The revolution may be called a caricature of freedom, as the empire was of glory; and what they borrow from foreigners undergoes the same process. They take top-boots and mackintoshes from across the water, and caricature our fashions; they read a little, very little, Shakespeare, and caricature our poetry: and while in David’s time art and religion were only a caricature of Heathenism, now, on the contrary, these two commodities are imported from Germany; and distorted caricatures originally, are still farther distorted on passing the frontier.
I trust in heaven that German art and religion will take no hold in our country (where there is a fund of roast-beef that will expel any such humbug8 in the end); but these sprightly9 Frenchmen have relished10 the mystical doctrines11 mightily13; and having watched the Germans, with their sanctified looks, and quaint14 imitations of the old times, and mysterious transcendental talk, are aping many of their fashions; as well and solemnly as they can: not very solemnly, God wot; for I think one should always prepare to grin when a Frenchman looks particularly grave, being sure that there is something false and ridiculous lurking15 under the owl-like solemnity.
When last in Paris, we were in the midst of what was called a Catholic reaction. Artists talked of faith in poems and pictures; churches were built here and there; old missals were copied and purchased; and numberless portraits of saints, with as much gilding16 about them as ever was used in the fifteenth century, appeared in churches, ladies’ boudoirs, and picture-shops. One or two fashionable preachers rose, and were eagerly followed; the very youth of the schools gave up their pipes and billiards17 for some time, and flocked in crowds to Notre Dame18, to sit under the feet of Lacordaire. I went to visit the Church of Notre Dame de Lorette yesterday, which was finished in the heat of this Catholic rage, and was not a little struck by the similarity of the place to the worship celebrated19 in it, and the admirable manner in which the architect has caused his work to express the public feeling of the moment. It is a pretty little bijou of a church: it is supported by sham20 marble pillars; it has a gaudy21 ceiling of blue and gold, which will look very well for some time; and is filled with gaudy pictures and carvings22, in the very pink of the mode. The congregation did not offer a bad illustration of the present state of Catholic reaction. Two or three stray people were at prayers; there was no service; a few countrymen and idlers were staring about at the pictures; and the Swiss, the paid guardian23 of the place, was comfortably and appropriately asleep on his bench at the door. I am inclined to think the famous reaction is over: the students have taken to their Sunday pipes and billiards again; and one or two cafés have been established, within the last year, that are ten times handsomer than Notre Dame de Lorette.
However, if the immortal24 G?rres and the German mystics have had their day, there is the immortal G?the, and the Pantheists; and I incline to think that the fashion has set very strongly in their favor. Voltaire and the Encyclopaedians are voted, now, barbares, and there is no term of reprobation25 strong enough for heartless Humes and Helvetiuses, who lived but to destroy, and who only thought to doubt. Wretched as Voltaire’s sneers26 and puns are, I think there is something more manly27 and earnest even in them, than in the present muddy French transcendentalism. Pantheism is the word now; one and all have begun to éprouver the besoin of a religious sentiment; and we are deluged28 with a host of gods accordingly. Monsieur de Balzac feels himself to be inspired; Victor Hugo is a god; Madame Sand is a god; that tawdry man of genius, Jules Janin, who writes theatrical29 reviews for the Débats, has divine intimations; and there is scarce a beggarly, beardless scribbler of poems and prose, but tells you, in his preface, of the sainteté of the sacerdoce littéraire; or a dirty student, sucking tobacco and beer, and reeling home with a grisette from the chaumière, who is not convinced of the necessity of a new “Messianism,” and will hiccup30, to such as will listen, chapters of his own drunken Apocalypse. Surely, the negatives of the old days were far less dangerous than the assertions of the present; and you may fancy what a religion that must be, which has such high priests.
There is no reason to trouble the reader with details of the lives of many of these prophets and expounders of new revelations. Madame Sand, for instance, I do not know personally, and can only speak of her from report. True or false, the history, at any rate, is not very edifying31; and so may be passed over: but, as a certain great philosopher told us, in very humble32 and simple words, that we are not to expect to gather grapes from thorns, or figs33 from thistles, we may, at least, demand, in all persons assuming the character of moralist or philosopher — order, soberness, and regularity34 of life; for we are apt to distrust the intellect that we fancy can be swayed by circumstance or passion; and we know how circumstance and passion WILL sway the intellect: how mortified35 vanity will form excuses for itself; and how temper turns angrily upon conscience, that reproves it. How often have we called our judge our enemy, because he has given sentence against us! — How often have we called the right wrong, because the right condemns36 us! And in the lives of many of the bitter foes37 of the Christian38 doctrine12, can we find no personal reason for their hostility39? The men in Athens said it was out of regard for religion that they murdered Socrates; but we have had time, since then, to reconsider the verdict; and Socrates’ character is pretty pure now, in spite of the sentence and the jury of those days.
The Parisian philosophers will attempt to explain to you the changes through which Madame Sand’s mind has passed — the initiatory40 trials, labors42, and sufferings which she has had to go through — before she reached her present happy state of mental illumination. She teaches her wisdom in parables43, that are, mostly, a couple of volumes long; and began, first, by an eloquent45 attack on marriage, in the charming novel of “Indiana.” “Pity,” cried she, “for the poor woman who, united to a being whose brute46 force makes him her superior, should venture to break the bondage47 which is imposed on her, and allow her heart to be free.”
In support of this claim of pity, she writes two volumes of the most exquisite48 prose. What a tender, suffering creature is Indiana; how little her husband appreciates that gentleness which he is crushing by his tyranny and brutal49 scorn; how natural it is that, in the absence of his sympathy, she, poor clinging confiding50 creature, should seek elsewhere for shelter; how cautious should we be, to call criminal — to visit with too heavy a censure51 — an act which is one of the natural impulses of a tender heart, that seeks but for a worthy52 object of love. But why attempt to tell the tale of beautiful Indiana? Madame Sand has written it so well, that not the hardest-hearted husband in Christendom can fail to be touched by her sorrows, though he may refuse to listen to her argument. Let us grant, for argument’s sake, that the laws of marriage, especially the French laws of marriage, press very cruelly upon unfortunate women.
But if one wants to have a question of this, or any nature, honestly argued, it is, better, surely, to apply to an indifferent person for an umpire. For instance, the stealing of pocket-handkerchiefs or snuff-boxes may or may not be vicious; but if we, who have not the wit, or will not take the trouble to decide the question ourselves, want to hear the real rights of the matter, we should not, surely, apply to a pickpocket53 to know what he thought on the point. It might naturally be presumed that he would be rather a prejudiced person — particularly as his reasoning, if successful, might get him OUT OF GAOL54. This is a homely55 illustration, no doubt; all we would urge by it is, that Madame Sand having, according to the French newspapers, had a stern husband, and also having, according to the newspapers, sought “sympathy” elsewhere, her arguments may be considered to be somewhat partial, and received with some little caution.
