wards different and opposite ends, cannot assuredly be the work of that supreme and most perfect Being, who is the very uncreated centre of order, of harmony, and of virtue. Here we find a repugnancy which we discover from the consideration of the very nature of God, and it is as absurd that man is such as he was created by God, as it is that God in the act of his outward productions, can deviate from his most perfect essence.

SECTION X.

XXXVII.

Another moral proof, that man is not such as he ought to be; he is not such as he was created by God.

I know not to what lengths a voluntary blindness, a deplorable obstinacy may be carried. Is it possible, that an upright man can refuse his assent to such a stream of light, to such strong and intimate demonstrations? Is it possible that he should be obstinately bent upon maintaining that man is such as he ought to be, and as he was created?

Could it ever come to pass, that one, upon considering himself thus corrupted, thus vitiated, thus contradictory to himself, rather than admit such a truth, should set himself to doubt of his being the work of God? If this were the case, and if a man were to adopt this paradox, I assuredly should not take the trouble to persuade him of the contrary, and I should look upon him with an eye of compassion, as a man impervious to conviction, as one voluntarily blind. All natural theology is but a continued demonstration that man was created by God; that man is the work of God.

Laying aside, therefore, so great an extravagance, I proceed to set forth the last demonstration, and to make each one experimentally feel his own corruption, his own intrinsic perversity. I say to this man: Are you not, indeed, naturally bound to love your fellow-creatures, to rejoice at their felicity and prosperity, at least when their felicity and prosperity do you no damage whatever? Tell me, then,

candidly, how did your heart feel, when you heard, that a person altogether unknown to you, and several thousand miles distant from you, was raised by his merit to the highest rank, loaded with honours and wealth, made an object of veneration to a whole nation, and, in fine, an idol to all the world? When you have reason to believe, that such a state of exaltation and public applause is not to be of a short duration, but to pass, with the blessings of his ancestors, to his posterity, from generation to generation, tell me, O man, but tell me sincerely, how was your heart then affected? Did you indeed, experience, as you ought to have done, a secret complacency, an inward delight, at the happiness and satisfaction of one of your fellow-men? Or rather did not some, I know not what involuntary gnawing, cause itself to be felt in your heart a gnawing which disapproved of your fellow-man's felicity, and which also caused you to wish that such good luck had not befallen him? And still what harm did that do you? Could you ever have expected to aspire to so brilliant a post, to such an universal and well established fame, and that in so remote a country? By no means. What, then, means that inward gnawing, which disapproves of the good of your brother, and which would wish it had not fallen to his lot? What is the reason, that that corroding worm does not listen to advice, nor give ear to reason, and that it should not cease torturing you inwardly, naturally, incessantly? Is it not, indeed, a fatal germ of an inward distemper, of a connatural perverseness? What is, moreover, the meaning of that secret pleasure which you experienced at the successive disgraces of that stranger, who is altogether unknown to you, and who lives at such a distance from you? What does this indicate?

1

O, man! who art the sovereign of the world, the lord of the earth; man, who art a spiritual, a free, an immortal being; man, who art an object of love and tenderness to thy Creator, to thy Supreme Being; man, who art formed by God, created for God, linked to God, and destined for God; how imposing is thy majesty! how striking thy greatness !

O, man! to whom the knowledge of thy first principle and

of thy last end proves to be so difficult a task, to whom the practice of virtue is so arduous; man, who fliest from God, who usurpest the honor of God; O, man, who art naturally forgetful of thyself, who debasest thy spirit, who levelest thyself with the beast of the forest, who engulfest thyself without hesitation in matter, man who feelest within thyself a continual warfare, which inwardly contradicts thee, tosses thee to and fro, lacerates thee; man, who experiencest such an intrinsic power of thy passions, which agitate thee, entice thee, and, at times, drag thee, as it were, to such vices, and to such iniquities as thy reason, at the same time, disapproves of, and condemns; man, who art what thou oughtest not to be; man, who art no longer the same that thou formerly wert! O! how much do I feel dejected at thy debasement! How much am I moved at thy degradation!

SECTION XI.

XXXVIII. Vanity and want of reflection connatural to man.

Shall we stop here? Or shall we advance further? Shall these be the boundaries of our interesting discoveries?

