The Style is the Man.

POLEMIC AMONG VARIOUS SPIRITS.

(Spiritist Society of Paris.)

— At the Society's session of July 19 of the present year, the Spirit Lamennais spontaneously gave the dissertation that follows, on Buffon's aphorism:

The style is the man, through the agency of Mr. Didier, medium. Considering himself attacked, Buffon replied a few days later, making use of Mr.

d'Ambel. Then, in succession, the Viscount de Launay (Mrs.

Delphine de Girardin), Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, and others entered the lists. It is this polemic, as curious as it is instructive, that we reproduce in full. It will be noted that it was neither provoked nor premeditated, and that each Spirit came spontaneously to take part in it. Lamennais opened the discussion; the others followed him.

DISSERTATION OF LAMENNAIS.

(Medium – Mr. A. Didier.)

There is in man a very strange phenomenon, which I call the phenomenon of contrasts. I refer, above all, to the choice natures. Indeed, you will find them in the world of Spirits, whose powerful works strangely diverge from the private life and habits of their authors. Mr. Buffon said: The style is the man. Unfortunately, this great lord of elegance and style regarded the other authors exclusively from his own point of view. That which could perfectly apply to him is far from applying to all the other writers. We take here the word style in a broader sense and in its widest acceptation. In our opinion, style is the grandiose manner, the purest form by which man will present his ideas. All human genius is here, before us, and with a single glance we contemplate all the works of human intelligence: poetry in art, in literature, and in Science. Far from saying, as Buffon did: The style is the man, we shall perhaps say, in a manner less concise, less significant, that man, by his mutable, diffuse, contentious, and rebellious nature, often writes contrary to his original nature, to his primitive inspirations. I shall even say more: in opposition to his beliefs. Often, reading the works of some of the great geniuses of one or another century, we say to ourselves: What purity! What sensibility! What profound belief in progress! What grandeur! Then one learns that the author, far from being the moral author of his works, is but their material author, imbued with prejudices and preconceived ideas. There you have a great phenomenon, not only human, but Spiritist.

Very often, then, man is not reflected in his works. We shall say, too, how many enfeebled, dulled poets, and how many disillusioned artists suddenly feel a divine spark illuminating their intelligence! Ah! it is that man then hears something that does not come from himself; he hears what the prophet Isaiah called the small breath, and which we call the Spirits. Yes, they feel within themselves that sacred voice, but, forgetting God and His light, they attribute it to themselves; they receive grace in art as others receive it in faith, and sometimes it touches those who claim to deny it.

Lamennais. n

BUFFON'S REPLY.

(Medium – Mr. d'Ambel.)

They said that I was a gentleman of letters and that my style, very refined, smelled of rice powder and Spanish tobacco. Is this not the surest consecration of this truth: The style is the man? Although they exaggerated a little, depicting me with the sword at my side and the pen in hand, I confess that I liked beautiful things, garments adorned with spangles, lace, and showy coats, in short, everything that was elegant and delicate. It is, then, quite natural that I always dressed with elegance, which is why my style bears the seal of good tone, that perfume of good company found likewise in our great Sévigné. What would you have? I always preferred the soirées and the little salons of the elegant ladies to the cabarets and the tumultuous assemblies of low category. You will permit me, then, despite the opinion expressed by your contemporary Lamennais, to maintain my judicious aphorism, supporting it with a few examples taken from among your modern authors and philosophers. One of the misfortunes of your time is that many have made of the pen a profession. But let us leave those artists of the pen who, like the artists of words, write indifferently for or against such an idea, according as they are paid, and crying according to the times: Long live the king! Long live the League! n Let us leave them. These are not, for me, serious authors. Let us see, abbé: do not take offense if I take you yourself as an example. Your life, well or ill founded, is it not always reflected in your works? And from indifference in matters of religion to the words of a believer, what a contrast, as you say! Yet your doctoral tone is so categorical, so absolute, in the one as in the other of these works. You must agree that you are bilious, father, and you distill your bile in bitter lamentations, in all the beautiful pages you have left. In a buttoned frock coat, as in a cassock, you remained declassed, my poor Lamennais. Now, come, do not be angry, but agree with me that the style is the man. If I pass from Lamennais to Scribe, the happy man is reflected in the tranquil and peaceful comedies of manners. He is cheerful, happy, and sensitive: he sows sensibility, joy, and happiness in his works. In him, never drama, never blood; only a few harmless duels, to punish the traitor and the guilty.