And tell us who have been the social reformers? — the haters, that is, of the present system, according to which we live, love, marry, have children, educate them, and endow them — ARE THEY PURE THEMSELVES? I do believe not one; and directly a man begins to quarrel with the world and its ways, and to lift up, as he calls it, the voice of his despair, and preach passionately56 to mankind about this tyranny of faith, customs, laws; if we examine what the personal character of the preacher is, we begin pretty clearly to understand the value of the doctrine. Any one can see why Rousseau should be such a whimpering reformer, and Byron such a free and easy misanthropist, and why our accomplished57 Madame Sand, who has a genius and eloquence58 inferior to neither, should take the present condition of mankind (French-kind) so much to heart, and labor41 so hotly to set it right.
After “Indiana” (which, we presume, contains the lady’s notions upon wives and husbands) came “Valentine,” which may be said to exhibit her doctrine, in regard of young men and maidens59, to whom the author would accord, as we fancy, the same tender license60. “Valentine” was followed by “Lelia,” a wonderful book indeed, gorgeous in eloquence, and rich in magnificent poetry: a regular topsyturvyfication of morality, a thieves’ and prostitutes’ apotheosis61. This book has received some late enlargements and emendations by the writer; it contains her notions on morals, which, as we have said, are so peculiar62, that, alas63! they only can be mentioned here, not particularized: but of “Spiridion” we may write a few pages, as it is her religious manifesto64.
In this work, the lady asserts her pantheistical doctrine, and openly attacks the received Christian creed65. She declares it to be useless now, and unfitted to the exigencies66 and the degree of culture of the actual world; and, though it would be hardly worth while to combat her opinions in due form, it is, at least, worth while to notice them, not merely from the extraordinary eloquence and genius of the woman herself, but because they express the opinions of a great number of people besides: for she not only produces her own thoughts, but imitates those of others very eagerly; and one finds in her writings so much similarity with others, or, in others, so much resemblance to her, that the book before us may pass for the expression of the sentiments of a certain French party.
“Dieu est mort,” says another writer of the same class, and of great genius too. —“Dieu est mort,” writes Mr. Henry Heine, speaking of the Christian God; and he adds, in a daring figure of speech; —“N’entendez-vous pas sonner la Clochette? — on porte les sacremens à un Dieu qui se meurt!” Another of the pantheist poetical67 philosophers, Mr. Edgar Quinet, has a poem, in which Christ and the Virgin68 Mary are made to die similarly, and the former is classed with Prometheus. This book of “Spiridion” is a continuation of the theme, and perhaps you will listen to some of the author’s expositions of it.
It must be confessed that the controversialists of the present day have an eminent69 advantage over their predecessors70 in the days of folios; it required some learning then to write a book, and some time, at least — for the very labor of writing out a thousand such vast pages would demand a considerable period. But now, in the age of duodecimos, the system is reformed altogether: a male or female controversialist draws upon his imagination, and not his learning; makes a story instead of an argument, and, in the course of 150 pages (where the preacher has it all his own way) will prove or disprove you anything. And, to our shame be it said, we Protestants have set the example of this kind of proselytism — those detestable mixtures of truth, lies, false sentiment, false reasoning, bad grammar, correct and genuine philanthropy and piety71 — I mean our religious tracts72, which any woman or man, be he ever so silly, can take upon himself to write, and sell for a penny, as if religious instruction were the easiest thing in the world. We, I say, have set the example in this kind of composition, and all the sects73 of the earth will, doubtless, speedily follow it. I can point you out blasphemies75 in famous pious76 tracts that are as dreadful as those above mentioned; but this is no place for such discussions, and we had better return to Madame Sand. As Mrs. Sherwood expounds77, by means of many touching78 histories and anecdotes79 of little boys and girls, her notions of church history, church catechism, church doctrine; — as the author of “Father Clement80, a Roman Catholic Story,” demolishes81 the stately structure of eighteen centuries, the mighty82 and beautiful Roman Catholic faith, in whose bosom83 repose84 so many saints and sages85 — by the means of a three-and-sixpenny duodecimo volume, which tumbles over the vast fabric87, as David’s pebble-stone did Goliath; — as, again, the Roman Catholic author of “Geraldine” falls foul88 of Luther and Calvin, and drowns the awful echoes of their tremendous protest by the sounds of her little half-crown trumpet89: in like manner, by means of pretty sentimental90 tales, and cheap apologues, Mrs. Sand proclaims HER truth — that we need a new Messiah, and that the Christian religion is no more! O awful, awful name of God! Light unbearable91! Mystery unfathomable! Vastness immeasurable! — Who are these who come forward to explain the mystery, and gaze unblinking into the depths of the light, and measure the immeasurable vastness to a hair? O name, that God’s people of old did fear to utter! O light, that God’s prophet would have perished had he seen! Who are these that are now so familiar with it? — Women, truly; for the most part weak women — weak in intellect, weak mayhap in spelling and grammar, but marvellously strong in faith:— women, who step down to the people with stately step and voice of authority, and deliver their twopenny tablets, as if there were some Divine authority for the wretched nonsense recorded there!
With regard to the spelling and grammar, our Parisian Pythoness stands, in the goodly fellowship, remarkable92. Her style is a noble, and, as far as a foreigner can judge, a strange tongue, beautifully rich and pure. She has a very exuberant93 imagination, and, with it, a very chaste94 style of expression. She never scarcely indulges in declamation95, as other modern prophets do, and yet her sentences are exquisitely96 melodious97 and full. She seldom runs a thought to death (after the manner of some prophets, who, when they catch a little one, toy with it until they kill it), but she leaves you at the end of one of her brief, rich, melancholy98 sentences, with plenty of food for future cogitation99. I can’t express to you the charm of them; they seem to me like the sound of country bells — provoking I don’t know what vein100 of musing101 and meditation102, and falling sweetly and sadly on the ear.
