CHAPTER XV.

“The most honorable deaths occur in war,” says Aristotle, “for in war the danger is the greatest and most honorable. The public honors that are awarded in states and by monarchs attest this.“Properly, then, he who in the case of an honorable death, and under circumstances close at hand which cause death, is fearless, may be called courageous; and the dangers of war are, more than any others, of this description.”[122]

“The most honorable deaths occur in war,” says Aristotle, “for in war the danger is the greatest and most honorable. The public honors that are awarded in states and by monarchs attest this.

“Properly, then, he who in the case of an honorable death, and under circumstances close at hand which cause death, is fearless, may be called courageous; and the dangers of war are, more than any others, of this description.”[122]

In looking at it from this somewhat exclusive standpoint, Aristotle refuses to call courageous those who brave sickness and poverty; “for it is possible,” he says, “for cowards, in the perils of war, to bear with much firmness the losses of fortune;” nor does he allow to be called courageous “him who firmly meets the strokes of the whip he is threatened with.”

This is but a question of name and degree. Whereverthere are any evils to brave, the firmness which meets and bears these evils can be called courage; on the other hand, the sense of the word can, if preferred, be restricted to military perils; but what Aristotle has most justly defined, and of which he makes a very subtle analysis, is the difference between apparent and true courage. Thus the courage of constraint and necessity—as, for instance, that of soldiers who would be mercilessly killed, if they retreated before the enemy—is not true courage, for one cannot be brave through fear. Nor should anger be confounded with courage: this were but the courage of wild beasts obeying a blind impulse under the sting of pain. At that rate, the donkeys even, when hungry, would be brave. That which determines true courage is the sentiment of honor, not passion. We should neither call brave him who is so only because he feels himself the strongest, like the drunkard full of confidence in the beginning, but who runs away when he does not succeed. For this reason is there truer courage in preserving one’s intrepidity and calm in sudden dangers, than in dangers long anticipated.[123]Finally, ignorance cannot be called courage either: to brave a danger one is ignorant of, is only to be apparently brave.

Aristotle finds also in courage an excellent opportunity to apply his celebrated theory of the golden mean. Courage is for him a medium between temerity and cowardice. But it is not the too much or too little in danger which determines what we ought to call courage. There are cases where one may be obliged to brave the greatest possible danger without being for that rash; other cases where, on the contrary, one has the right to avoid the least possible peril without being for that a coward. The true principle is that one should brave necessary perils, be they ever so great; and likewise avoid useless perils, be they ever so slight. Yet, the question of degree should not be wholly overlooked. There are someperils which, without being necessary, it is useful to brave (were it but to train one’s self for greater ones). Such are, for example, the dangers connected with bodily exercises. Peril and utility must, of course, be compared with each other; for example, he who from considerations of utility would wish to avoid all kinds of perils, will be wanting in courage; and he who, on the contrary, would lightly brave an extreme peril, will naturally deserve to be called rash. Thus must we first consider the nature of the peril, and, secondly, the degree.

159. Civic courage.—Although military courage is the most brilliant and popular form of courage, it may be asked whether there is not a higher and nobler form still, namely, civic courage.

Cicero, who, to say the truth, was not sufficiently disinterested in the matter, persists in showing that civic virtues are equal to military virtues, and demand an equal amount of courage and energy.[124]A firm and high-souled man, he says, has no trouble in difficult circumstances, to preserve his presence of mind and the free use of his reason, to provide in advance against events, and to be always ready for action when necessary.

This is a sort of courage more difficult perhaps than the one required in a hand-to-hand struggle with the enemy. Civic life, besides, has itself trials which often imperil one’s existence.

Antiquity has left us innumerable and admirable examples of civic courage against tyranny. Helvidius Priscus was thought to look with disapproval upon Vespasian’s administration. The latter sent him word to keep away from the Senate: “It is in thy power,” replied Helvidius, “to forbid my belonging to the Senate, but as long as I belong to it, I shall attend it.”—“Go, then,” said the emperor, “but hold thy tongue.”—“If thou ask me no questions I will make thee no answers.”—“But I must ask thee questions.”—“And I must answer thee what I think just.”—“If thou dost, I shall havethee put to death.”—“When have I said to thee that I was immortal?” But nothing ever surpassed the intrepidity of Socrates, either before the Thirty Tyrants who wished to interdict him free speech,[125]or before the people’s tribunals which condemned him to death:

Plato in hisApologymakes him say: “If you were to tell me now, ‘Socrates, we will not listen to Anytus: we send thee back absolved on condition that thou ceasest philosophizing and givest up thy accustomed researches,’ I should answer you without hesitation, ‘O Athenians, I honor and love you, but I shall obey God before I obey you.’”