See then Eugène Sue, the author of the Mysteries of Paris. He is strong like his prince Rodolphe; like him, he presses in his yellow glove the calloused hand of the workman, and, also like him, he is the advocate of popular causes.

See your vagabond Dumas, squandering life and intelligence; going from the south pole to the north pole as easily as his famous musketeers; making himself a conqueror with Garibaldi and going from the intimacy of the Duke of Orléans to the Neapolitan beggars; making novels out of history and putting history into novels.

See the proud works of Victor Hugo, that prototype of pride incarnate. I, I, says Hugo the poet; I, I, says Hugo on his rock of Jersey.

See Murger, that lyric poet of easy manners, consciously playing his role in that bohemia he sang. See Nerval, of strange colors, of garish and incoherent style, making fantasy out of his life, as he did with his pen. How many I leave out, and of the best, like Soulié and Balzac, whose lives and works follow parallel paths! But I believe these examples will suffice for you no longer to repel, in so absolute a manner, my aphorism: The style is the man.

Have you not, dear abbé, confused the form and the substance, the style and the thought? But, even there, everything settles itself.

Buffon. n

QUESTIONS TO BUFFON CONCERNING HIS COMMUNICATION.

Q. – We thank you for the witty communication you were good enough to give us. However, there is something that surprises us: it is that you are abreast of the smallest details of our literature, appraising works and authors with remarkable precision. So you still occupy yourself with what goes on on Earth, since you know all this? Do you, then, read everything that is published? Have the kindness to give an explanation, which will be very useful to our instruction.

Answer. – We do not need much time to read and appraise; in a single glance we grasp the whole of the works that draw our attention. We all occupy ourselves with much interest with your dear little group; among those whom you call eminent men, you would not believe how many follow, with benevolence, the progress of Spiritism. Thus, you may imagine how happy I felt to see my name pronounced by Lamennais, one of your faithful Spirits, and with what agility I seized the occasion to communicate with you. Indeed, when I was called into question at your last session, I received, so to speak, the counterblow of your thought and, not wishing the truth that I had proclaimed in my writings to be overthrown without being defended, I begged Erastus to lend me his medium to answer the assertions of Lamennais. On the other hand, you must understand that each of us remains faithful to his earthly preferences, which is why we writers are attentive to the progress accomplished by living authors, or that they think to accomplish in literature. Just as the Jouffroys, the Laroques, the la Romiguières concern themselves with philosophy, and the Lavoisiers, the Berzeliuses, the Thénards with chemistry, each cultivates his hobby and recalls his works with love, following with an uneasy eye what his successors are doing. Q. – In a few words you appraised several contemporary writers, dead or living. We would be very grateful if you would give us, about some of them, an appraisal a little more developed and more methodical; it would be very useful to us. To begin with, we would ask you to speak of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre; principally of his Paul and Virginia, n the reading of which you had condemned and which, nevertheless, became one of the most popular works.

Answer. – I cannot undertake here the critical development of the works of Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. As for the appraisal I made at that time, I can confess it today: I was, like Mr. Josse, somewhat of a perfectionist; in a word, faithful to the spirit of literary camaraderie, I trounced as much as I could an importunate and important competitor. Later I shall give you my true appraisal of this eminent writer, in case a truly critical Spirit, like Merle or Geoffroy, does not take it upon himself to do so.