This wonderful power of language must have been felt by most people who read Madame Sand’s first books, “Valentine” and “Indiana”: in “Spiridion” it is greater, I think, than ever; and for those who are not afraid of the matter of the novel, the manner will be found most delightful103. The author’s intention, I presume, is to describe, in a parable44, her notions of the downfall of the Catholic church; and, indeed, of the whole Christian scheme: she places her hero in a monastery104 in Italy, where, among the characters about him, and the events which occur, the particular tenets of Madame Dudevant’s doctrine are not inaptly laid down. Innocent, faithful, tender-hearted, a young monk105, by name Angel, finds himself, when he has pronounced his vows106, an object of aversion and hatred107 to the godly men whose lives he so much respects, and whose love he would make any sacrifice to win. After enduring much, he flings himself at the feet of his confessor, and begs for his sympathy and counsel; but the confessor spurns108 him away, and accuses him, fiercely, of some unknown and terrible crime — bids him never return to the confessional until contrition109 has touched his heart, and the stains which sully his spirit are, by sincere repentance110, washed away.
“Thus speaking,” says Angel, “Father Hegesippus tore away his robe, which I was holding in my supplicating111 hands. In a sort of wildness I still grasped it tighter; he pushed me fiercely from him, and I fell with my face towards the ground. He quitted me, closing violently after him the door of the sacristy, in which this scene had passed. I was left alone in the darkness. Either from the violence of my fall, or the excess of my grief, a vein had burst in my throat, and a haemorrhage ensued. I had not the force to rise; I felt my senses rapidly sinking, and, presently, I lay stretched on the pavement, unconscious, and bathed in my blood.”
[Now the wonderful part of the story begins.]
“I know not how much time I passed in this way. As I came to myself I felt an agreeable coolness. It seemed as if some harmonious112 air was playing round about me, stirring gently in my hair, and drying the drops of perspiration113 on my brow. It seemed to approach, and then again to withdraw, breathing now softly and sweetly in the distance, and now returning, as if to give me strength and courage to rise.
“I would not, however, do so as yet; for I felt myself, as I lay, under the influence of a pleasure quite new to me; and listened, in a kind of peaceful aberration114, to the gentle murmurs115 of the summer wind, as it breathed on me through the closed window-blinds above me. Then I fancied I heard a voice that spoke116 to me from the end of the sacristy: it whispered so low that I could not catch the words. I remained motionless, and gave it my whole attention. At last I heard, distinctly, the following sentence:—‘Spirit of Truth, raise up these victims of ignorance and imposture117.’ ‘Father Hegesippus,’ said I, in a weak voice, ‘is that you who are returning to me?’ But no one answered. I lifted myself on my hands and knees, I listened again, but I heard nothing. I got up completely, and looked about me: I had fallen so near to the only door in this little room, that none, after the departure of the confessor, could have entered it without passing over me; besides, the door was shut, and only opened from the inside by a strong lock of the ancient shape. I touched it, and assured myself that it was closed. I was seized with terror, and, for some moments, did not dare to move. Leaning against the door, I looked round, and endeavored to see into the gloom in which the angles of the room were enveloped119. A pale light, which came from an upper window, half closed, was seen to be trembling in the midst of the apartment. The wind beat the shutter120 to and fro, and enlarged or diminished the space through which the light issued. The objects which were in this half light — the praying-desk, surmounted121 by its skull122 — a few books lying on the benches — a surplice hanging against the wall — seemed to move with the shadow of the foliage123 that the air agitated124 behind the window. When I thought I was alone, I felt ashamed of my former timidity; I made the sign of the cross, and was about to move forward in order to open the shutter altogether, but a deep sigh came from the praying-desk, and kept me nailed to my place. And yet I saw the desk distinctly enough to be sure that no person was near it. Then I had an idea which gave me courage. Some person, I thought, is behind the shutter, and has been saying his prayers outside without thinking of me. But who would be so bold as to express such wishes and utter such a prayer as I had just heard?
“Curiosity, the only passion and amusement permitted in a cloister125, now entirely126 possessed127 me, and I advanced towards the window. But I had not made a step when a black shadow, as it seemed to me, detaching itself from the praying-desk, traversed the room, directing itself towards the window, and passed swiftly by me. The movement was so rapid that I had not time to avoid what seemed a body advancing towards me, and my fright was so great that I thought I should faint a second time. But I felt nothing, and, as if the shadow had passed through me, I saw it suddenly disappear to my left.
“I rushed to the window, I pushed back the blind with precipitation, and looked round the sacristy: I was there, entirely alone. I looked into the garden — it was deserted128, and the mid-day wind was wandering among the flowers. I took courage, I examined all the corners of the room; I looked behind the praying-desk, which was very large, and I shook all the sacerdotal vestments which were hanging on the walls, everything was in its natural condition, and could give me no explanation of what had just occurred. The sight of all the blood I had lost led me to fancy that my brain had, probably, been weakened by the haemorrhage, and that I had been a prey129 to some delusion130. I retired131 to my cell, and remained shut up there until the next day.”
I don’t know whether the reader has been as much struck with the above mysterious scene as the writer has; but the fancy of it strikes me as very fine; and the natural SUPERNATURALNESS is kept up in the best style. The shutter swaying to and fro, the fitful LIGHT APPEARING over the furniture of the room, and giving it an air of strange motion — the awful shadow which passed through the body of the timid young novice132 — are surely very finely painted. “I rushed to the shutter, and flung it back: there was no one in the sacristy. I looked into the garden; it was deserted, and the mid-day wind was roaming among the flowers.” The dreariness133 is wonderfully described: only the poor pale boy looking eagerly out from the window of the sacristy, and the hot mid-day wind walking in the solitary134 garden. How skilfully135 is each of these little strokes dashed in, and how well do all together combine to make a picture! But we must have a little more about Spiridion’s wonderful visitant.
“As I entered into the garden, I stepped a little on one side, to make way for a person whom I saw before me. He was a young man of surprising beauty, and attired136 in a foreign costume. Although dressed in the large black robe which the superiors of our order wear, he had, underneath137, a short jacket of fine cloth, fastened round the waist by a leathern belt, and a buckle138 of silver, after the manner of the old German students. Like them, he wore, instead of the sandals of our monks139, short tight boots; and over the collar of his shirt, which fell on his shoulders, and was as white as snow, hung, in rich golden curls, the most beautiful hair I ever saw. He was tall, and his elegant posture118 seemed to reveal to me that he was in the habit of commanding. With much respect, and yet uncertain, I half saluted140 him. He did not return my salute141; but he smiled on me with so benevolent142 an air, and at the same time, his eyes severe and blue, looked towards me with an expression of such compassionate143 tenderness, that his features have never since then passed away from my recollection. I stopped, hoping he would speak to me, and persuading myself, from the majesty145 of his aspect, that he had the power to protect me; but the monk, who was walking behind me, and who did not seem to remark him in the least, forced him brutally146 to step aside from the walk, and pushed me so rudely as almost to cause me to fall. Not wishing to engage in a quarrel with this coarse monk, I moved away; but, after having taken a few steps in the garden, I looked back, and saw the unknown still gazing on me with looks of the tenderest solicitude147. The sun shone full upon him, and made his hair look radiant. He sighed, and lifted his fine eyes to heaven, as if to invoke148 its justice in my favor, and to call it to bear witness to my misery149; he turned slowly towards the sanctuary150, entered into the quire, and was lost, presently, in the shade. I longed to return, spite of the monk, to follow this noble stranger, and to tell him my afflictions; but who was he, that I imagined he would listen to them, and cause them to cease? I felt, even while his softness drew me towards him, that he still inspired me with a kind of fear; for I saw in his physiognomy as much austerity as sweetness.”