Then, after having been condemned to death, he closes with these admirable words:

“I bear my accusers, and those who have condemned me, no resentment, although they did not seek my good, but rather to injure me. But I shall ask of them one favor: I beg you, when my children shall be grown up, to persecute them as I have myself persecuted you, if you see that they prefer riches to virtue.... If you grant us this favor, I and my children shall have but to praise your justice. But it is time we go each our way: I to die, you to live. Which of us has the better part, you or I? This is known to none but God.”

160. Patience.—One of the most difficult forms of courage is that which consists not only in braving or repelling a threatening danger (which presupposes some effort and activity), but in bearing without anger, without any sign of vain revolt, the ills and pains of life: this ispatience. There is a kind of patience which is but a part of our duty in regard to others: one must learn to bear a great deal from others, they having often a great deal to bear from us. But we speak here of that inner patience which is our strength in grief; the patience of the invalid in his daily sufferings; that of the poor man in his poverty; the patience, in short, which all must exercise amidst the innumerable and inevitable accidents of life. It is, above all, that sort of virtue which the Stoics meant when they said with Epictetus: “You should not wish things to happen as you want them; but youshould wish them as they do happen.” A maxim which Descartes translated substantially, saying: “My maxim is rather to try to overcome myself than fortune, and rather to change my own wishes than to change the order of the world.” Which he explained by saying:

“If we regard the goods which lie outside of us as unattainable as those we are deprived of from our birth, we shall no more grieve at not possessing them, than we should in not possessing the empires of China or Mexico; and, making, as it is said, a virtue of necessity, we shall not any more desire to be healthy when ill, or to be free when in prison, than we desire now to have bodies of as incorruptible a stuff as diamonds, or to have wings to fly with like birds.”[126]

It is this kind of courage which at every moment of life is most in requisition, and which is the rarest; for there will be found plenty of men capable of braving death when the occasion presents itself; but to bear with resignation the inevitable and constantly renewed ills of human life, is a virtue all the more rare as one is scarcely ever ashamed of its opposite vice. One would blush to fear peril, one does not blush for rebelling against destiny; one is willing to die if necessary, but not to be thwarted. Yet will it be admitted that to succumb under the weight of destiny, is a kind of cowardice. It is for this reason that it would be justly said that suicide is also a cowardly act; for whilst it is true that it demands a certain physical courage, it is also true that the moral courage which bears the ills of life is of a still higher order.

“You take a journey to Olympia,” says Epictetus, “to behold the work of Phidias, and each of you thinks it a misfortune to die without a knowledge of such things; and will you have no inclination to see and understand those works, for which there is no need to take a journey; but which are ready and at hand, even to those who bestow no pains! Will you never perceive what you are, or for what you were born, or for what purpose you are admitted to behold this spectacle? But there are in life some things unpleasant and difficult. And are there none at Olympia? Are you not heated? Are you not crowded?Are you not without good conveniences for bathing? Are you not wet through, when it happens to rain? Do you not have uproar and noise, and other disagreeable circumstances? But, I suppose, by comparing all these with the merit of the spectacle, you support and endure them. Well, and have you not received faculties by which you may support every event? Have you not received greatness of soul? Have you not received a manly spirit? Have you not received patience? What signifies to me anything that happens, while my soul is above it? What shall disconcert or trouble or appear grievous to me? Shall I not use my powers to that purpose for which I received them; but lament and groan at every casualty?”[127]

But we should not confound true strength, true courage, true patience, with false strength and ridiculous obstinacy.

“An acquaintance of mine,” says again Epictetus, “had, for no reason, determined to starve himself to death. I went the third day, and inquired what was the matter. He answered: ‘I am determined.’—‘Well; but what is your motive? For, if your determination be right, we will stay, and assist your departure; but if unreasonable, change it.’—‘We ought to keep our determinations.’—‘What do you mean, sir? Not all of them; but such as are right. Else, if you should fancy that it is night, if this be your principle, do not change, but persist and say, “We ought to keep to our determinations.” ‘What do you mean, sir? Not to all of them. Why do you not begin by first laying the foundation, inquiring whether your determination be a sound one, or not; and then build your firmness and constancy upon it. For, if you lay a rotten and crazy foundation, you must not build; since the greater and more weighty the superstructure, the sooner will it fall. Without any reason you are withdrawing from us, out of life, a friend, a companion, a fellow-citizen both of the greater and the lesser city; and while you are committing murder, and destroying an innocent person, you say, “We must keep to our determinations.” Suppose, by any means, it should ever come into your head to kill me; must you keep to such a determination?’“With difficulty this person was, however, at last convinced; but there are some at present, whom there is no convincing ... a fool will neither bend nor break.”[128]