Buffon. n

DEFENSE OF LAMENNAIS BY THE VISCOUNT DE LAUNAY.

(Medium – Mr. d'Ambel.)

Note. – In the conversation that took place at the Society about the preceding communications, the name of Mrs. de Girardin was pronounced, in connection with the subject under discussion, although she had not been mentioned by the interlocutor Spirits. This is what explains the beginning of the new intervention.

— In the last sessions, gentlemen Spiritists, you put me slightly into question, and I believe you have given me the right, as one says in Court, to intervene in the debates. It was not without pleasure that I heard the profound dissertation of Lamennais and the somewhat incisive reply of Mr. Buffon. But a conclusion is lacking to this exchange of arguments. So, I intervene and set myself up as field judge, relying on my particular authority. Besides, you asked for a critic. I answer you: Beware of involving me in this question, for, if you remember well, in life I performed, in a manner considered masterly, that fearsome post of executive critic. It pleases me immensely to return to this terrain so dearly loved. So, then, once upon a time… but, no; let us set aside the banalities of the genre and enter seriously into the subject. Mr. de Buffon, you satirize in a graceful manner; one sees at once that you proceed from the great century. But, however elegant you may be as a writer, a viscount of my breed does not fear to accept the challenge and to cross pens with you. Come, my gentleman! You were very hard on this poor Lamennais, whom you treated as declassed! Is it the fault of this strayed genius if, after having written with a master's hand that admirable study you reproach him with, he turned to other regions, to other beliefs? Certainly, the pages of Indifference in matters of religion would be signed with both hands by the best prose writers of the Church; but if these pages remained standing when the priest lost his footing, do you not recognize the cause, you who are so rigorous? Ah! look at Rome, remember its dissolute manners, and you will have the key to that turnabout that surprised you. Oh! Rome is so far from Paris! The philosophers, the investigators of thought, all those rude and tireless workers of the psychological self must never be confounded with the writers of impeccable style. These write for the delight of the public, those for impenetrable science; the latter concern themselves only with truth; the others do not pride themselves on being logical: they flee uniformity. In short, what they seek is what you yourself sought, my fine sir, that is, dissemination, popularity, and success, which sum up in fine crowns. Besides, save for this, your witty reply is too true for me not to applaud it with all pleasure. Only that for which you make the individual responsible, I transfer the responsibility to the social milieu. In short, I had to defend my contemporary who, as you well know, did not take part in soirées, did not frequent cabarets, did not pass through the little salons of the elegant ladies, nor, much less, take part in the tumultuous assemblies of low category. Perched in his garret, his only distraction was to crumble bread and offer the little pieces to the noisy sparrows that came to visit him in his cell on the rue de Rivoli. But his supreme joy was to sit before the unsteady table and let the pen wander over the virgin pages of a paper notebook! Oh! certainly that great sick Spirit had reason to lament, for, to avoid the filth of a material century, he had espoused the Catholic Church, and, after having done so, found filth seated on the steps of the altar. Is it his fault if, cast young into the hands of the clerical body, he could not sound the depth of the abyss into which they were precipitating him? Yes, he has reason to manifest his bitter lamentations, as you say. Is he not the living image of an ill-directed education and of an imposed vocation?

Renegade priest! Do you know how many inept burghers have flung this insult in his face, because he obeyed his convictions and the impulse of conscience? Ah! believe me, happy naturalist, while you ran after women and your pen, famous for the conquest of the horse, was praised by pretty sinners and applauded by perfumed hands, he painfully climbed his Golgotha! For, like Christ, he drained the chalice of bitterness and carried his cross with difficulty!

