mixed up with the lives of all men. God sends us pleasure as a celestial messenger to invite us to come to him; and misfortune as a severe master to force us. But a few days ago I saw a child die-the sole thought of its mother ; with what anxiety did she not look for life in its eyes, which were closing for ever. I still hear her lamentations; I still see her sorrowing countenance. All consolation was

destroyed by the words-he is no more! All at once her soul becomes elevated; a celestial joy beams in her eyes; she invokes the name of God-she remembers his promises

-an immortal sentiment restores to her all that she has lost. This inconsolable mother, who would hear nothing, is now consoled by the inspirations of infinity; it is no longer on earth, it is in heaven, that she contemplates her child.

Ah, if she were never to see it again, what a horrid mockery! Will God be wanting in power or in justice? Would there be magnificence and truth in the instinctive life of the fly? artifice and falsehood in the moral and religious life of man? virtue persecuted on the earth, and turning its regards towards heaven? the devotedness to one's country and to the human race? the heroism which looks for nothing here below? all the sacrifices made to duty, with the sole aim of pleasing God? Would these be only the mistakes of humanity? Thy soul, O Socrates! would have experienced thoughts more vast than the creation. Thou, the friend of truth, wouldst have died for a lie. Would God have deceived Socrates? Could the created being be more magnificent than his Creator?

No, no! to those who invoke him, to the human race which acknowledges him, Providence does not respond by a sentence of eternal death. It is not on the tombs that his answer is inscribed; it is in our own souls, whence escapes the sublime cry-God-eternity!

When man casts his eyes around him, what does he see? the creation which on all sides raises itself up to him; and when he restricts his regards to himself; when he studies and contemplates himself, what does he find, beyond his terrestrial passions? An instinctive sentiment of infinity, a conscience which tends to ideal perfection, a reason, the light of which extends up to heaven; in fact, a soul, all the faculties of which radiate towards God. Mysterious intuition of the Divinity which announces to us another existence as surely as the senses reveal to us the actual world.

The kingdom of God is within man. *

CHAPTER XXIII.

OF THE SOURCE OF GENIUS AND VIRTUE.

"Ceux qui n'exercent point leur ame sont incapables des belles œuvres de l'ame."

XENOPHON.

"Si vous voulez concevoir ce qui est divin c'est le sens divin qu'il vous faut."

ELENSCHLAGER.

THE elements of man's essence being known, his existence his greatness-his passions-his contradictions, all are explained. Man is a soul united, not to a body, not to a corpse, as Maxime de Tyr says, but to a living and intelligent animal, which itself is endowed with all the instincts and all the passions of other animals. They are two

*"Neither shall they say, Lo, here, or lo, there, for behold the kingdom of God is within you." St. John xvii. 21.

beings of an opposite nature, which form but one being; two thoughts-two interests-two wills, which dispute with each other the sovereignty: such is man. The soul and the body may be likened to the rider and the horse, which are united together for a single course; they start forth, contest, press close to each other, passing from victory to defeat, and from defeat to victory, till the moment when the exhausted animal falls expiring in the arena. dies; the freed rider scarcely bestows a last look upon it; and, all panting with the lengthened conflict, finds himself in the presence of the master who is to reward or punish him.

It

In our modern educations, all the care, all the foresight are for the horse; to him belong the boldness-the strength; to him the glory and ambition. In order that he may start brilliantly in his career, that he should be intoxicated with the applause of the multitude, his passions are awakened, his intelligence is enlarged: time and matter are his. But the rider! who thinks of instructing him? What lessons has he received to guide him in the arena? How can he find himself prepared for the struggle? Who will give him the will and the courage? We train up an animal to the exercises of horsemanship; we develope his intelligence, we enrich his memory, we fertilize his talents -his passions—his vices, and then we proudly contemplate our work, believing that we have completed the education of a man.

Do you now understand why the soul has so little control over the body? why its contests are so feeble? its resistance so slight? and, consequently, why there exist so little morality, so little religion, conscience, and virtue, in the world? We must have professors to study a flea, to classify a gnat, to distinguish a cat from a rose-tree; but man, this sublime and hidden being, which it is important

for us to instruct and to know-where is he taught? In what college-in what institution-do you see any one occupied in developing in him the sense of the sublime and beautiful-the moral sense-the sense of infinity? or reason or conscience? these noble faculties which unite him to God.

his in

And yet, herein lies the whole strength of man telligence merely places him at the head of animals; his soul separates him from them, by calling him to duty. Let him congregate families, assemble people together, build towns, it is but the work of ants and bees; but let him establish laws, let him cause justice to reign, this will be the work of man.

Let us elevate men, then, if we would see in our cities something else than human ants. One truth of which we must be convinced before all others, is, that the development of the faculties of the soul is the sole and universal source of all our superiority; we owe to it both the chefsd'œuvre of genius, the advantages of virtue, and all the noblest works of the human race. To the moral sense we are indebted for Bayard, L'Hôpital, Socrates, and Fénelon. To the sense of the beautiful, Homer, Corneille, Shakspeare, La Fontaine, Molière, Lamartine. To the sense of the infinite, Plato and Descartes, Kant and Newton. It is our union with God which makes us great. To separate ourselves from God, and all our modern educations do separate us from him,—is to deprive ourselves at once of genius, virtue, and immortality.

Do but observe the influence of the faculties of the soul over the works of the painter and of the sculptor. A man may be a good colourer, draw well, and compose a picture, and yet not rise above mediocrity. You copy a model, you give it physical beauty, colouring, and attitude; it will be a work of the hand, of the intelligence, but only an inani

mate work, if you do not impress it with soul. Raise, then, thy soul, artist! let me feel its breath, let me experience its inspiration; an immortal cause can alone produce immortality.

We possess this double power of embellishing in our imagination all the objects of nature, and of communicating to our own works that ideal and moral beauty which comes from the soul. Genius does not paint as it sees outwardly, it expresses what it sees inwardly. The sense of the beautiful is the light of the mind.

I enter the museum, and I select a picture, the material execution of which is admirable the swearing of the Horatii by David. I recognise in it the purity of the forms, the study of antiquity, the knowledge of the drama; there is something energetical in the attitude of these three warriors, their gesture is an oath, they swear to fight, but for what? Here the work of the intelligence stops short; the painter has made a fine picture, but no voice emanates from this canvass; my admiration is limited to the beauty of the lines and the purity of the design, but nothing awakens in me the love of country. The father who presents the swords might be considered but a drunken man; the three young men who listen, only vulgar warriors. I do not hear that energetic cry which responds to the call of Rome; I do not see the assurance of victory which radiates from the brow of heroes; all these heads are mute; and yet, among these warriors, there is a conqueror, a noble conqueror, who will become a cruel murderer. Where is this Roman, so eager for the honour of Rome; who, in his enthusiasm, sacrifices his sister to her? show him to me; give him a soul at once sublime and ferocious, or lay aside your pencil. I do not want the work of an intelligence; you owed me a page of the history of the world, and you give me the doings of a great workman.