Who was he? — we shall see that. He was somebody very mysterious indeed; but our author has taken care, after the manner of her sex, to make a very pretty fellow of him, and to dress him in the most becoming costumes possible.
The individual in tight boots and a rolling collar, with the copious151 golden locks, and the solemn blue eyes, who had just gazed on Spiridion, and inspired him with such a feeling of tender awe152, is a much more important personage than the reader might suppose at first sight. This beautiful, mysterious, dandy ghost, whose costume, with a true woman’s coquetry, Madame Dudevant has so rejoiced to describe — is her religious type, a mystical representation of Faith struggling up towards Truth, through superstition153, doubt, fear, reason — in tight inexpressibles, with “a belt such as is worn by the old German students.” You will pardon me for treating such an awful person as this somewhat lightly; but there is always, I think, such a dash of the ridiculous in the French sublime154, that the critic should try and do justice to both, or he may fail in giving a fair account of either. This character of Hebronius, the type of Mrs. Sand’s convictions — if convictions they may be called — or, at least, the allegory under which her doubts are represented, is, in parts, very finely drawn155; contains many passages of truth, very deep and touching, by the side of others so entirely absurd and unreasonable156, that the reader’s feelings are continually swaying between admiration157 and something very like contempt — always in a kind of wonder at the strange mixture before him. But let us hear Madame Sand:—
“Peter Hebronius,” says our author, “was not originally so named. His real name was Samuel. He was a Jew, and born in a little village in the neighborhood of Innsprück. His family, which possessed a considerable fortune, left him, in his early youth, completely free to his own pursuits. From infancy158 he had shown that these were serious. He loved to be alone and passed his days, and sometimes his nights, wandering among the mountains and valleys in the neighborhood of his birthplace. He would often sit by the brink159 of torrents160, listening to the voice of their waters, and endeavoring to penetrate161 the meaning which Nature had hidden in those sounds. As he advanced in years, his inquiries162 became more curious and more grave. It was necessary that he should receive a solid education, and his parents sent him to study in the German universities. Luther had been dead only a century, and his words and his memory still lived in the enthusiasm of his disciples164. The new faith was strengthening the conquests it had made; the Reformers were as ardent165 as in the first days, but their ardor166 was more enlightened and more measured. Proselytism was still carried on with zeal167, and new converts were made every day. In listening to the morality and to the dogmas which Lutheranism had taken from Catholicism, Samuel was filled with admiration. His bold and sincere spirit instantly compared the doctrines which were now submitted to him, with those in the belief of which he had been bred; and, enlightened by the comparison, was not slow to acknowledge the inferiority of Judaism. He said to himself, that a religion made for a single people, to the exclusion168 of all others — which only offered a barbarous justice for rule of conduct — which neither rendered the present intelligible169 nor satisfactory, and left the future uncertain — could not be that of noble souls and lofty intellects; and that he could not be the God of truth who had dictated170, in the midst of thunder, his vacillating will, and had called to the performance of his narrow wishes the slaves of a vulgar terror. Always conversant171 with himself, Samuel, who had spoken what he thought, now performed what he had spoken; and, a year after his arrival in Germany, solemnly abjured172 Judaism, and entered into the bosom of the Reformed Church. As he did not wish to do things by halves, and desired as much as was in him to put off the old man and lead a new life, he changed his name of Samuel to that of Peter. Some time passed, during which he strengthened and instructed himself in his new religion. Very soon he arrived at the point of searching for objections to refute, and adversaries173 to overthrow174. Bold and enterprising, he went at once to the strongest, and Bossuet was the first Catholic author that he set himself to read. He commenced with a kind of disdain175; believing that the faith which he had just embraced contained the pure truth. He despised all the attacks which could be made against it, and laughed already at the irresistible176 arguments which he was to find in the works of the Eagle of Meaux. But his mistrust and irony177 soon gave place to wonder first, and then to admiration: he thought that the cause pleaded by such an advocate must, at least, be respectable; and, by a natural transition, came to think that great geniuses would only devote themselves to that which was great. He then studied Catholicism with the same ardor and impartiality178 which he had bestowed179 on Lutheranism. He went into France to gain instruction from the professors of the Mother Church, as he had from the Doctors of the reformed creed in Germany. He saw Arnauld Fénélon, that second Gregory of Nazianzen, and Bossuet himself. Guided by these masters, whose virtues181 made him appreciate their talents the more, he rapidly penetrated182 to the depth of the mysteries of the Catholic doctrine and morality. He found, in this religion, all that had for him constituted the grandeur183 and beauty of Protestantism — the dogmas of the Unity184 and Eternity185 of God, which the two religions had borrowed from Judaism; and, what seemed the natural consequence of the last doctrine — a doctrine, however, to which the Jews had not arrived — the doctrine of the immortality186 of the soul; free will in this life; in the next, recompense for the good, and punishment for the evil. He found, more pure, perhaps, and more elevated in Catholicism than in Protestantism, that sublime morality which preaches equality to man, fraternity, love, charity, renouncement187 of self, devotion to your neighbor; Catholicism, in a word, seemed to possess that vast formula, and that vigorous unity, which Lutheranism wanted. The latter had, indeed, in its favor, the liberty of inquiry188, which is also a want of the human mind; and had proclaimed the authority of individual reason: but it had so lost that which is the necessary basis and vital condition of all revealed religion — the principle of infallibility; because nothing can live except in virtue180 of the laws that presided at its birth; and, in consequence, one revelation cannot be continued and confirmed without another. Now, infallibility is nothing but revelation continued by God, or the Word, in the person of his vicars.