“With difficulty this person was, however, at last convinced; but there are some at present, whom there is no convincing ... a fool will neither bend nor break.”[128]

161. Moderation.—The ancients always associated with patience in adversity another kind of courage, no less rare anddifficult, namely, moderation in prosperity. It was for them, in some respects, one and the same virtue, exercised in two opposite conditions, and this is what they callequanimity.

“Now, during our prosperity,” says Cicero, “and while things flow agreeably to our desire, we ought, with great care, to avoid pride and arrogance; for, as it discovers weakness not to bear adversity with equanimity, so also with prosperity. That equanimity, in every condition of life, is a noble attribute, and that uniform expression of countenance which we find recorded of Socrates, and also of Caius Lælius. Panætius tells us, his scholar and friend, Africanus, used to say that as horses, grown unruly by being in frequent engagements, are delivered over to be tamed by horse-breakers, thus men, who grow riotous and self-sufficient by prosperity, ought, as it were, to be exercised in the traverse[129]of reason and philosophy, that they may learn the inconstancy of human affairs and the uncertainty of fortune.[130]

Nothing occurs more frequently among the ancient poets and moralists than this idea of the vicissitude of human things. The metaphor of Fortune’s wheel, which sometimes lowers to the greatest depth those it raised highest, is well known. We need scarcely dwell upon this commonplace saying which has never, for an instant, ceased to be true; although the more regular conditions of modern society have introduced more security and uniformity in life, at least for those who live wisely and with moderation. Yet is no one secure against the changes of fortune; there are unexpected elevations as there are sudden falls; and firmness in either bad or good fortune will always be necessary.

162. Equality of temper; anger.—To equality of temper or possession of one’s self, there is still another obligation attached: that of avoiding anger, a passion which the ancients with reason considered the principle of courage,[131]but whichof itself is without any rules, and is more proper to beasts than men. Aristotle has described the irascible disposition with great accuracy. He justly distinguishes two kinds of anger; one where a man is easily carried away, and as easily appeased again, and the other where resentment is nursed and kept up for a long time. The first is the irascible disposition; the second, the splenetic or vindictive disposition.

“Irascible men,” says Aristotle, “are easily angered, with improper objects, on improper occasions, and too much; but their anger quickly ceases, and this is the best point in their character. And this is the case with them, because they do not restrain their anger, but retaliate openly and visibly, because of their impetuosity, and then they become calm.—But the bitter are difficult to be appeased, and retain their anger a long time, for they repress their rage; but there comes a cessation, when they have retaliated; for revenge makes their anger cease, because it produces pleasure instead of the previous pain. But if they do not get revenge, they feel a weight of disappointment: for, owing to its not showing itself, no one reasons with them; and there is need of time for a man to digest his anger within him. Persons of this character are very troublesome to themselves, and to their best friends.”[132]

Seneca, in his treatise onAnger, has conclusively shown all the evils this passion carries with it, and of which Horace justly said: “Anger is a short madness.”

Yet, if anger is an evil, apathy, absolute indifference, is far from being a good. Whilst there is a brutal and beastly anger, there is also a noble, agenerous anger, namely, that which is at the service of noble sentiments. Plato describes it in the following terms:

“When we are convinced that injustice has been done us, does it not plead the cause of what appears to it to be just? Instead of allowing itself to be overcome by hunger, by cold, by all sorts of ill-treatments, does it not overcome them? It never ceases a moment to make generous efforts toward obtaining satisfaction, and nothing but death depriving it of its power, or reason persuading or silencing it, as the shepherd silences his dog, can stop it.”[133]

Aristotle also approves of this generous anger, and blames those with souls too cold:

“One can only call stupid those who cannot be aroused to anger about things where real anger ought to be felt.... He who does not then get angry appears insensible and ignorant of what just indignation means. One might even believe him, since he has no feeling of courage, unable to defend himself when necessary. But it is the cowardice of the slave’s to accept an insult and to allow his kin to be attacked with impunity.”[134]

But that which is not easy, as Aristotle remarks, is to find an exact and proper medium between apathy and violence:

“It is difficult to determine with accuracy the manner, the persons, the occasions, and the length of time for which one ought to be angry, and at what point one ceases to act rightly or wrongly. For he who transgresses the limit a little is not blamed, whether it be on the side of excess or deficiency: and we sometimes praise those who fall short, and call them meek; and we call the irascible manly, as being able to govern ... the decision must be left to particular cases, and to the moral sense.”[135]

163. Personal dignity.—A generous anger, as has been seen, has its principle in the sentiment ofpersonal dignity, with which theduty of self-respectis connected.

