religious point of view, in the contemplation of Nature, to regard it in this manner. We should end by dying of compassion, if we were confined in every thing to the terrible idea of what is irreparable: no animal perishes without our feeling it possible to regret it; no tree falls, without the idea that we shall never see it again in its beauty, exciting in us a mournful reflection. In a word, inanimate objects themselves affect us when their decay obliges us to quit them: the house, the chair, the table, which have been used by those we loved, interest us; and these objects even excite in us sometimes a sort of compassion, independent of the recollections which they awaken; we regret their well-known form, as if by this form they were made into beings who have seen our daily life, and who ought to have seen us die. If eternity were not the antidote to time, we should attach ourselves to every moment in order to retain it; to every sound, to prolong its vibrations; to every look, to fix its radiance; and our enjoyments would only last for that instant which is necessary to make us feel that they are going, and to bedew their traces with tears, traces which the abyss of days must also swallow up.

A new thought struck me in some writings which were communicated to me by an author of a pensive and profound imagination; he is comparing the ruins of nature with those of art, and of the human species. "The first," he says, “are philosophical; the second poetical; the third mysterious." A thing highly worthy of remark, in fact, is the very different action of years upon nature, upon the works of genius, and upon living creatures. Time injures man alone: when rocks are overturned, when mountains sink into valleys, the earth only changes her appearance; her new aspect excites new thoughts in our minds, and the vivifying force undergoes a metamorphose, but not a destruction. The ruins of the fine arts address the imagination; Art rebuilds what time has delaced, and never, perhaps, did a masterpiece of art, in all its splendor, impress us with such grand ideas as its own ruins. We picture to ourselves half-destroyed monuments adorned with all that beauty which ever clothes the objects of our

regret but how different is this from the ravages of old age!

Scarcely can we believe that youth once embellished that countenance, of which death has already taken possession: some physiognomies escape degradation by the lustre of the soul; but the human figure, in its decline, often assumes a vulgar expression which hardly allows even of pity. Animals, it is true, lose their strength and their activity with years, but the glowing hue of life does not with them change into livid colors, and their dim eyes do not resemble funeral lamps, throwing their pallid flashes over a withered cheek.

Even when, in the flower of age, life is withdrawn from the bosom of man, neither the admiration excited by the convulsions of nature, nor the interest awakened by the wreck of monuments, can be made to belong to the inanimate corpse of the most lovely of created beings. The love which cherished this enchanting form-love itself cannot endure the remains of it; and nothing of man exists after him on earth but what makes even his friends tremble.

Ah! what a lesson do the horrors of destruction thus incarnate in the human race afford! Is not this to announce to man that his life is to be elsewhere? Would nature humble him so low, if the Divinity were not willing to raise him up again?

The true final causes of nature are these relations with our soul and our immortal destiny. Physical objects themselves have a destination which is not bounded by the contracted existence of man below; they are placed here to assist in the development of our thoughts, in the work of our moral life. The phenomena of nature must not be understood according o the laws of matter alone, however well combined those laws May be; they have a philosophical sense and a religious end, cf which the most attentive contemplation will never know the

extent.

CHAPTER X.

OF ENTHUSIASM.

MANY people are prejudiced against Enthusiasm; they confound it with Fanaticism, which is a great mistake. Fanati cism is an exclusive passion, the object of which is an opinion; enthusiasm is connected with the harmony of the universe: it is the love of the beautiful, elevation of soul, enjoyment of devotion, all united in one single feeling which combines grandeur and repose. The sense of this word among the Greeks affords the noblest definition of it: enthusiasm signifies God in us. In fact, when the existence of man is expansive, it has something divine.

Whatever leads us to sacrifice our own comfort, or our own life, is almost always enthusiasm; for the high road of reason, to the selfish, must be to make themselves the object of all their efforts, and to value nothing in the world but health, riches, and power. Without doubt, conscience is sufficient to lead the coldest character into the track of virtue; but enthusiasm is to conscience what honor is to duty: there is in us a superfluity of soul which it is sweet to consecrate to what is fine, when what is good has been accomplished. Genius and imagination also stand in need of a little care for their welfare in the world; and the law of duty, however sublime it may be, is not sufficient to enable us to taste all the wonders of the heart, and of thought.