“At last, after much reflection, Hebronius acknowledged himself entirely and sincerely convinced, and received baptism from the hands of Bossuet. He added the name of Spiridion to that of Peter, to signify that he had been twice enlightened by the Spirit. Resolved thenceforward to consecrate189 his life to the worship of the new God who had called him to Him, and to the study of His doctrines, he passed into Italy, and, with the aid of a large fortune, which one of his uncles, a Catholic like himself, had left to him, he built this convent where we now are.”
A friend of mine, who has just come from Italy, says that he has there left Messrs. Sp — r, P— l, and W. Dr — d, who were the lights of the great church in Newman Street, who were themselves apostles, and declared and believed that every word of nonsense which fell from their lips was a direct spiritual intervention190. These gentlemen have become Puseyites already, and are, my friend states, in the high way to Catholicism. Madame Sand herself was a Catholic some time since: having been converted to that faith along with M. N — of the Academy of Music; Mr. L — the pianoforte player; and one or two other chosen individuals, by the famous Abbé de la M—. Abbé de la M— (so told me in the Diligence, a priest, who read his breviary and gossiped alternately very curiously191 and pleasantly) is himself an ame perdue: the man spoke of his brother clergyman with actual horror; and it certainly appears that the Abbé‘s works of conversion192 have not prospered193; for Madame Sand, having brought her hero (and herself, as we may presume) to the point of Catholicism, proceeds directly to dispose of that as she has done of Judaism and Protestantism, and will not leave, of the whole fabric of Christianity, a single stone standing194.
I think the fate of our English Newman Street apostles, and of M. de la M — the mad priest, and his congregation of mad converts, should be a warning to such of us as are inclined to dabble195 in religious speculations196; for, in them, as in all others, our flighty brains soon lose themselves, and we find our reason speedily lying prostrated197 at the mercy of our passions; and I think that Madame Sand’s novel of Spiridion may do a vast deal of good, and bears a good moral with it; though not such an one, perhaps, as our fair philosopher intended. For anything he learned, Samuel-Peter-Spiridion-Hebronius might have remained a Jew from the beginning to the end. Wherefore be in such a hurry to set up new faiths? Wherefore, Madame Sand, try and be so preternaturally wise? Wherefore be so eager to jump out of one religion, for the purpose of jumping into another? See what good this philosophical199 friskiness200 has done you, and on what sort of ground you are come at last. You are so wonderfully sagacious, that you flounder in mud at every step; so amazingly clear-sighted, that your eyes cannot see an inch before you, having put out, with that extinguishing genius of yours, every one of the lights that are sufficient for the conduct of common men. And for what? Let our friend Spiridion speak for himself. After setting up his convent, and filling it with monks, who entertain an immense respect for his wealth and genius, Father Hebronius, unanimously elected prior, gives himself up to further studies, and leaves his monks to themselves. Industrious201 and sober as they were, originally, they grow quickly intemperate202 and idle; and Hebronius, who does not appear among his flock until he has freed himself of the Catholic religion, as he has of the Jewish and the Protestant, sees, with dismay, the evil condition of his disciples, and regrets, too late, the precipitancy by which he renounced203, then and for ever, Christianity. “But, as he had no new religion to adopt in its place, and as, grown more prudent204 and calm, he did not wish to accuse himself unnecessarily, once more, of inconstancy and apostasy205, he still maintained all the exterior206 forms of the worship which inwardly he had abjured. But it was not enough for him to have quitted error, it was necessary to discover truth. But Hebronius had well looked round to discover it; he could not find anything that resembled it. Then commenced for him a series of sufferings, unknown and terrible. Placed face to face with doubt, this sincere and religious spirit was frightened at its own solitude207; and as it had no other desire nor aim on earth than truth, and nothing else here below interested it, he lived absorbed in his own sad contemplations, looked ceaselessly into the vague that surrounded him like an ocean without bounds, and seeing the horizon retreat and retreat as ever he wished to near it. Lost in this immense uncertainty208, he felt as if attacked by vertigo209, and his thoughts whirled within his brain. Then, fatigued210 with his vain toils211 and hopeless endeavors, he would sink down depressed212, unmanned, life-wearied, only living in the sensation of that silent grief which he felt and could not comprehend.”
It is a pity that this hapless Spiridion, so eager in his passage from one creed to another, and so loud in his profession of the truth, wherever he fancied that he had found it, had not waited a little, before he avowed213 himself either Catholic or Protestant, and implicated214 others in errors and follies215 which might, at least, have been confined to his own bosom, and there have lain comparatively harmless. In what a pretty state, for instance, will Messrs. Dr — d and P— l have left their Newman Street congregation, who are still plunged216 in their old superstitions217, from which their spiritual pastors218 and masters have been set free! In what a state, too, do Mrs. Sand and her brother and sister philosophers, Templars, Saint Simonians, Fourierites, Lerouxites, or whatever the sect74 may be, leave the unfortunate people who have listened to their doctrines, and who have not the opportunity, or the fiery219 versatility220 of belief, which carries their teachers from one creed to another, leaving only exploded lies and useless recantations behind them! I wish the state would make a law that one individual should not be allowed to preach more than one doctrine in his life, or, at any rate, should be soundly corrected for every change of creed. How many charlatans221 would have been silenced — how much conceit222 would have been kept within bounds — how many fools, who are dazzled by fine sentences, and made drunk by declamation, would have remained, quiet and sober, in that quiet and sober way of faith which their fathers held before them. However, the reader will be glad to learn that, after all his doubts and sorrows, Spiridion does discover the truth (THE truth, what a wise Spiridion!) and some discretion223 with it; for, having found among his monks, who are dissolute, superstitious224 — and all hate him — one only being, Fulgentius, who is loving, candid225, and pious, he says to him, “If you were like myself, if the first want of your nature were, like mine, to know, I would, without hesitation226, lay bare to you my entire thoughts. I would make you drink the cup of truth, which I myself have filled with so many tears, at the risk of intoxicating227 you with the draught228. But it is not so, alas! you are made to love rather than to know, and your heart is stronger than your intellect. You are attached to Catholicism — I believe so, at least — by bonds of sentiment which you could not break without pain, and which, if you were to break, the truth which I could lay bare to you in return would not repay you for what you had sacrificed. Instead of exalting229, it would crush you, very likely. It is a food too strong for ordinary men, and which, when it does not revivify, smothers230. I will not, then, reveal to you this doctrine, which is the triumph of my life, and the consolation231 of my last days; because it might, perhaps, be for you only a cause of mourning and despair. . . . . Of all the works which my long studies have produced, there is one alone which I have not given to the flames; for it alone is complete. In that you will find me entire, and there LIES THE TRUTH. And, as the sage86 has said you must not bury your treasures in a well, I will not confide232 mine to the brutal stupidity of these monks. But as this volume should only pass into hands worthy to touch it, and be laid open for eyes that are capable of comprehending its mysteries, I shall exact from the reader one condition, which, at the same time, shall be a proof: I shall carry it with me to the tomb, in order that he who one day shall read it, may have courage enough to brave the vain terrors of the grave, in searching for it amid the dust of my sepulchre. As soon as I am dead, therefore, place this writing on my breast. . . . . Ah! when the time comes for reading it, I think my withered233 heart will spring up again, as the frozen grass at the return of the sun, and that, from the midst of its infinite transformations234, my spirit will enter into immediate235 communication with thine!”