Man’s free will is what essentially constitutes the dignity of human nature, the moral personality. Man’s duty toward himself as a moral personality is then dependent upon his will.

This duty of self-respect, of the moral personality, has been admirably expressed by Kant, and we can do no better than transcribe here the passage:

“Man, considered as an animal, is a being of but mediocre importance, and is not worth any more than other animals. His utility and worth is that of any marketable thing.—But,considered as a personality, he is priceless; he is possessed of adignitywhich can claim the respect of all other reasonable creatures, and which allows him to measure himself with each of them, and consider himself their equal.

“But this respect, which he has a right to exact of every other man, he should not despoil himself of. He can, and should, therefore, estimate himself both in ratio to his greatness and littleness, according as he considers himself a sensuous being (in his animal nature), or an intelligent being (in his moral nature). But as he should not only consider himself as a person in general, but also as an individual man, his lesser worth as animal-man should not impair the consciousness he has of his dignity as reasonable man, and he must hold on to the moral estimate he makes of himself as such. In other words, he should not pursue his aims in a lowly and servile manner, as if he solicited favors: this would be abdicating his dignity; he should always uphold within himself the consciousness of the nobility of his moral faculties, for it is this estimate of one’s self which constitutes the duty of man toward himself.

“The consciousness and conviction of our little moral worth, compared with what the law requires of us, is moral humility. The contrary consciousness and conviction, namely, the persuading ourselves, for want of this comparison, that we are of very great worth, may be called the pride of virtue.—To reject all claim to any moral worth whatsoever, in the hope of acquiring thereby a hidden worth, is a false moral humility and an abasement of the mind. To undervalue one’s own moral worth for the purpose of obtaining thereby the favor of another (through hypocrisy or flattery, namely), is also a false humility, and, moreover, an abasement of one’s personality. True humility should of necessity be the result of an exact and sincere comparison of one’s self with the moral law (with its sanctity and severity). This duty relative to the human dignity in our personality may be more or less clearly stated in the following precepts: Be no man’s slave; let not yourrights be trampled under foot; contract no debts for which you cannot give full security; accept no gifts which you can do without; be neither a parasite, nor a flatterer, nor a beggar; complaints and lamentations, even a single cry wrung from us by bodily pain, are things unworthy of us (still more unworthy if the pain is deserved). Therefore is a criminal’s death ennobled by the firmness with which he meets it. Can he who makes himself a worm complain if he be crushed?”[136]

164. True and false pride.—We should, however, not confound a true and noblepride, without which man is but a thing and a slave, with a passion which looks like it, but which is but its phantom; I meanfalse pride. True pride is the just feeling man has of his moral dignity, and which interdicts him to humble the human personality in others, or to allow it to be humbled in himself. False pride is the exaggerated feeling we entertain in regard to our own advantages and superiority over other men. True pride is related to what there is sacred and divine in us; false pride, on the contrary, feeds and grows fat on the trifling and petty concerns of our mere individuality. There is in man, the stoics said, an inner god: the human essence, namely, of which the individual is but the depository, and which he ought to keep sacred and holy as a divine host. This respect for the human personality, religious morality calls holiness; worldly morality calls it honor; it is one and the same principle under different forms; it is the idea of something sacred in us which we must neither stain nor debase. True pride rests then on what there is common among all men, on what makes them equals. False pride, on the contrary, regards chiefly our peculiarities, and what we call more especially our own. True pride asks for nothing more than to be free from oppression; false pride wants to oppress others. True pride is noble; false pride, brutal and insolent. Of course it has its degrees according to the nature of the advantages ofwhich it boasts. The pride, for example, which boasts of material advantages, is the grossest of all; pride of birth and ancestry is more pardonable, but if he who is proud of them shows it too much he becomes disgusting, and true pride will have a right to protect itself against that kind of false pride. He, again, who is proud of his intellectual advantages is less blameworthy than the former, for these advantages belong, at least, to his personality; but as they are not due to the man, and as, however great they may be, they have still their weak sides, this also is an inexcusable pride. The pride which might appear to be the most pardonable is the pride of virtue, if there were not in some respects a sort of contradiction of terms in drawing advantage and honor from a good the essentiality of which consists in self-forgetfulness and the pure and simple observance of the law.

