Part 16

In the earlier period, though there might be much pretension to seclusion from the world, the monastery was in fact a house set on a hill in the midst of the Christian community; and it was ever surrounded by an admiring multitude; so that its inmates might always find a ready revenue of glorification for the exploits and hypocrisies of supernatural sanctity.[13] But in the later periods, and when nothing hardly existed without doors except feudal ignorance and ferocity (we speak of the monasteries of Europe), many of the religious houses were real seclusions, and very far removed from any market of vulgar praise. Then within these establishments, it cannot be doubted, that the pious few found their virtue much rather guarded by the envious eyes of their less exemplary comrades, than endangered by drawing upon itself any sort of admiration. The spiritual monk (let not modern prejudices refuse to admit the phrase), glad to hide himself from the railleries or spite of the lax fraternity, kept close to his cell, and there passed his hours, not uncheered, nor undelicious, in prayer and meditation, in the perusal of religious books, and in the pleasant, edifying, and beneficial toils of transcription. Not seldom, as is proved by abundant evidence, the life-giving words of prophets and apostles were the subjects of these labors; nor ought it to be doubted that while, through a long tract of centuries, the Scriptures, unknown abroad, were holding their course underground, if one might so speak, waiting the time of their glorious emerging, they imparted the substance of true knowledge to many souls, pent with them in the same sepulchral glooms.

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The monkish system retained its ancient style, with little alteration, until it received an enhancement, and a somewhat new character in France, in the hands of the followers of Jansen, and the Port Royal recluses. Then the old doctrine of religious abstraction—of the merging of the soul in Deity, and of the merit and efficacy of penitential suicide, was revived with an intensity never before known and was recommended by a much larger admixture of genuine scriptural knowledge than had ever before been connected with the same system, and was graced by the brilliant talents and great learning of many of the party; while at the same time the endurance of persecution gave depth, force, and heroism, to the sentiments of the sect.

It was inevitable that whatever of good might arise within the church of Rome, and remain in allegiance to it, must pass over to the ancient and venerated form of monkish piety. The religion of the monastery was the only sort of devotedness and seriousness known to, or sanctioned by, that church. A new sect of fervent religionists could therefore do no otherwise than either fall into that style, or denounce it; and the latter would have been to break from Rome, and to side with Huguenots.

Embarrassed at every step by their professed submission to the authority of the popes, which they perpetually felt to be at variance with the duty they owed to God, and heavily oppressed and galled by their necessary acquiescence in the flagrant errors of the church in which alone they thought salvation could be had, and still more deeply injured by their own zealously loved ascetic doctrine, these good men obtained possession, and made profession of, the great truths of Christianity under an incomparably heavier weight of disadvantage than has been sustained by any other class of Christians from the apostolic to the present times. They have left in their voluminous and valuable writings, a body of divinity, doctrinal and practical, which, when the peculiar circumstances of its production are considered, presents a matchless proof of the intrinsic power of Christianity, upbearing so ponderous a mass of error.

Nevertheless, while the Port Royal divines and their friends are perused with pleasure and advantage, and while the reader is often inclined to admit that in depth, fervor, and solemnity of religious feeling, in richness and elevation of thought, in holy abstraction from earthly interests, in devotedness of zeal, and in the exemplification of some difficult duties, they much surpass the divines of England, he still feels, and sometimes when he can hardly assign the grounds of his dissatisfaction, that a vein of illusiveness runs through every page. Although the great principles of religion are much more distinctly and more feelingly produced than generally they are in the writings of the fathers, and though the evidence of genuine and exalted piety is abundant and unquestionable; yet is there an infection of _idealism_, tainting every sentiment; a mist of the imagination, obscuring every doctrine. In turning from the French writers of this school to our own standard divines, the reader is conscious of a sensation that might be compared to that felt by one who escapes into pure air from a chamber in which, though it was possible to live, respiration was oppressed by the presence of mephitic exhalations.

Enfeebled by the enthusiasm to which they so fondly clung, the piety of these admirable men failed in the force necessary to carry them triumphantly through the conflict with their atrocious enemy—"the Society." They were themselves in too many points vulnerable, to close fearlessly with their adversary; and they grasped the sword of the Spirit in too infirm a manner to be able to drive home a deadly thrust. Had it been otherwise, had they been free, not merely from the shackle of submission to Rome, but free from the debilitating influence of mysticism and monkish notions, their moral force, their talent, their learning, and their self-devotion, might have sufficed, first, for the overthrow of their immediate antagonist, whose bad cause, and worse arguments were hardly supported against the augmenting weight of public opinion, even by the whole power of the court. Then might they, not improbably, have supplied the impulse necessary to achieve the emancipation of the Gallican church from the thraldom of Rome; an event which seemed, more than once, to be on the eve of accomplishment. And if, at the same moment, the Protestants of France had received just that degree of indulgence—of mere sufferance—which was demanded, we do not say by justice and mercy, but by a politic regard to the national welfare; and if by these means a substantially sound, though perhaps partial reform had taken place within the dominant church, and dissent been allowed to spread itself amicably through the interstices of the ecclesiastical structure; if religious liberty, not indeed in the temper of republican contumacy, but in the Christian spirit of quiet and grateful humility, had taken root in France, is it too much to say that Atheism could never have become, as it did, the national opinion, and that the consequent solution of the social system in blood could never have happened?