Does not the reader long to be at this precious manuscript, which contains THE TRUTH; and ought he not to be very much obliged to Mrs. Sand, for being so good as to print it for him? We leave all the story aside: how Fulgentius had not the spirit to read the manuscript, but left the secret to Alexis; how Alexis, a stern old philosophical unbelieving monk as ever was, tried in vain to lift up the gravestone, but was taken with fever, and obliged to forego the discovery; and how, finally, Angel, his disciple163, a youth amiable236 and innocent as his name, was the destined237 person who brought the long-buried treasure to light. Trembling and delighted, the pair read this tremendous MANUSCRIPT OF SPIRIDION.
Will it be believed, that of all the dull, vague, windy documents that mortal ever set eyes on, this is the dullest? If this be absolute truth, à quoi bon search for it, since we have long, long had the jewel in our possession, or since, at least, it has been held up as such by every sham philosopher who has had a mind to pass off his wares238 on the public? Hear Spiridion:—
“How much have I wept, how much have I suffered, how much have I prayed, how much have I labored239, before I understood the cause and the aim of my passage on this earth! After many incertitudes, after much remorse240, after many scruples241, I HAVE COMPREHENDED THAT I WAS A MARTYR242! — But why my martyrdom? said I; what crimne did I commit before I was born, thus to be condemned243 to labor and groaning244, from the hour when I first saw the day up to that when I am about to enter into the night of the tomb?
“At last, by dint245 of imploring246 God — by dint of inquiry into the history of man, a ray of the truth has descended247 on my brow, and the shadows of the past have melted from before my eyes. I have lifted a corner of the curtain: I have seen enough to know that my life, like that of the rest of the human race, has been a series of necessary errors, yet, to speak more correctly, of incomplete truths, conducting, more or less slowly and directly, to absolute truth and ideal perfection. But when will they rise on the face of the earth — when will they issue from the bosom of the Divinity — those generations who shall salute the august countenance248 of Truth, and proclaim the reign1 of the ideal on earth? I see well how humanity marches, but I neither can see its cradle nor its apotheosis. Man seems to me a transitory race, between the beast and the angel; but I know not how many centuries have been required, that he might pass from the state of brute to the state of man, and I cannot tell how many ages are necessary that he may pass from the state of man to the state of angel!
“Yet I hope, and I feel within me, at the approach of death, that which warns me that great destinies await humanity. In this life all is over for me. Much have I striven, to advance but little: I have labored without ceasing, and have done almost nothing. Yet, after pains immeasurable, I die content, for I know that I have done all I could, and am sure that the little I have done will not be lost.
“What, then, have I done? this wilt249 thou demand of me, man of a future age, who will seek for truth in the testaments250 of the past. Thou who wilt be no more Catholic — no more Christian, thou wilt ask of the poor monk, lying in the dust, an account of his life and death. Thou wouldst know wherefore were his vows, why his austerities, his labors, his retreat, his prayers?
“You who turn back to me, in order that I may guide you on your road, and that you may arrive more quickly at the goal which it has not been my lot to attain251, pause, yet, for a moment, and look upon the past history of humanity. You will see that its fate has been ever to choose between the least of two evils, and ever to commit great faults in order to avoid others still greater. You will see . . . . on one side, the heathen mythology252, that debased the spirit, in its efforts to deify the flesh; on the other, the austere253 Christian principle, that debased the flesh too much, in order to raise the worship of the spirit. You will see, afterwards, how the religion of Christ embodies254 itself in a church, and raises itself a generous democratic power against the tyranny of princes. Later still, you will see how that power has attained255 its end, and passed beyond it. You will see it, having chained and conquered princes, league itself with them, in order to oppress the people, and seize on temporal power. Schism256, then, raises up against it the standard of revolt, and preaches the bold and legitimate257 principle of liberty of conscience: but, also, you will see how this liberty of conscience brings religious anarchy258 in its train; or, worse still, religious indifference259 and disgust. And if your soul, shattered in the tempestuous260 changes which you behold2 humanity undergoing, would strike out for itself a passage through the rocks, amidst which, like a frail261 bark, lies tossing trembling truth, you will be embarrassed to choose between the new philosophers — who, in preaching tolerance262, destroy religious and social unity — and the last Christians263, who, to preserve society, that is, religion and philosophy, are obliged to brave the principle of toleration. Man of truth! to whom I address, at once, my instruction and my justification264, at the time when you shall live, the science of truth no doubt will have advanced a step. Think, then, of all your fathers have suffered, as, bending beneath the weight of their ignorance and uncertainty, they have traversed the desert across which, with so much pain, they have conducted thee! And if the pride of thy young learning shall make thee contemplate265 the petty strifes in which our life has been consumed, pause and tremble, as you think of that which is still unknown to yourself, and of the judgment266 that your descendants will pass on you. Think of this, and learn to respect all those who, seeking their way in all sincerity267, have wandered from the path, frightened by the storm, and sorely tried by the severe hand of the All-Powerful. Think of this, and prostrate198 yourself; for all these, even the most mistaken among them, are saints and martyrs268.
“Without their conquests and their defeats, thou wert in darkness still. Yes, their failures, their errors even, have a right to your respect; for man is weak. . . . . Weep then, for us obscure travellers — unknown victims, who, by our mortal sufferings and unheard-of labors, have prepared the way before you. Pity me, who have passionately loved justice, and perseveringly269 sought for truth, only opened my eyes to shut them again for ever, and saw that I had been in vain endeavoring to support a ruin, to take refuge in a vault270 of which the foundations were worn away.” . . . .
The rest of the book of Spiridion is made up of a history of the rise, progress, and (what our philosopher is pleased to call) decay of Christianity — of an assertion, that the “doctrine of Christ is incomplete;” that “Christ may, nevertheless, take his place in the Pantheon of divine men!” and of a long, disgusting, absurd, and impious vision, in which the Saviour271, Moses, David, and Elijah are represented, and in which Christ is made to say —“WE ARE ALL MESSIAHS, when we wish to bring the reign of truth upon earth; we are all Christs, when we suffer for it!”