The diminutive of false pride isvanity. False pride looks to great things, at least to such as appear great to men; vanity boasts of the smallest. False pride is insulting; vanity wounding. The one is odious, the other ridiculous. The lowest order of vanity isfoppishness, or the vanity of external advantages—the person, the toilet, superficial accomplishments. This diminutive of false pride is one of the most pitiable of passions, and should be combated by manly efforts.

165. Modesty.—The virtue opposed to false pride, and which, besides, is nowise irreconcilable with true pride, is modesty, a correct feeling, namely, of one’s just worth. Morality does not forbid us a proper estimate of our merits; these merits, besides, having but a relative value, and representing but faintly the high ideal we should always keep before our eyes. To fail to appreciate the advantages we owe to nature, is often indicative only of laziness and apathy. He who depreciates himself is not disposed to turn what there is in him to account. This self-depreciation, in order to avoid the responsibility of using his faculties, is often but a subterfuge and the sophistry of indolence. There is nothing contrary to duty in the acknowledgment of our worth, so long as we donot boast of it, but thank Providence for it, and put to use the gifts it has conferred on us. If, on the contrary, the question is of virtues we have acquired by our own efforts, the satisfaction we experience from it is but the just recompense of these efforts; and such a feeling could not be condemned; for such condemnation would be a virtual protest against the moral conscience, which consists as much in the satisfaction we derive from good actions as in the regrets which accompany the bad.

Unquestionably, “the left hand should not know what the right hand doeth;” which means that we should not everywhere proclaim aloud our good actions, and that we should as much as possible forget them. But this forgetting should not go so far as indifference; for our morality depends upon our consciousness.

But if it is lawful for man to rejoice over his natural or acquired gifts, it is on the condition that he do not exaggerate their import: this is easy enough if we compare ourselves to those who are still better gifted than we are, or think of what we should and could do with greater efforts, more courage, better will; or in recognizing the narrow scope, limits, and defects of these gifts, or in keeping, above all, our eyes more open to our faults than our good qualities. Beware of the beam of the Gospel.

Modesty should not only be external, but internal also; externally, it is above all a duty we owe others, whom we should not humble by our superior advantages; internally, it is a duty to ourselves, for we should not deceive ourselves about our own worth. One is sometimes modest externally without being so internally, and conversely. I may pretend before men to have no great opinion of myself, whilst internally I am full of conceit: this is sheer hypocrisy. I may, on the other hand, externally attribute to myself advantages which my conscience altogether denies: this is bragging. One should be modest both inwardly and outwardly, in words and actions. But how, in what manner, and to what degree must we bemodest? It is impossible in matters so delicate to establish definite rules, and the decision must be left to our own judgment.

There is another virtue to be distinguished from modesty, namely,humility. Humility should not be an abasement; for it is never a virtue in man to lower himself. But, even as dignity and true pride are virtues which spring from a proper sense of human greatness, so humility is a virtue which springs from a proper sense of human weakness. Remember that thou art a man and do not degrade thyself: this is self-respect. Remember that thou art but a man and do not allow thyself to indulge in vain pride; this is humility. Modesty relates to the individual; humility to human nature in general. As to that false humility which consists in lowering one’s self before men unnecessarily, and without any occasion for it (like Tartufe, for example:

“Yes, brother, I am a sinner and a wretch!”[137]),

it is but the falsehood of virtue, and should be rejected by all manly and generous morality.

166. Duties relative to sentiment.—A last point which should not be neglected is this: has man, as far as he is endowed with moral sensibility—that is to say, as far as he is a susceptible being—capable of love, enthusiasm, affection, any duties toward himself?

Kant maintains that love cannot be an object of duty; that no one is obliged to love: that sentiment is phenomenal and belongs to the order of nature, and can neither be produced nor prevented; that, consequently, it has nothing to do with morals. The only love admitted by Kant in morals is what he callspracticallove: namely, the love which consists in actions and does others good, or any kind of sentiment accompanying benevolence, provided it be a disinterested sentiment. “All other love,” he says in his odd and energetic language, “ispathological,” that is, sickly.

