From the time of the great Revolution of the sixteenth century, when the spirit of free inquiry2 undertook to decide which were false and which were true among the different traditions of Christianity, it had never ceased to engender4 certain minds of a more curious or a bolder stamp, who contested or rejected them all. The same spirit that, in the days of Luther, had at once driven several millions of Catholics out of the pale of Catholicism, continued to drive in individual cases some few Christians5 out of the pale of Christianity itself. Heresy6 was followed by unbelief.
It may be said generally that in the eighteenth century Christianity had lost over the whole of the continent of Europe a great part of its power; but in most countries it was rather neglected than violently contested, and even those who forsook7 it did so with regret. Irreligion was disseminated8 among the Courts and wits of the age; but it had not yet penetrated9 into the hearts of the middle and lower classes. It was still the caprice of some leading intellects, not the opinion of the vulgar. ‘It is a prejudice commonly diffused10 throughout Germany,’ said Mirabeau, in 1787, ‘that the Prussian provinces are full of atheists; when, in truth, although some freethinkers are to be met with there, the people of those parts are as much attached to religion as in the most superstitious11 countries, and even a great number of fanatics12 are to be found there.’ To this he added, that it was much to be regretted that Frederick II. had not sanctioned the marriage of the Catholic clergy13, and, above all, had refused to leave those priests who married in possession of the income of their ecclesiastical preferment; ‘a measure,’ he continued, ‘which we should have ventured to consider worthy15 of the great man.’ Nowhere but in France had irreligion become a general passion, fervid16, intolerant, and oppressive.
[129]
There the state of things was such as had never occurred before. In other times, established religions had been attacked with violence; but the ardour evinced against them had always taken rise in the zeal17 inspired by a new faith. Even the false and detestable religions of antiquity18 had not had either numerous or passionate19 adversaries20 until Christianity arose to supplant21 them; till then they were quietly and noiselessly dying out in doubt and indifference—dying, in fact, the death of religions, by old age. But in France the Christian3 religion was attacked with a sort of rage, without any attempt to substitute any other belief. Continuous and vehement22 efforts having been made to expel from the soul of man the faith that had filled it, the soul was left empty. A mighty23 multitude wrought24 with ardour at this thankless task. That absolute incredulity in matters of religion which is so contrary to the natural instincts of man, and places his soul in so painful a condition, appeared attractive to the masses. That which until then had only produced the effect of a sickly languor25, began to generate fanaticism26 and a spirit of propagandism.
The occurrence of several great writers, all disposed to deny the truths of the Christian religion, can hardly be accepted as a sufficient explanation of so extraordinary an event. For how, it may be asked, came all these writers, every one of them, to turn their talents in this direction rather than any other? Why, among them all, cannot one be found who took it into his head to support the other side? and, finally, how was it that they found the ears of the masses far more open to listen to them than any of their predecessors27 had done, and men’s minds so inclined to believe them? The efforts of all these writers, and above all their success, can only be explained by causes altogether peculiar28 to their time and their country. The spirit of Voltaire had already been long in the world: but Voltaire himself, in truth, could never have attained29 his supremacy30, except in the eighteenth century and in France.
It must first be acknowledged that the Church was not more open to attack in France than elsewhere. The corruptions32 and abuses which had been allowed to creep into it were less, on the contrary, there than in most other Catholic countries. The Church of France was infinitely33 more tolerant than it had ever been previously34 and than the Church still was in other nations. Consequently, the peculiar causes of this phenomenon must be looked for less in the condition of religion itself than in that of society.
For the thorough comprehension of this fact, what was said in the preceding chapter must not be lost sight of—namely, that the whole spirit of political opposition35 excited by the corruption31 of the[130] Government, not being able to find a vent14 in public affairs, had taken refuge in literature, and that the writers of the day had become the real leaders of the great party which tended to overthrow36 the social and political institutions of the country.
This being well understood, the question is altered. We no longer ask in what the Church of that day erred37 as a religious institution, but how far it stood opposed to the political revolution which was at hand, and how it was more especially irksome to the writers who were the principal promoters of this revolution.
The Church, by the first principles of her ecclesiastical government, was adverse39 to the principles which they were desirous of establishing in civil government. The Church rested principally upon tradition; they professed40 great contempt for all institutions based upon respect for the past. The Church recognised an authority superior to individual reason; they appealed to nothing but that reason. The Church was founded upon a hierarchy41: they aimed at an entire subversion42 of ranks. To have come to a common understanding it would have been necessary for both sides to have recognised the fact, that political society and religious society, being by nature essentially43 different, cannot be regulated by analogous44 laws. But at that time they were far enough from any such conclusion; and it was fancied that, in order to attack the institutions of the State, those of the Church must be destroyed which served as their foundation and their model.
Moreover, the Church was itself the first of the political powers of the time; and, although not the most oppressive, the most hated; for she had contrived45 to mix herself up with those powers, without having any claim to that position either by her nature or her vocation46; she often sanctioned in them the very defects she blamed elsewhere; she covered them with her own sacred inviolability, and seemed desirous of rendering47 them as immortal48 as herself. An attack upon the Church was sure at once to chime in with the strong feeling of the public.