And you, Mr. Buffon, do you not offer your flank a little to criticism? Let us see. Why, look! Your style is a braggart, like you, and, like you, all dressed in tinsel! But, then, what an intrepid traveler you were? You visited countries!… no; unknown libraries? What a tireless pioneer! You cleared forests!… no; unpublished manuscripts, never seen! I acknowledge that you covered your rich spoils with a brilliant varnish, which is indeed yours. But of all those tedious volumes, what is there that is seriously yours as study, as substance? The history of the dog, the cat, or the horse, perhaps? Ah! Lamennais wrote less than you, but everything is truly his, Mr. Buffon: the form and the substance. The other day they accused you of having been ignorant of the value of the works of the good Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. You excused yourself somewhat jesuitically; but you did not say that if you refused vitality to Paul and Virginia, it was because, in works of that genre, you were not yet in the Grand Scudéri, in the Grand Cyrus, and in the land of Tendre, in short, in all those sentimental trinkets, which do so much good today to the secondhand booksellers, those dealers in the clothes of literature. Ah! Mr. Buffon, you are beginning to fall very low in the esteem of those gentlemen, whereas the utopian Bernardin has kept an elevated position. Universal Peace, a utopia! Paul and Virginia, a utopia! Come, come! Your judgment was annulled by public opinion. Let us speak no more of it. Word of honor, so much the worse! You put the pen in my hand; I use it and abuse it. This will teach you, dear Spiritists, to trouble yourselves with a pedantic and retired woman like me, and to ask for news of me. That dear Scribe came to us altogether stupefied by those last half-successes; he wanted us to set ourselves up as an Academy. He lacks the green palm. He was so happy on Earth that he still hesitates to assume his new position. Ah! he will console himself seeing that his plays are being staged again, and, for a few weeks, he will appear no more.

Lately Gérard de Nerval gave you a charming unfinished fantasy. Will this capricious Spirit finish it? Who knows! Nevertheless, wishing to conclude that, the true of the wise man not being in the true, the beautiful of the painter not being in the beautiful, and the courage of the child being ill rewarded, he did very well to follow the wanderings of his dear Fantasy.

Viscount de Launay. (Delphine de Girardin.) n Note. – See further on Fantasy, by Gérard de Nerval.

BUFFON'S ANSWER TO THE VISCOUNT DELAUNAY.

You invite me to return to a debate that I firmly refused, having nothing to say. I confess that I prefer to remain in the quiet ambiance where I found myself rather than expose myself to such an annoyance. In my time one took part in a more or less Athenian game, but today, what horror! one goes at it with blows of a weighted whip. Thank you! I withdraw; I have more than I need, for I am still completely marked by the viscount's blows. You must agree that, although they were administered to me very generously, by the graceful hand of a woman, they are no less painful. Ah! madam, you reminded me of charity in a manner very little charitable. Viscount! you are very fearsome; I lay down my arms and humbly acknowledge my errors. I agree that Bernardin de Saint-Pierre was a great philosopher. What am I saying? He found the philosopher's stone, and I am, as I was, nothing but an indigestible compiler! And then? Are you content now? Come, be kind, and henceforth humiliate me no more; if not, you will oblige a gentleman, friend of our Parisian group, to abandon the field, which he would not do without great regret, because he too must take advantage of the Spiritist teachings and learn what goes on here. Ah! Today I heard the account of phenomena so strange that in my time the actors, and even the narrators of these events, would have been burned alive as sorcerers. Here, among us, will they really be Spiritist phenomena? Will not imagination on one side and interest on the other count for something? I would not swear to it. What does the witty viscount think? As for me, I wash my hands of it. Besides, if I believe my naturalist's sense, however much they may call me a cabinet naturalist, phenomena of that order must occur only rarely. Do you want my opinion on the case of Havana? Well then! there exists a clique of ill-intentioned people, who have every interest in discrediting the property, so that it may be sold at a vile price, and timid, fearful owners, terrified by a very well-prepared phantasmagoria. As for the lizard: I remember well having written its history, but I confess never to have found them diplomaed by the Faculty of Medicine. There is here a medium of weak brain, who took from his imagination facts that, in substance, had no reality. Buffon. n Note. – This last paragraph alludes to two facts narrated in the same session; for lack of space, we shall postpone their transcription to another number. Concerning them, Buffon spontaneously gives his opinion.