The Jansenist, and the inmates of Port Royal, and many of their favorers, displayed a constancy that would doubtless have carried them through the fires of martyrdom. But the intellectual courage necessary to bear them fearlessly through an examination of the errors of the papal superstition could have sprung only from a healthy force of mind, utterly incompatible with the dotings of religious abstraction, with the petty solicitudes of sackclothed abstinence, with the trivial ceremonials of the daily ritual, with the prim niceties of behavior that pin down the body and soul of a Romish regular to his parchment-pattern of artificial sanctity. The Jansenists had not such courage; if they worshipped not the beast, they cringed before him; he planted his dragon-foot upon their necks, and their wisdom and their virtues were lost forever to France!

The monk of Wittemberg had taken a bolder and a better course. When he began to find fault with Rome, he rejected, not only its own flagrant and recent corruptions: but the many delusions it had inherited from the ancient Church; and after a short struggle with the prejudices of his education, he became, not only no papist, but no monk. Full fraught with the principles and spirit of the Bible, he denounced, as well the venerable errors of the fathers, as the scarlet sins of the mother of impurities; and was as little a disciple of Jerom, of Gregory, and of Basil, as of the doctors of the Vatican.

The English reformers trod the ground of theological inquiry with the same manly step; and that firm step shook the monasteries to the dust. Those great and good men went back to the Scriptures, where they found at once the great realities of religion—a condemning law, a justifying Gospel, and a provision of grace for a life of true holiness. With these substantial principles in their hearts, they spurned whatever was trivial and spurious, and amid the fires of persecution, they reared the structure—a structure still unshaken—of religion for England, upon "the foundation of the apostles and prophets." Had there existed a taste for mysticism, a fondness for penitential austerities, a cringing deference to the fathers, among the divines of the time of Edward VI., such a disposition must, so far as known causes are to be calculated upon, have utterly spoiled the reformation in England; or have postponed it a hundred years.

[6] In the only places in the New Testament where celibacy is recommended, Matt. xix. 12, and 1 Cor. vii. 32, the reason is of this substantial and intelligible kind, namely, that in the case of individuals, placed in peculiar circumstances, a single life would be advantageous, inasmuch as it would give them better opportunity of serving the Lord without distraction. Precisely the same advice might sometimes with propriety be given to a soldier, or to a statesman: a high motive justifies a sacrifice of personal happiness. Nowhere in the discourses of our Lord, or in the writings of the apostles, is there to be discovered a trace of the monkish motives of celibacy—namely, the supposed superior sanctity of that state.

[7] "Grande est et immortale, pœne ultra naturam corpoream, superare luxuriam, et concupiscentiæ spasmeam adolescentiæ facibus accensam animi virtute restinguere, et spiritali conatu vim genuinæ oblectationis excludere, _viveréque contra humani generis legem_, despicere solatia conjugii, dulcedinem contemnere liberorum, quæcumque esse præsentis vitæ commoda possint, pro nihilo spe futurorum beatitudinis computare." The Epistle of Sulpitius _de Virginitate_, in which this passage occurs, contains, it should be confessed, much more good sense and good morality, in the latter part of it, than one would expect to find in conjunction with absurdities such as that above quoted. The annotator on the passage well says, that the Ascetics avoided the pleasures of domestic life, not because they were sweets, but because conjoined with great cares, which those escaped who lived in celibacy. Nor is it to be denied, says he, that married life is obnoxious to great and heavy inconveniences: nevertheless, if under those difficulties we live holily and religiously, our future recompense will surely not be less than as if, to be free from them we had embraced a single life.

[8] "Habitant plerique in eremo sine ullis tabernaculis quos Anachoretas vocant. Vivunt herbarum radicibus: nullo unquam certo loco consistunt, ne ab hominibus frequententur: quas nox coëgerit sedes habent.... Inter hujus (Sina) recessus Anachoreta esse aliquis ferebatur quem diu multumque quæsitum videre non potui, qui ferè jam ante quinquaginta annos à conversatione humanâ remotus, nullo vestis usu, setis corporis sui tectus, nuditatem suam divino munere vestiebat. Hic quoties eum religiosi viri adire voluerunt, cursu avia petens, congressus vitabat humanos. Uni tantummodo ferebatur se ante quinquennium præbuisse, qui credo potenti fide id obtinere promeruit: cui inter multa conloquia percunctanti, cur homines tantopere vitaret, respondisse perhibetur, Eum qui ab hominibus frequentaretur non posse ab angelis frequentari."—_Sulp. Sev. Dialog._ I.