But, besides these general reasons, the literary men of France had more special, and, so to say, personal reasons for attacking the Church in the first instance. The Church represented precisely49 that portion of the Government which stood nearest and most directly opposed to themselves. The other powers of the State were only felt by them from time to time; but the ecclesiastical authority being specially38 employed in keeping watch over the progress of thought, and the censorship of books, was a daily annoyance50 to them. By defending the common liberties of the human mind against the Church, they were combating in their own cause,[131] and they began by bursting the shackles51 which pressed most closely upon themselves.
Moreover, the Church appeared to them to be, and was, in fact, the most open and the worst defended side of all the vast edifice52 which they were assailing53. Her strength had declined at the same time that the temporal power of the Crown had increased. After having been first the superior of the temporal powers, then their equal, she had come down to be their client; and a sort of reciprocity had been established between them. The temporal powers lent the Church their material force, whilst the Church lent them her moral authority; they caused the Church to be obeyed, the Church caused them to be respected—a dangerous interchange of obligations in times of approaching revolution, and always disadvantageous to a power founded not upon constraint54 but upon faith.
Although the Kings of France still called themselves the eldest55 sons of the Church, they fulfilled their obligations towards her most negligently56: they evinced far less ardour in her protection than in the defence of their own government. They did not, it is true, permit any direct attack upon her, but they suffered her to be transfixed from a distance by a thousand shafts57.
The sort of semi-constraint which was at that time imposed upon the enemies of the Church, instead of diminishing their power, augmented58 it. There are times when the restraint imposed on literature succeeds in arresting the progress of opinions; there are others when it accelerates their course: but a species of control similar to that then exercised over the press, has invariably augmented its power a hundredfold.
Authors were persecuted59 enough to excite compassion—not enough to inspire them with terror. They suffered from that kind of annoyance which irritates to opposition, not from the heavy yoke60 which crushes. The prosecutions61 directed against them, which were almost always dilatory62, noisy, and vain, appeared less calculated to prevent their writing than to excite them to the task. A complete liberty of the press would have been less prejudicial to the Church.
‘You consider our intolerance more favourable63 to the progress of the mind than your unlimited64 liberty,’ wrote Diderot to David Hume in 1768. ‘D’Holbach, Helvetius, Morelet, and Suard, are not of your opinion.’ Yet it was the Scotchman who was right; he possessed65 the experience of the free country in which he lived. Diderot looked upon the matter as a literary man—Hume, as a politician.
[132]
If the first American who might be met by chance, either in his own country or abroad, were to be stopped and asked whether he considered religion useful to the stability of the laws and the good order of society, he would answer, without hesitation66, that no civilised society, but more especially none in a state of freedom, can exist without religion. Respect for religion is, in his eyes, the greatest guarantee of the stability of the State and of the safety of the community. Those who are ignorant of the science of government know that fact at least. Yet there is not a country in the world where the boldest doctrines67 of the philosophers of the eighteenth century, on political subjects, have been more adopted than in America: their anti-religious doctrines alone have never been able to make way there, even with the advantage of an unlimited liberty of the press.
As much may be said of the English.[71] French irreligious philosophy had been preached to them even before the greater part of the French philosophers were born. It was Bolingbroke who set up Voltaire. Throughout the eighteenth century infidelity had celebrated68 champions in England. Able writers and profound thinkers espoused69 that cause, but they were never able to render it triumphant70 as in France; inasmuch as all those who had anything to fear from revolutions eagerly came to the rescue of the established faith. Even those who were the most mixed up with the French society of the day, and who did not look upon the doctrines of French philosophy as false, rejected them as dangerous. Great political parties, as is always the case in free countries, were interested in attaching their cause to that of the Church; and Bolingbroke himself became the ally of the bishops71. The clergy, animated72 by these examples, and never finding itself deserted73, combated manfully in its own cause. The Church of England, in spite of the defects of its constitution, and the abuses of every kind that swarmed74 within it, supported the shock victoriously75. Authors and orators76 rose within it, and applied77 themselves with ardour to the defence of Christianity. The theories hostile to that religion, after having been discussed and refuted, were finally rejected by the action of society itself, and without any interference on the part of the Government.
It is not necessary, however, to seek examples beyond France itself. What Frenchman would ever think in our times of writing such books as those of Diderot or Helvetius? Who would read them now? and, it may almost be said, who even knows their titles? The imperfect experience of public life which France has[133] acquired during the last sixty years has been sufficient to disgust the French with this dangerous literature. It is only necessary to see how much the respect for religion has gradually resumed its sway among the different classes of the nation, according as each of them acquired that experience in the rude school of Revolution. The old nobility, which was the most irreligious class before 1789, became the most fervent78 after 1793: it was the first infected, and the first cured. When the bourgeoisie felt itself struck down in its triumph, it began also, in its turn, gradually to revert79 to religious faith. Little by little, respect for religion penetrated to all the classes in which men had anything to lose by popular disturbances80; and infidelity disappeared, or at least hid its head more and more, as the fear of revolutions arose.