Kant, no doubt, is right if he means that false sentimentality or feeble softness,[138]which the poet Gilbert has so well described, and which the enervating literature of the latter part of the eighteenth century made so ridiculous. We should take care not to fall into an effeminate tenderness or a silly philanthropy which sacrifices justice to a mawkish sensibility. But all danger and defects set aside, there still remains the question whether we owe anything to our own heart, and whether the only thing directly commanded us, be action.

It is quite true that it is not an effect of our will if our heart is more or less tender, more or less sympathetic. Nature has made some souls gentle and amiable, others austere and cold, others again heroic and hard, etc.; the moralists should not forget these differences, and the degree of sensibility obligatory on all cannot be absolutely determined. But there are two facts which certainly oblige us to put some restrictions upon Kant’s too harsh doctrine. The first is that moral emotion (affection, enthusiasm for the beautiful, for our country) is never wholly absent in any human soul; the second is that sensibility does not altogether lie outside our will. We can smother our good feelings as we can smother our evil passions; we can also cultivate them, develop them, encourage them; give them a greater or less share in our lives, by placing ourselves in circumstances which favor them. For example, say such or such a person is but slightly endowed with sensibility or sympathy for the sufferings of the wretched; yet is it impossible that he be entirely deprived of them: let him overcome his repugnance and indifference; let him visit the poor, put himself at the service of human misery; the dormant sympathy will inevitably awaken in his heart. Bythis fact alone will he be enabled to do good with more ease, and raise his soul to a higher degree of perfection and beauty.

Not only should sentiment not be excluded from virtue, as Kant in his excessive austerity demands, but it should be considered its ornament and bloom. “The virtuous man,” says Aristotle, “is he who takes pleasure in doing virtuous acts.” One should therefore endeavor to awaken in one’s self, if one has not yet experienced it, or develop, if one has already experienced it, the noble pleasure which accompanies great sentiments. On the other hand, and for the same reason that it is a duty for man to develop within him, in the limits of the possible, the share of sensibility he may have received from nature, it is also his duty not to encourage this same disposition too much if he should be inclined this way. For sensibility should only be an auxiliary and a stimulant to virtue; it should never take its place: otherwise it will lead us astray. An exaggerated sensibility often smothers the voice of justice, enervates us, and deprives us of the robust courage we need in life. There is a reasonable limit which tact and experience alone can teach us. Morality can only give advice and directions. More precise rules are impossible, and would be ridiculous. There is no moral thermometer to indicate the degree of heart-heat each of us is allowed and is obliged to have. Let us only say, that in so delicate a matter, it is better to have too much sensibility than too little.

RELIGIOUS MORALITY.—RELIGIOUS RIGHTS AND DUTIES.

SUMMARY.

Are there duties toward God?Duties toward God.—Analysis of the religious sentiment.—Two elements: 1, the sentiment of the infinite; 2, the need of hope and consolation.Can sentiment become a duty?Indirect duties toward God.—Piety united with all the acts of life: 1, obedience; 2, resignation; 3, love of God united to that of man.The idea of God in morals.—God the surety of the moral law.Religious society.—Fénélon and Epictetus.Religious rights.—Liberty of conscience: liberty of opinion, liberty of worship, liberty of propagandism.

Are there duties toward God?

Duties toward God.—Analysis of the religious sentiment.—Two elements: 1, the sentiment of the infinite; 2, the need of hope and consolation.

Can sentiment become a duty?

Indirect duties toward God.—Piety united with all the acts of life: 1, obedience; 2, resignation; 3, love of God united to that of man.

The idea of God in morals.—God the surety of the moral law.

Religious society.—Fénélon and Epictetus.

Religious rights.—Liberty of conscience: liberty of opinion, liberty of worship, liberty of propagandism.

It is not our purpose to speak here of the different forms of religious thought among men: this is the special domain of conscience; but among all these forms, is there no common ground which may be said to belong to the human soul, and which is found to be the same with the sages of pagan antiquity and the modern philosophers, although they may not have adopted any special form of worship? Yes. This common ground of all religion is the idea of God.

167. Are there any duties toward God?—If, as we have seen in our first book (Vol. I., last chapter), there is a God, that is to say, an author of the physical and moral universe, and its preserver and protector and father, it follows that man, as a part of this universe, and distinguished from its other creatures by the fact that he knows himself to be a child of God, is held to entertain toward this supreme father, sentiments ofgratitude and respect, and toward this supreme judge sentiments of fear and hope, all of which gives rise to a whole class of duties.

