The Two Camps

May 25th, 1900.

To the thoughtful and sympathetic observer, France presents a singular spectacle of duality—two camps and two standards are confronting each other, neo-paganism and Christianity. By Christianity I mean, of course, Catholicism, for though there may be good Protestants, who adhere to some of the truths of revealed religion, such a thing as a good pervert French Protestant is a lusus naturae, practically non-existent. It is a notorious fact that Protestants in France as elsewhere in Europe are, as a rule, absolutely indifferent in religious matters since they have ceased to be persecuted, and in many cases they have become the enemies of revealed religion.

All civilization, all redemption from barbarism, is fostered and developed around a sanctuary. Consecrated hands have, in every instance, laid the corner stone of the social edifice. The Church, the school-house, the university, the courts of justice—these are the normal steps by which societies, cities, and nations have advanced in the Old World out of barbarism and chaos since the overthrow of the Roman Empire. Of France this is pre-eminently true. Hundreds of villages and towns bear the names of holy missionary monks who built first a cell, and then a monastery around a chapel, which became the centre of a village, that grew in time to be a city. We see the same thing all over Europe and in the British Isles.

Gibbon says that the French bishops made the French monarchy as bees construct a honeycomb. Like every institution that bears a religious imprint, this monarchy was long-lived. Those who descant so volubly on the flightiness of the French people, always overturning their government and never satisfied with the one they have, would do well to reflect that the French monarchy lasted some fourteen centuries. When this monarchy was overthrown by the assassination of Louis XVI there was formed a vortex in which were engulfed millions of human lives. Not that I consider a monarchical or any special form of government indispensable to France's prosperity.

There is, however, one essential condition. The generating principle of the French nation was the Catholic Faith. Without it, France would no longer be herself. She would disintegrate interiorly, and dismemberment and decadence would follow. France is still profoundly Catholic, in spite of the prodigious efforts made since the days of Voltaire and Tom Paine by numerous native and alien religious vandals, whose prostituted intellects were garnished from the storehouse of centuries of Christian culture. She will always be this or nothing. For any one who knows France, historically and psychologically, it is preposterous to think of a substitute creed, corresponding to any of the various shreds of Christianity, which do duty for religion under the name of some one or other of the multitudinous Protestant sects.

France, I repeat, will always be Catholic or nothing. But the Government is on the verge of apostasy. For the first time in French history the usual religious observances on Good Friday were suppressed in all the naval ports. "What thou doest do quickly," and on this occasion the order was sent by telegraph on Thursday evening. As I stated in my last letter, irreligious education is doing its work, and the increase of juvenile criminals is appalling.

If the projected law regarding religious associations is voted, it will be tantamount to the abolition of all religious teaching, as the existence of these congregations will be rendered impracticable. England and the United States will be the gainers, as they were when the Revolution dispersed the priesthood in 1790.

The French Government is on the verge of apostasy, as I have said. Is this a cause, a presage, or a symptom of national decadence? All three, I fear. Nations stand or fall with their governments. They have the government they merit and they are punished for the evil doings of their rulers. "I gave them a king in my wrath," it was written. Is there sufficient vitality left in the French constitution to reject the poison that is undermining it, and of which alcoholism, unknown in France fifty years ago, is but the outward and visible sign? The assertion I make that the greatness of the French people and their very national existence is bound up with the Christian Faith is unquestioned by every thinker in France, even by those who, for diverse reasons, do not practise their religion, though they all bank on the last sacraments and would be very sorry to see their wives and children neglect their religious duties.

The governments which have succeeded each other since 1880 have flattered themselves that they could govern without the Church and against the Church. Bismarck tried it and failed. The Catholic party triumphed. It still holds the balance of power in Germany, and the nation is growing daily more powerful and prosperous. In France, alas! it is quite the contrary. In order to crush what they are pleased to call the "clerical" party, the Government has allied itself with Socialists of the reddest streak. Indeed, we may say that anarchy and socialism, or collectivism as it is called, are sitting in high places.

Any president or minister who dared to stem the tide would fall. They must temporize, resign, or die. Carnot was assassinated. Casimir-Perier resigned; Faure, who steadily opposed the revision of the Dreyfus case, was poisoned, I am told—at any rate, it is said that he died almost immediately after swallowing a cup of tea at a soirée. Though the public has no means of forming a correct judgment regarding the guilt of the notorious Dreyfus, the most important evidence having been secret, I have never doubted that he was justly condemned. At any rate, he accepted the Presidential pardon, and withdrew his appeal, a strange thing for an innocent man to do. This alone, it would seem, ought to estop him from a new trial. But unfortunately the whole thing is to be gone over again, though it is a perfect nightmare for four-fifths of the French nation.

I know France intimately since thirty years, and it is with infinite sorrow that I diagnose her present condition and its perils.

According to custom, the Imperial Court of Russia retired to Moscow for Holy Week, and while the Czar, laying aside court etiquette, was kneeling humbly on the bare floor among his peasant subjects, holding his lighted candle like them, his allies, the rulers of France, were desecrating Easter Vigil by inaugurating the Paris Exhibition with speeches, which seemed to have been compiled from those made by Robespierre and his companions on that very Champs de Mars a century ago, when they inaugurated their theo-philanthropy and the worship of the Goddess of Reason.

I presume Holy Saturday was selected because it is a high festival among the Jews; otherwise Easter Monday would surely have been more appropriate in a country where there are thirty-five million Catholics. This was on the 9th April, and the Exposition they were in such a hurry to inaugurate on that particular day is far from ready even now.