It cannot be denied that his own interests, as an individual, surround a man on all sides; there is even in what is vulgar a certain enjoyment, of which many people are very susceptible, and the traces of ignoble passions are often found under the appearance of the most distinguished manners. Su perior talents are not always a guarantee against that degra

dation of nature which disposes blindly of the existence of men, and leads them to place their happiness lower than themselves. Enthusiasın alone can counterbalance the tendency to selfishness; and it is by this divine sign that we recognize the creatures of immortality. When you speak to any one on subjects worthy of holy respect, you perceive at once whether he feels. a noble trembling; whether his heart beats with elevated sentiments; whether he has formed an alliance with the other life, or whether he has only that little portion of mind which serves him to direct the mechanism of existence. And what then is human nature when we see in it nothing but a prudence, of which its own advantage is the object? The instinct of animals is of more worth, for it is sometimes generous and proud; but this calculation, which seems the attribute of reason, ends by rendering us incapable of the first of virtues, selfdevotion.

Among those who endeavor to turn exalted sentiments into ridicule, many are, nevertheless, susceptible of them, though unknown to themselves. War, undertaken with personal views, always affords some of the enjoyments of enthusiasm ; the transport of a day of battle, the singular pleasure of exposing ourselves to death, when our whole nature would enjoin us to love life, can only be attributed to enthusiasm. The martial music, the neighing of the steeds, the roar of the cannon, the multitude of soldiers clothed in the same colors, moved by the same desire, assembled around the same banners, inspire an emotion capable of triumphing over that instinct which would preserve existence; and so strong is this enjoyment, that neither fatigues, nor sufferings, nor dangers, can withdraw the soul from it. Whoever has once led this life loves no other. The attainment of our object never satisfies us; it is the action of risking ourselves which is necessary, t is that which introduces enthusiasm into the blood; and, although it may be more pure at the bottom of the soul, it is stili of a nove nature, even when it has been able to become an impulse almost physical.

Sincere enthusiasm is often reproached with what belongs

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only to affected enthusiasm; the more pure a sentiment is, the more odious is a false imitation of it. To tyrannize over the admiration of men is what is most culpable, for we dry up in them the source of good emotions when we make them blush for having felt them. Besides, nothing is more painful than the false sounds which appear to proceed from the sanctuary of the soul itself: Vanity may possess herself of whatever is external; conceit and disgrace are the only evils which will result from it; but when she counterfeits our inward feelings, she appears to violate the last asylum in which we can hope to escape her. It is easy, nevertheless, to discover sincerity in enthusiasm; it is a melody so pure, that the smallest discord destroys its whole charm; a word, an accent, a look, expresses the concentrated emotion which answers to a whole life. sons who are called severe in the world, very often have in them something exalted. The strength which reduces others to subjection may be no more than cold calculation. The strength which triumphs over ourselves is always inspired by a generous sentiment.

Per

Euthusiasm, far from exciting a just suspicion of its excesses, perhaps leads in general to a contemplative disposition, which impairs the power of acting: the Germans are a proof of it; no nation is more capable of feeling or thinking; but when the moment for taking a side has arrived, the very extent of their conceptions detracts from the decision of their character. Character and enthusiasm differ in many respects: we ought to choose our object by enthusiasm, but to approach it by character; thought is nothing without enthusiasm, and action without character; enthusiasm is every thing for literary nations, character is every thing to those which are active; free nations stand in need of both.

Selfishness takes pleasure in speaking incessantly of the dangers of enthusiasm; this affected fear is in truth derision; if the cunning men of the world would be sincere, they would say, that nothing suits them better than to have to do with persons with whom so many means are impossible, and who car so easily renounce what occupies the greater part of mankind.