But this was by no means the case at the time immediately preceding the Revolution of 1789. The French had so completely lost all practical experience in the great affairs of mankind, and were so thoroughly81 ignorant of the part held by religion in the government of empires, that infidelity first established itself in the minds of the very men who had the greatest and most pressing personal interest in keeping the State in order and the people in obedience82. Not only did they themselves embrace it, but in their blindness they disseminated it below them. They made impiety83 the pastime of their vacant existence.
The Church of France, so prolific84 down to that period in great orators, when she found herself deserted by all those who ought to have rallied by a common interest to her cause, became mute. It seemed at one time that, provided she retained her wealth and her rank, she was ready to renounce85 her faith.
As those who denied the truths of Christianity spoke86 aloud, and those who still believed held their peace, a state of things was the result which has since frequently occurred again in France, not only on the question of religion, but in very different matters. Those who still preserved their ancient belief, fearing to be the only men who still remained faithful to it, and more afraid of isolation87 than of error, followed the crowd without partaking its opinions. Thus, that which was still only the feeling of a portion of the nation, appeared to be the opinion of all, and, from that very fact, seemed irresistible88 even to those who had themselves given it this false appearance.
The universal discredit89 into which every form of religious belief had fallen, at the end of the last century, exercised without any doubt the greatest influence upon the whole of the French Revolution:[134] it stamped its character. Nothing contributed more to give its features that terrible expression which they wore.
In seeking to distinguish between the different effects which irreligion at that time produced in France, it may be seen that it was rather by disturbing men’s minds than by degrading their hearts, or even corrupting90 their morals, that it disposed the men of that day to go to such strange excesses.
When religion thus deserted the souls of men, it did not leave them, as is frequently the case, empty and debilitated91. They were filled for the time with sentiments and ideas that occupied its place, and did not, at first, allow them to be utterly92 prostrate93.
If the French who effected the Revolution were more incredulous than those of the present day in matters of religion, at least they had one admirable faith which the present generation has not. They had faith in themselves. They never doubted of the perfectibility and power of man: they were burning with enthusiasm for his glory: they believed in his worth. They placed that proud confidence in their own strength which so often leads to error, but without which a people is only capable of servitude: they never doubted of their call to transform the face of society and regenerate94 the human race. These sentiments and passions became like a sort of new religion to them, which, as it produced some of those great effects which religions produce, kept them from individual selfishness, urged them on even to self-sacrifice and heroism95, and frequently rendered them insensible to all those petty objects which possess the men of the present day.
After a profound study of history we may still venture to affirm that there never was a revolution, in which, at the commencement, more sincere patriotism96, more disinterestedness97, more true greatness, were displayed by so great a number of men. The nation then exhibited the principal defect, but, at the same time, the principal ornament98, which youth possesses, or rather did possess, namely, inexperience and generosity99.
Yet irreligion had produced an enormous public evil. In most of the great political revolutions, which, up to that period, had appeared in the world, those who had attacked the established laws had respected the creeds100 of the country; and, in the greater part of the religious revolutions, those who attacked religion made no attempt to change, at one blow, the nature and order of all the established authorities, and to raze101 to the ground the ancient constitution of the government. In the greatest convulsions of society one point, at least, had remained unshaken.
But in the French Revolution, the religious laws having been[135] abolished at the same time that the civil laws were overthrown102, the minds of men were entirely103 upset: they no longer knew either to what to cling, or where to stop; and thus arose a hitherto unknown species of revolutionists, who carried their boldness to a pitch of madness, who were surprised by no novelty and arrested by no scruple104, and who never hesitated to put any design whatever into execution. Nor must it be supposed that these new beings have been the isolated105 and ephemeral creation of a moment, and destined106 to pass away as that moment passed. They have since formed a race of beings which has perpetuated107 itself, and spread into all the civilised parts of the world, everywhere preserving the same physiognomy, the same passions, the same character. The present generation found it in the world at its birth: it still remains108 before our eyes.
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1
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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engender
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| v.产生，引起 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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disseminated
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| 散布，传播( disseminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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fanatics
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| 狂热者，入迷者( fanatic的名词复数 ) | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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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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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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hierarchy
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| n.等级制度；统治集团，领导层 | |
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subversion
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| n.颠覆，破坏 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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51
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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negligently
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57
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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59
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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60
yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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prosecutions
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| 起诉( prosecution的名词复数 )； 原告； 实施； 从事 | |
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dilatory
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| adj.迟缓的，不慌不忙的 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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66
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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67
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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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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espoused
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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71
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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79
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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80
disturbances
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| n.骚乱( disturbance的名词复数 )；打扰；困扰；障碍 | |
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81
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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82
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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83
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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84
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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85
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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86
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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87
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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88
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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89
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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90
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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91
debilitated
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| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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93
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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regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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95
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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96
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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97
disinterestedness
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98
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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99
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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100
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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101
raze
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| vt.铲平，把(城市、房屋等)夷为平地，拆毁 | |
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102
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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103
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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104
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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105
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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106
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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107
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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108
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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