[9] The two signal instances may be mentioned of Cyprian and Augustine, men whose honesty and sincerity will not be questioned by any one who himself possesses the sympathies of virtue and integrity. They were both carried by the spirit of their times almost to the last stage of credulity and self-delusion; but the latter much farther than the former.

[10] Origen, as every one knows, led the way in the Christian Church in this mode of interpretation. It is also well known that the monks, especially those of Alexandria, warmly espoused the cause of this ingenious writer against the bishops and clergy, who with equal warmth condemned his works as heretical.

[11] The charitable offices of the nuns in the hospitals of France ought always to be mentioned with respect and admiration.

[12] The "De Imitatione Christi" alone affords proof enough of the possibility of the existence of elevated piety in the monastery. It abounds also with indications of the petty persecution to which a spiritual monk was exposed among his brethren.

[13] Many of the ancient _solitaries_, far from living as their profession required, in seclusion, were accustomed to admit daily the visits of the multitude who flocked around them, to gaze at their austerities, to hear their harangues, or to be exorcised, or healed of their maladies. Symeon, "the man of the pillar," every day exhibited himself to a gaping crowd, collected often from distant countries. St. Anthony, more sincere in his love of retirement, when pestered by the plaudits of the vulgar in Lower Egypt, withdrew into a desert of the Thebaïs; yet even there he soon found himself surrounded, not only by dæmons, but worse, by admirers. See Athan. Op. Vita S. Antonii.

SECTION X.

CONSIDERATIONS ON THE PROBABLE TRIUMPH OF CHRISTIANITY, SUBMITTED TO THOSE WHO MISUSE THE TERM ENTHUSIASM.

To waive the exercise of discrimination, can, under no imaginable circumstances, be advantageous to any man; nor is it ever otherwise than absurd to persist in an error which might be corrected by a moment's attention to obvious facts. But assuredly some such suspension of good sense has taken place with those who accustom themselves to designate, in a mass, as Enthusiasts, the many thousands of their countrymen, of all communions, who, at the present time, make profession of the doctrines of the Reformation.

All who are not wilfully ignorant must know, that what is vulgarly called "the religious world," now includes, not only myriads of the lower, and middle, and imperfectly educated classes, in relation to whom self-complacent arrogance may easily find pretexts of scorn; and not only many of the opulent and the noble; but a fair proportion also of all the talent, and learning, and brilliancy of mind, that adorns the professional circles, and that vivifies the literature of the country. What appropriateness, then, is there left to language, if a phrase of supercilious import is to be attached to the names of men of vigorous understanding, and energetic character, and eminent acquirement;—of men successful in their several courses, and accomplished in whatever gives grace to human nature? When those who in no assignable good quality can be deemed inferior to their competitors on the arena of life, are, on account of their religious opinions and practices, called Enthusiasts, it is evident that nothing is actually effected but the annulling of the contumelious power of the term so misused. We may indeed, in this manner, neutralize the significance of a word; or we may draw upon ourselves, the imputation of malignant prejudice; but we cannot reduce from their rank those who stand firmly on the high stages of literary or philosophical eminence.

But if arrogance and malignity itself be ashamed of so flagrant an abuse of the word enthusiast, then neither ought that epithet (unless where special proof can be adduced) to be assigned to the multitude, holding the very same opinions: for the eminent few, seeing that they profess these tenets, and adhere to these practices deliberately, and explicitly, must be allowed the privilege of redeeming their belief and usages from contempt, by whomsoever maintained.

An opinion gravely professed by a man of sense and education, demands always, respectful consideration—demands, and actually receives it from those whose own sense and education give them a correlative right: and whoever offends against this sort of courtesy may fairly be deemed to have forfeited the privileges it secures. But retaliation is declined by those who might use it, and it is declined on the ground, not only of Christian meekness, but of commiseration towards such violators of candor and good manners, whom they hold to be acting under the influence of an infatuation, at once deplorable and fatal.

That this infatuation should, in any great number of instances, be dispelled by the mere showing of reasons, is what the religionists, the "Enthusiasts," by no means expect: they too well understand the nature of the malady, and too well know its inveteracy, to imagine that it may be dissipated by force of argument, even though the cause were in the hands of a college of dialecticians. Nevertheless, they entertain an expectation (and have evidence to show in support of it) which, if it be realized, will supersede many difficult controversies, and rob impiety forever of its only effectual prop, the suffrage of the many. This expectation is nothing less than that Christianity—or, for the sake of distinctness, let it be said the religion of the Reformation—the religion of Wycliffe, and Latimer, and Cranmer, and Jewel, and Hooker, and Owen, and Howe, and Baxter—will gain, ere long, an unquestioned ascendency, and will bear down infidelity and false doctrine, and absorb schism, and possess itself of the substance of power, which is moral power, and will thus rule the family of man.