And this is the ultimatum272, the supreme273 secret, the absolute truth! and it has been published by Mrs. Sand, for so many napoleons per sheet, in the Revue des Deux Mondes: and the Deux Mondes are to abide274 by it for the future. After having attained it, are we a whit wiser? “Man is between an angel and a beast: I don’t know how long it is since he was a brute — I can’t say how long it will be before he is an angel.” Think of people living by their wits, and living by such a wit as this! Think of the state of mental debauch275 and disease which must have been passed through, ere such words could be written, and could be popular!
When a man leaves our dismal276, smoky London atmosphere, and breathes, instead of coal-smoke and yellow fog, this bright, clear, French air, he is quite intoxicated277 by it at first, and feels a glow in his blood, and a joy in his spirits, which scarcely thrice a year, and then only at a distance from London, he can attain in England. Is the intoxication278, I wonder, permanent among the natives? and may we not account for the ten thousand frantic279 freaks of these people by the peculiar influence of French air and sun? The philosophers are from night to morning drunk, the politicians are drunk, the literary men reel and stagger from one absurdity280 to another, and how shall we understand their vagaries281? Let us suppose, charitably, that Madame Sand had inhaled282 a more than ordinary quantity of this laughing gas when she wrote for us this precious manuscript of Spiridion. That great destinies are in prospect283 for the human race we may fancy, without her ladyship’s word for it: but more liberal than she, and having a little retrospective charity, as well as that easy prospective284 benevolence285 which Mrs. Sand adopts, let us try and think there is some hope for our fathers (who were nearer brutality286 than ourselves, according to the Sandean creed), or else there is a very poor chance for us, who, great philosophers as we are, are yet, alas! far removed from that angelic consummation which all must wish for so devoutly287. She cannot say — is it not extraordinary? — how many centuries have been necessary before man could pass from the brutal state to his present condition, or how many ages will be required ere we may pass from the state of man to the state of angels? What the deuce is the use of chronology or philosophy? We were beasts, and we can’t tell when our tails dropped off: we shall be angels; but when our wings are to begin to sprout288, who knows? In the meantime, O man of genius, follow our counsel: lead an easy life, don’t stick at trifles; never mind about DUTY, it is only made for slaves; if the world reproach you, reproach the world in return, you have a good loud tongue in your head: if your straight-laced morals injure your mental respiration289, fling off the old-fashioned stays, and leave your free limbs to rise and fall as Nature pleases; and when you have grown pretty sick of your liberty, and yet unfit to return to restraint, curse the world, and scorn it, and be miserable290, like my Lord Byron and other philosophers of his kidney; or else mount a step higher, and, with conceit still more monstrous291, and mental vision still more wretchedly debauched and weak, begin suddenly to find yourself afflicted292 with a maudlin293 compassion144 for the human race, and a desire to set them right after your own fashion. There is the quarrelsome stage of drunkenness, when a man can as yet walk and speak, when he can call names, and fling plates and wine-glasses at his neighbor’s head with a pretty good aim; after this comes the pathetic stage, when the patient becomes wondrous294 philanthropic, and weeps wildly, as he lies in the gutter295, and fancies he is at home in bed — where he ought to be; but this is an allegory.
I don’t wish to carry this any farther, or to say a word in defence of the doctrine which Mrs. Dudevant has found “incomplete”; — here, at least, is not the place for discussing its merits, any more than Mrs. Sand’s book was the place for exposing, forsooth, its errors: our business is only with the day and the new novels, and the clever or silly people who write them. Oh! if they but knew their places, and would keep to them, and drop their absurd philosophical jargon296! Not all the big words in the world can make Mrs. Sand talk like a philosopher: when will she go back to her old trade, of which she was the very ablest practitioner297 in France?
I should have been glad to give some extracts from the dramatic and descriptive parts of the novel, that cannot, in point of style and beauty, be praised too highly. One must suffice — it is the descent of Alexis to seek that unlucky manuscript, Spiridion.
“It seemed to me,” he begins, “that the descent was eternal; and that I was burying myself in the depths of Erebus: at last, I reached a level place — and I heard a mournful voice deliver these words, as it were, to the secret centre of the earth —‘He will mount that ascent298 no more!’— Immediately I heard arise towards me, from the depth of invisible abysses, a myriad299 of formidable voices united in a strange chant —‘Let us destroy him! Let him be destroyed! What does he here among the dead? Let him be delivered back to torture! Let him be given again to life!’
“Then a feeble light began to pierce the darkness, and I perceived that I stood on the lowest step of a staircase, vast as the foot of a mountain. Behind me were thousands of steps of lurid300 iron; before me, nothing but a void — an abyss, and ether; the blue gloom of midnight beneath my feet, as above my head. I became delirious301, and quitting that staircase, which methought it was impossible for me to reascend, I sprung forth302 into the void with an execration303. But, immediately, when I had uttered the curse, the void began to be filled with forms and colors, and I presently perceived that I was in a vast gallery, along which I advanced, trembling. There was still darkness round me; but the hollows of the vaults304 gleamed with a red light, and showed me the strange and hideous305 forms of their building. . . . . I did not distinguish the nearest objects; but those towards which I advanced assumed an appearance more and more ominous306, and my terror increased with every step I took. The enormous pillars which supported the vault, and the tracery thereof itself, were figures of men, of supernatural stature307, delivered to tortures without a name. Some hung by their feet, and, locked in the coils of monstrous serpents, clenched308 their teeth in the marble of the pavement; others, fastened by their waists, were dragged upwards309, these by their feet, those by their heads, towards capitals, where other figures stooped towards them, eager to torment310 them. Other pillars, again, represented a struggling mass of figures devouring311 one another; each of which only offered a trunk severed313 to the knees or to the shoulders, the fierce heads whereof retained life enough to seize and devour312 that which was near them. There were some who, half hanging down, agonized314 themselves by attempting, with their upper limbs, to flay315 the lower moiety316 of their bodies, which drooped317 from the columns, or were attached to the pedestals; and others, who, in their fight with each other, were dragged along by morsels318 of flesh — grasping which, they clung to each other with a countenance of unspeakable hate and agony. Along, or rather in place of, the frieze319, there were on either side a range of unclean beings, wearing the human form, but of a loathsome320 ugliness, busied in tearing human corpses321 to pieces — in feasting upon their limbs and entrails. From the vault, instead of bosses and pendants, hung the crushed and wounded forms of children; as if to escape these eaters of man’s flesh, they would throw themselves downwards322, and be dashed to pieces on the pavement. . . . . The silence and motionlessness of the whole added to its awfulness. I became so faint with terror, that I stopped, and would fain have returned. But at that moment I heard, from the depths of the gloom through which I had passed, confused noises, like those of a multitude on its march. And the sounds soon became more distinct, and the clamor fiercer, and the steps came hurrying on tumultuously — at every new burst nearer, more violent, more threatening. I thought that I was pursued by this disorderly crowd; and I strove to advance, hurrying into the midst of those dismal sculptures. Then it seemed as if those figures began to heave — and to sweat blood — and their beady eyes to move in their sockets323. At once I beheld324 that they were all looking upon me, that they were all leaning towards me — some with frightful325 derision, others with furious aversion. Every arm was raised against me, and they made as though they would crush me with the quivering limbs they had torn one from the other.” . . . .