Some doubts have been raised on this point by certain philosophers, and the question has been asked whether man, so out of all proportion when compared to God, could have any duties toward Him? It has been said, moreover, that there could be no duty toward a being to whom we can do neither good nor harm. God, the essence of all perfection and supreme happiness, can have nothing added to nor taken from these by us. We are therefore under no obligation to him whatsoever.

1. As for the absolute disproportion we imagine to exist between God and man, this disproportion does not prevent my having an idea of God: why should it prevent my loving him and putting myself in relation with him? Fénélon justly said: “Nothing is so wonderful as the idea of God which I carry within myself; it is the infinite contained within the finite. That which is within me is infinitely beyond me. I do not understand how it comes to be in my mind, and yet it is there, nevertheless. This indelible and incomprehensible idea of the Divine Being is what, despite my imperfection and weakness, makes me resemble him. As he infinitely knows and loves himself, so do I, according to my power, know and love him. I can love the infinite by no other means than by my finite knowledge, and love it by no other than a love as finite as myself.... I wish my love were as limitless as the perfection it loves. It is true, again, that this knowledge and this love are not equally as perfect as their object, but the man who knows and loves God according to his measure of knowledge and love is incomparably more worthy of this perfect being than the man without God in the world, caring neither to know nor to love him.”[139]Hence it can be concluded that the duties of man toward God are implied in the knowledge he has of him.

2. As to the second difficulty, it consists in saying that God being susceptible of neither benefits nor injuries, it is not quite clear what acts we could perform in his behalf. But the question is precisely to know whether we only owe duties to beings susceptible of benefits and injuries. We have, for example, to perform duties of justice, love, respect toward the dead, although we can do them neither good nor harm, since they are dead; and although we have reason to think that the dead still exist under another form, the duties we still owe them, are independent of this consideration, and notwithstanding the doubt of the immortality of souls, or their relations with the living, these duties still subsist: those souls might be so happy, and in conditions so different from those of our earthly life, that they might have become wholly indifferent to such, at least to harm. A historian, for instance, would not be justified in slandering his heroes under the pretext that, not believing in the immortality of the soul, he knew he could do them no harm. Man, even in this life, can, through patience and gentleness, so rise above all insults as to become wholly insensible to them: which fact, however, does not imply that the insults done him are innocent. The same man might be so modest as to feel no need of any homage, which would make it no less a duty of justice on the part of others to render him all the homage that is due him. Wholly inward feelings, not evidenced by any outward act whatsoever, cannot in reality do their object any good or harm; yet no one will question their being duties. It may then be seen that duty is not regulated by the good or evil which may outwardly be done, but by the order of things which requires that every being be loved and respected according to his merit. Now, from this standpoint, there can be no doubt that God, who is supreme perfection and the principle of all order and justice, is the legitimate object of the highest respect and the profoundest love.

It may be said, perhaps, that these sentiments toward the Creator are rather duties we owe ourselves than God, for it isfor our own sakes that we are bound to give to our sensibility and affection the highest object they can have. Since the perfection and the dignity of the soul are enhanced by religion, it is our duty to be religious.

Fénélon is quite right when he says that “the man who knows and loves God is moreworthyof him than he who lives without him.” Is it not the same as to say that religion rendering man more like God, and bringing him nearer to him, man owes it to himself to rise above himself through piety and the love of God?

But it matters very little how we explain the nature of the duties toward God, provided we recognize them. Whether they be considered a distinct class, or whether we only see in them the highest degree of man’s duties toward himself; all this is but a useless speculation. We could say conversely, and with equal justice, that our duties toward ourselves are but a part of our duties toward God: for duty itself, in its highest conception, being to reach after the highest possible perfection, we can say, with Plato, that virtue is the imitation of God; that, consequently, man owes it to himself to resemble God as much as possible, and that, conversely, he owes God, as the type of supreme perfection, to draw ever nearer to him through self-improvement. But how could he seek to draw nearer to God’s supreme perfection if he did not entertain for him the feelings of love and respect, which constitute what we, in general, call religious sentiment?

168. Duties toward God.—Analysis of the religious sentiment.—What is calledduties toward Godis nothing else than the different acts by which we endeavor to bring about, cultivate, develop in us, or in others, religious sentiment. When these acts are external, and take a certain definite form, they constitute what is calledoutward worship, and are consequent upon positive religions. When they are concentrated in the soul, and confined to sentiments, they constitute what is calledinner worship. The virtue which corresponds to these inner acts and sentiments is calledpiety.

