind seemed doomed never to find the true road without going a long way round; thus the intellect, taking the very worst way of all, went in pursuit of subtilties and cavils, forsaking the beaten track of reason and good sense. At the beginning of the twelfth century the evil had reached to such a height, that to apply a remedy was no slight undertaking; nor is it easy to say how far matters might have gone, nor what evils would have ensued in various ways, had not Providence, who never abandons the care of the moral, any more than of the physical universe, raised up an extraordinary genius, who, rising to an immense height above the men of his age, reduced the chaos to order. Out of the undigested mass, by retrenching here, adding there, classifying and explaining, this man collected a fund of real learning. Persons acquainted with the history of learning at that time will readily understand that I speak of St. Thomas Aquinas. Rightly to appreciate the extraordinary merit of this great Doctor, we must view him in connection with the times and circumstances of which we are treating. Beholding in St. Thomas Aquinas one of the most luminous, most comprehensive, and most penetrating intellects that have ever adorned the human race, we are almost tempted to think that his appearance in the thirteenth century was inopportune; we regret that he did not live in a more recent age, to enter the lists with the most illustrious men of whom modern Europe can boast. But, upon further reflection, we find that the human mind owes so much to him, we see so clearly the reason why his appearance at the time when Europe received his lectures was most opportune, that we have no other feeling left than one of profound admiration of the designs of Providence.