It is, indeed, a pity that the poor fellow gave himself the trouble to go down into damp, unwholesome graves, for the purpose of fetching up a few trumpery326 sheets of manuscript; and if the public has been rather tired with their contents, and is disposed to ask why Mrs. Sand’s religious or irreligious notions are to be brought forward to people who are quite satisfied with their own, we can only say that this lady is the representative of a vast class of her countrymen, whom the wits and philosophers of the eighteenth century have brought to this condition. The leaves of the Diderot and Rousseau tree have produced this goodly fruit: here it is, ripe, bursting, and ready to fall; — and how to fall? Heaven send that it may drop easily, for all can see that the time is come.
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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pointed
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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whit
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versatile
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| adj.通用的，万用的；多才多艺的，多方面的 | |
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humbug
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sprightly
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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doctrine
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mightily
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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lurking
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gilding
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billiards
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dame
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celebrated
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sham
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gaudy
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carvings
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guardian
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immortal
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reprobation
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manly
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deluged
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theatrical
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hiccup
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edifying
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humble
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figs
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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35
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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36
condemns
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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37
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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38
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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39
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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40
initiatory
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| adj.开始的；创始的；入会的；入社的 | |
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41
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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42
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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43
parables
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| n.（圣经中的）寓言故事( parable的名词复数 ) | |
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44
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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45
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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46
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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47
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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48
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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49
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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50
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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51
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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52
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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53
pickpocket
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| n.扒手；v.扒窃 | |
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54
gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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55
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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56
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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57
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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58
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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59
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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60
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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61
apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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62
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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63
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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64
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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65
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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66
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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67
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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68
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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69
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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70
predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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71
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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72
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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73
sects
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| n.宗派，教派( sect的名词复数 ) | |
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74
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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75
blasphemies
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| n.对上帝的亵渎，亵渎的言词[行为]( blasphemy的名词复数 )；侮慢的言词（或行为） | |
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76
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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77
expounds
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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79
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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80
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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81
demolishes
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| v.摧毁( demolish的第三人称单数 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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82
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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83
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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84
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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85
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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86
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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87
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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88
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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89
trumpet
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| n.喇叭，喇叭声；v.吹喇叭，吹嘘 | |
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90
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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91
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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92
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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93
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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94
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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95
declamation
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| n. 雄辩，高调 | |
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96
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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97
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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98
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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99
cogitation
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| n.仔细思考，计划，设计 | |
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100
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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101
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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102
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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103
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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104
monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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105
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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106
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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107
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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108
spurns
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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109
contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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110
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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111
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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112
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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113
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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114
aberration
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| n.离开正路，脱离常规，色差 | |
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115
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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116
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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117
imposture
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| n.冒名顶替，欺骗 | |
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118
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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119
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
shutter
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| n.百叶窗；(照相机)快门；关闭装置 | |
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121
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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122
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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123
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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124
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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125
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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126
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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127
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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128
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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129
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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130
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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131
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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132
novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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133
dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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134
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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135
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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136
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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138
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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139
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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140
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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141
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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142
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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143
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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144
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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145
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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146
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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147
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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148
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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149
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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150
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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151
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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152
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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153
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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154
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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155
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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156
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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157
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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158
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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159
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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160
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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161
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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163
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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164
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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165
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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166
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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167
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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168
exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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169
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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170
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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171
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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172
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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173
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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174
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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175
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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176
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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177
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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178
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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179
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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181
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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182
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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183
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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184
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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185
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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186
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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187
renouncement
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| n.否认，拒绝 | |
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188
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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189
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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190
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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191
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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192
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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193
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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195
dabble
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| v.涉足，浅赏 | |
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196
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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197
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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198
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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199
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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200
friskiness
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| n.活泼，闹着玩 | |
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201
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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202
intemperate
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| adj.无节制的，放纵的 | |
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203
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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204
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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205
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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206
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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207
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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208
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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209
vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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210
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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211
toils
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| 网 | |
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212
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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213
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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214
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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215
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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216
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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217
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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218
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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219
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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220
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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221
charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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222
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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223
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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224
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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225
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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226
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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227
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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228
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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229
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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230
smothers
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的第三人称单数 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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231
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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232
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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233
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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234
transformations
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| n.变化( transformation的名词复数 )；转换；转换；变换 | |
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235
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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236
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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237
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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238
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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239
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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240
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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241
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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242
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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243
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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244
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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245
dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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246
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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247
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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248
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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249
wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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250
testaments
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| n.遗嘱( testament的名词复数 )；实际的证明 | |
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251
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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252
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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253
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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254
embodies
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| v.表现( embody的第三人称单数 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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255
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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256
schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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257
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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258
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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259
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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260
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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261
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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262
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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263
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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264
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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265
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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266
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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267
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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268
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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269
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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270
vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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271
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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272
ultimatum
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| n.最后通牒 | |
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273
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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274
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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275
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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276
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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277
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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278
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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279
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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280
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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281
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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282
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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284
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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285
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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286
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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287
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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288
sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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289
respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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290
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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291
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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292
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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293
maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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294
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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295
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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296
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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297
practitioner
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| n.实践者，从事者；(医生或律师等)开业者 | |
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298
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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299
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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300
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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301
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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302
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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303
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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304
vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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305
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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306
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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307
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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308
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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309
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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310
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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311
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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312
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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313
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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314
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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315
flay
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| vt.剥皮；痛骂 | |
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316
moiety
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| n.一半；部分 | |
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317
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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318
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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319
frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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320
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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321
corpses
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| n.死尸，尸体( corpse的名词复数 ) | |
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322
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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323
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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324
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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325
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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326
trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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