The duties toward God being thus blended with religious sentiment we must, in order to set them forth, first analyze this sentiment.

Religious sentiment is composed of two elements: one which may be calledmetaphysical;[140]the other,moral. 1. Metaphysically, the love of God is the sentiment of the infinite, the need of attaching ourselves to the absolute, the eternal, the immutable, the true in itself—in one word, to Being. The thinking man, and even the thoughtless man, looking at himself, finds himself small, feeble, miserable. “Oh!” exclaims Bossuet, “how much we are nothing!” “Man becomes vile to himself,” says St. Bernard. “Man feels that he is frail, that his life hangs but on a thread, that he is constantly passing away. The goods of the world are perishable. The fashion of this world passeth away. We neither know who we are, whence we come, whither we are going, nor what sustains us during the short period of our lives. We are suspended between heaven and earth: between two infinities; we stand as on quicksands.” All these strong expressions of mystics and religious writers admirably express the need we stand in of the absolute, the immutable, the perfect,—a need felt more particularly by devout minds, but which all men, without exception, experience in some degree or other, and which they endeavor to satisfy the best they can. All our efforts to reach the absolute in science, in art, in politics even, are but the forms in which this need of the absolute manifests itself. The insatiable pursuit of the gratification of the passions even is, also, under a vain appearance, the same need. It is this feeling of the eternal and the infinite, which the greatest metaphysicians all regarded as the ultimate foundation of morality. Plato, Plotinus, Malebranche, Spinoza, all enjoin upon us to seek eternal, in preference to perishable, goods.This sentiment, conscious of ever striving after the substance of good and not its shadow, is the profoundest, nearest, and dearest element of religious sentiment.

2. Thus much in regard to the metaphysical element of religion: next comes the moral element. God does not only appear to the human soul as a being infinite, inexhaustible, eternal. The soul wants him nearer, and in her respectful boldness she calls himFather. Man is not only feeble and imperfect; he is also a sinner and a sufferer; evil is his condition. The frailty of our being and its narrow limits are already an evil; but these are the least of evils; humanity suffers, furthermore, from a double evil far more real and poignant: pain and sin. Against physical pain, suffering, it has but the feeble resource of prudence; against moral evil it has but one means of defense, very weak also—free-will. It would seem that we are the masters of the universe; but experience shows, on the contrary, that we are the feeblest among its creatures; often does the will succumb; and Kant himself, despite his stoicism, asks whether indeed a single act of virtue has ever been accomplished in the world. Life, on the whole, notwithstanding its grand aspects and its few exquisite and sublime joys, life is bad; all ends badly, and death, which puts an end to all evils, is yet the greatest of evils. “The human soul,” says Plato, “like a bird, raises its eyes to heaven,” and calls for a remedy, a help, a deliverance. “Deliver us from evil,” is the cry of every religion. God is the liberator and comforter. We love what is good and we do what is evil; we impatiently desire happiness, and meet with nothing but wretchedness. Such is the contradiction Pascal points out with such incisive eloquence. This contradiction must be removed. Hope and trust in a supreme and benevolent Being must ransom us from pain and sin.

Many persons place the essence of religion in the belief in a future life, or immortality of the soul. Who, without the hope of gaining paradise, would think of God? But this is a contradiction in terms. Paradise, for the true believer, isnothing; God, everything. If a future life is a necessary consequence of the divine justice and bounty, we need not doubt its existence; if not, we have nothing to ask; it does not concern us. What especially concerns us is to know what we ought to do here below, and to have the strength to do it with. “Life is a meditation, not of death, but of life,” said Spinoza. But in order to live, and live well, one must believe in life, must believe in its healthy and holy significance, believe that it is not mere play, a mere mystification, but that it was given us by the principle of good for the success of good.

The essence of religion, then, is a belief in the goodness of God. A German critic, Feuerbach, said with great effect, that religion consisted in divinizing human attributes. Thus: God is good, means according to him: goodness is divine. God is just, signifies: justice is divine. The boldness of Christianity, its profound, pathetic beauty, its great moral efficacy lie in the fact that it has divinized our miseries; and that, instead of saying, pain is divine, death is divine, it has said: God has suffered, God has died. In a word, according to the same author, God “is the human heart divinized.” Nothing could be more true and beautiful, only in another sense than that in which the author takes it. If God himself was not supreme goodness, the heart of man would then contain something divine, and God would not himself be divine! The heart feels that it exceeds all things, but, in order to believe in itself, it must know itself coming from a higher and purer source than it is itself.

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