In support of a belief like this, many reasons might be urged, some of which can be expected to have weight only with the religious; while others may well claim attention from all (whatever may be their opinion of Christianity) who are at once competent and accustomed to anticipate the probable course of human affairs.

There are three distinct methods in which an inquiry of this sort might be conducted: of these, the first is the method of philosophical calculation, on the known principles of human nature, and which, without either denying or assuming the truth of Christianity, forecasts, from past events and present appearances, the probable futurity. To pursue such calculations efficiently, prepossessions of all kinds, both sceptical and religious, should be held in abeyance, while the mere facts that belong to the problem are contemplated as from the remoteness of a neutral position.

The reader and writer of this page may each have formed his estimate of the intrinsic force and validity of certain opinions; but this private estimate may happen to be much above, or much below the level which reason would approve; and, be it what it may, it can avail nothing for our present purpose. If we are to calculate the probable extension or extinction of those opinions, we must consult the evidence of facts on a large scale; and especially must observe what manifestations of intrinsic power they have given on certain peculiar and critical occasions. This is the only course that can be deemed satisfactory, or that is conformed to the procedures of modern science. We do not now wish to ask a seraph if such or such a dogma is held to be true in heaven; but what we have to do is to learn, from the suffrage of the millions of mankind, whether it has a permanent power to command and to regain ascendency over the human mind. This question must be asked of history; and we must take care to open the book at those pages where the great eras of religious revolution are described. Having glanced at the past, our next business will be to look at the present: this kind of divination is the only one known to the principles of philosophical inquiry.

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The early triumph of the Gospel over the fascinating idolatries and the astute atheism of Greece and Rome has been often insisted upon, (and conclusively) as evidence of its truth. But with that argument we have nothing now to do; yet if the subject were not a very hackneyed one, it might well be brought forward, in all its details, in proof of a different point—namely, the innate power of the religion of the Bible to vanquish the hearts of men. An opponent may here choose his alternative; either let him grant that Christianity triumphed because it was true and divine; or let him deny that it had any aid from heaven. In the former case we shall be entitled to infer that the religion of God must at length universally prevail; or in the latter we may strongly argue, that this doctrine possesses little less than an omnipotence of intrinsic force, by which it obtained success under circumstances of opposition such as made its triumph seem, even to its enemies, miraculous; and on this ground the expectation of its future prevalence cannot be thought unreasonable.

But if there were room to imagine that the first spread of Christianity was owing rather to an accidental conjuncture of favoring circumstances than to its real power over the human mind, or if it might be thought that any such peculiar virtue was all spent and exhausted in its first expansive effort, then it is natural to look to the next occasion on which the opinions of mankind were put in fermentation, and to watch in what manner the system of the Bible then rode over the high billows of political, religious, and intellectual commotion. It was a fair trial for Christianity, and a trial essentially different from its first, when, in the fifteenth century, after having been corrupted in every part to a state of loathsome ulceration, it had to contend for existence, and to work its own renovation, at the moment of the most extraordinary expansion of the human intellect that has ever happened. At that moment, when the splendid literature of the ancient world started from its tomb, and kindled a blaze of universal admiration; at that moment, when the first beams of sound philosophy broke over the nations; and when the revival of the useful arts gave at once elasticity to the minds of the million, and a check of practical influence to the minds of the few; at the moment when the necromancy of the press came into play to expose and explode necromancy of every other kind; and when the discovery of new continents, and of a new path to the old, tended to supplant a taste of whatever is visionary, by imparting a vivid taste for what is substantial; at such a time, which seemed to leave no chance of continued existence to aught that was not in its nature vigorous, might it not confidently have been said—This must be the crisis of Christianity? if it be not inwardly sound, if it have not a true hold of human nature, if it be a thing of feebleness and dotage, fit only for cells, and cowls, and the precincts of spiritual despotism; if it be not adapted to the world of action, if it have no sympathy with the feelings of men—of freemen; nothing can save it: no power of princes, no devices of priests, will avail to rear it anew, and to replace it in the veneration of the people; at least not in any country where has been felt the refreshing gale of intellectual life. The result of this crisis need not be narrated.

It may even be doubted, had not Christianity been fraught with power, if all the influence of kings, or craft of priests, could have upheld it in any part of Europe, after the revival of learning; and certainly not in those countries which received, at one and the same time, the invigoration of political liberty, of science, and of commerce.