The nature of man is not such as it was created by God: it is depraved, it is vitiated. Well, what benefit accrues to us from so humiliating a knowledge, from a truth which, dejects, which villifies, which fills us with despair? Shall we not discover something, that will afford us comfort? Do other men stand in need of the same consolation, which we feel so necessary for ourselves? There is no doubt, but the generality of men are, partly from sentiment, partly from reasoning, and partly from other means, intimately persuaded of this melancholy truth, and still the generality of men are gay, sportive, and pass their days in mirth. This is a most astonishing spectacle. Accost that man and tell him: sir, you are not, what you ought naturally to be, you are not such as you were made by God: your being is in a state of repugnancy and contrariety to the most perfect essence of its creator:

your perfections, your beauties, are stained and corrupted, you are the sport of the most stupendous contradictions, you are far from God, opposed to God, fugitive from God.... Observe how that man will humble himself, how pensive, and how desirous he will grow to find out some remedy for this greatest of his evils. He conceives and knows from certain features, what his original beauty ought to have been: he observes and he feels all the weight of his debasement, and of his degradation. These reflections must naturally throw him into a state of the greatest discouragement and confusion. But wait a little, retire for a moment, and behold the same man gay, merry, and 'full of sport.... But make him again enter into the knowledge of his own being, and, behold him again cast down, but not as much as the first time. He falls back to his wonted jovialty and joy: you repeat to him the same lesson, but your words will not have the effect which you perhaps anticipated, you will perhaps make him sad, but that sadness will be of short duration: observe him well, and you will take him for the very soul of happiness: Set about to prove to him another time the same truths: and, take my word for it, he will, although intimately persuaded of the truth, although feeling the humiliation and infelicity resulting from them, laugh you in the face, and take notice neither of his own sentiments, nor of your words, and moving to and fro among the sensible objects that surround him, you will behold gladness on his countenance, smiles or his lips, sport and festivity in his whole person; now what do you say of a conduct so preposterous? Has there been any change either in the truth or in the conviction of it? By no means: if we consider matters attentively, we will discover that the truth is the same, and that he is equally convinced of it, and that in fine, all the change consists in the reflection. This man in the beginning retired within himself, and, of course, felt the whole force of your expressions; what wonder, therefore, if you found him so sad and so afflicted? And if, in the second instance, his sadness, his affliction, his dejection, were less, it was because his reflection was less, and if, in the end, he was not moved at all,

it is, no doubt, because there remained on his side neither reflection nor sentiment. It would seem that this man derives an uncommon blessing from his want of reflection! But it is still more surprising that this blessing does not originate in the temper of a particular individual, but, naturally extends to all mankind: all men, generally speaking, would be unhappy if they were to reflect; and if they are seen to be habitually gay, cheerful and elated, it is to be ascribed to no other cause, but to their total or partial want of reflection. Let us continue our observations, and ask any man in cold blood, how he does, and how the world goes with him? If we put such a question, alas! what a train of evils and miseries shall we presently see pass in review before us! Impetuosity and violence of passions, wild and irregular desires of a false good, excess of hunger and thirst, of heat and cold; hatreds, jealousies, suspicions, frauds, treasons, calumnies, injuries, damages, thefts, rapines, murders, earthquakes, conflagrations, tempests, droughts, pestilence, wars, and other miseries; one of which alone is sufficient to embitter all our enjoyments, all our pleasures. Yes, if we ask men, we shall find, that every one esteems himself unhappy, every one is lamenting and wailing;... princes, subjects, noblemen, plebeians, old and young, strong and weak, learned and unlearned, healthy and sick of every country, of every age, of every condition, and still... still every man, the prince and the subject, the nobleman and the plebeian, the old and the young, the stout and the weak, the wise and the ignorant, the healthy and the sick of every age, of every country, of every condition, every man, I say, is sporting, laughing, and spending his time with an air of jovialty that is really surprising; this, no doubt, is the dismal effect of a want of reflection man is unhappy only when he reflects on himself, and the want of reflection leads him to his happiness. Wretched happiness! Delusive, imaginary, false felicity! which, instead of freeing him from his evils, only hides them, and which in some respects, makes him more blind, more miserable, more unhappy. This is the truly pitiful condition of the sons of men, to be miserable and unhappy, and to meet with no solace, No. II.

10