ANSWER OF BERNARDIN DE SAINT-PIERRE.

(Medium – Mrs. Costel.)

I come, I, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, to involve myself in a debate in which my name was cited, discussed, and defended. I cannot agree with my witty defender; Mr. de Buffon has another value than that of an eloquent compiler. What matter the literary errors of a judgment often so fine and delicate for the things of Nature, and which was diverted only by rivalry and professional jealousy?

In spite of this, I am of an opinion entirely contrary to his and, like Lamennais, I say: No, the style is not the man. Of this I am an eloquent proof, I, whose sensibility lay entirely in the brain, inventing what others felt. The things of earthly life, the finished things, are judged with coldness on the other side of life. I do not deserve all the literary reputation I enjoyed. If it appeared today, Paul and Virginia would easily be eclipsed by a quantity of charming productions, which pass unnoticed. It is that the progress of your epoch is great, more than you, contemporaries, can judge. Everything rises: sciences, literature, social art; but everything rises like the level of the sea at the rising of the tide, and the sailors who are out at sea cannot judge it. You are on the high seas. I return to Mr. de Buffon, whose talent I praise, forgetting the reproach, and also to my witty defender, who knows how to discover all truths, his spiritual senses, giving them a paradoxical coloring. After having proved that the dead literary men retain no gall, I address to you my thanks, as well as the keen desire to be able to be useful to you.

Bernardin de Saint-Pierre. n

LAMENNAIS TO BUFFON.

(Medium – Mr. A. Didier.)

It is necessary to pay close attention, Mr. Buffon; I did not conclude at all in a literary and human manner; I regarded the question in a very different way, and what I deduced was this: "That human inspiration is often divine." There was no matter there for any controversy. Now I no longer write with that pretension, and you can see it even in my reflections on the influence of the arts, the heart, and the brain. n I avoided the world and personalities; let us never return to the past; let us look to the future. It belongs to men to judge and discuss our works; to us it falls to give others, all emanating from this fundamental idea: Spiritism. But, for us: farewell to the world! Lamennais. n

FANTASY — BY GÉRARD DE NERVAL.

(Medium – Mr. A. Didier.)

Note. – We recall that Buffon, speaking of contemporary authors, said that "Gérard de Nerval, of strange colors, of garish and incoherent style, made fantasy out of his life, as he did with his pen." Instead of arguing, Gérard de Nerval answered this attack by spontaneously dictating the following passage, to which he himself gave the title of Fantasy. He wrote it in two sessions, and it was in the interval that the reply of the Viscount de Launay n to Buffon occurred; this is why he said he did not know whether this capricious Spirit would finish it, giving its probable conclusion.

We have not placed it in chronological order, so as not to interrupt the series of attacks and replies, considering that Gérard de Nerval did not involve himself in the debates except through this philosophical allegory:

— One day, in one of my fantasies, I do not know how, I came near the sea, in a little-known small port; what does it matter! For a few hours I had abandoned my traveling companions and could give myself over to the most tempestuous fantasy, which is the consecrated term for my cerebral evolutions. Nevertheless, one must not believe that Fantasy is always a mad girl, given over to the eccentricities of thought. Often the poor young thing laughs so as not to cry, and dreams so as not to fall. Frequently her heart is drunk with love and curiosity, while her head loses itself in the clouds; perhaps it is because she loves so much, this poor imagination. Let her wander, then, for she loves and admires. So, I was with her one day, contemplating the sea, whose horizon is the sky, when, in the midst of my solitude for two I caught sight of — word of honor! a decorated little old man. He had had time to be so, fortunately, for he was very feeble; but his air was so positive, his movements so regular, that this wisdom and this harmony, in his appearance, substituted for the numbed nerves and muscles. He sat down, examined the ground well, and assured himself that he would not be bitten by one of those little creatures that swarm in the sand of the beach; then he set aside his cane with the golden knob; but imagine my astonishment when he put on his spectacles. Spectacles! to see the immensity! Fantasy gave a terrible leap and wanted to hurl herself upon him. I managed to calm her only with great difficulty; I drew near, hidden by a rock, and pricked up my ears to listen better: "Here, then, is the image of our life! Here is the great whole! Profound truth! Here, then, are our existences, lofty and low, profound and mean, rebellious and calm! O waves! waves! Great universal fluctuation!" Then the little old man spoke only to himself. Until then Fantasy had kept calm and listened religiously; but, no longer containing herself, she let out a long burst of laughter. I had only time to take her in my arms, and we abandoned the little old man. "In truth — said Fantasy — he must be a member of some learned society." After running for some time, we perceived a painter's canvas, representing a cliff plunging into the sea. I looked, or rather, we looked at the canvas. Probably the painter was seeking another site in the surroundings. After looking at the canvas, I gazed at Nature, and so alternately. Fantasy wanted to tear the canvas; only at the cost of much effort could I restrain her. — "How! she said to me, it is seven o'clock in the morning, and I see in this canvas an effect that has no name!" I understood perfectly what Fantasy was explaining to me. Truly this mad girl has sense, I said to myself, wishing to draw away. Ah! hidden, the artist had followed the smallest nuances of my expression; when his eyes met mine, it was a terrible shock, an electric shock. He cast at me one of those superb glances, that seem to say: "Little worm!" This time Fantasy was terrified by so much insolence and saw him take up the palette again with stupefaction. "You do not have the palette of the Lorrain," she said to him, smiling. Then, turning to me: "We have already seen the true and the beautiful — she said to me — let us then seek a little the good." After having scaled the cliffs, I caught sight of a boy, a fisherman's son, who might well have been thirteen or fourteen years old; he was playing with a dog, and they ran after each other, the one barking, the other shouting. Suddenly, I heard cries in the air, which seemed to come from below the cliff; immediately the boy threw himself, in a single bound, down a path that led to the sea. Despite all her ardor, Fantasy had difficulty following him. When I reached the lower part of the cliff, I saw a terrible spectacle: the boy was struggling against the waves and was bringing to shore a wretch who was thrashing against him, his savior. I wanted to throw myself in, but the lad shouted that I should do nothing; and, after a few moments, hurt, depressed, and trembling, he approached with the man he had saved. He was, by all appearances, a bather who had ventured too far and had fallen into a current. I shall continue another time.

Gérard de Nerval. n Note. – It was in this interval that the communication of the Viscount de Launay occurred, reported above.

CONTINUATION.

After a few moments the drowned man, little by little, returned to life, but only to say: "It is incredible; I of all people, who swim so well!" He saw perfectly who had saved him, but, looking at me, he added: "Whew! I escaped by a hair! As you know, there are certain moments when we lose our heads; it is not our strength that betrays us, but… but…" Seeing that he could not continue, I hastened to say to him: "In short, thanks to this brave lad, here you are saved." He looked at the boy, who was examining him with the most indifferent air in the world, hands on his hips. The gentleman began to smile: "Yet it is true," he said, saluting me afterward. Fantasy wanted to run after him. "Let it be!", she said, changing her mind, "in fact it is quite natural." The youngster watched him draw away, then returned to his dog. This time Fantasy wept. Gérard de Nerval. n A member of the Society having observed that the conclusion was lacking, Gérard added these words:

"I find myself at your disposal, with all my heart, to give another dictation; but, as for this one, Fantasy tells me to stop here. Perhaps she is wrong; she is so capricious!"

The conclusion had been given beforehand by the Viscount de Launay.

CONCLUSION OF ERASTUS.

After the literary and philosophical tournament that took place in the last sessions of the Society, which we attended with true satisfaction, I judge it necessary, from the purely Spiritist point of view, to communicate to you a few reflections, which were suggested to me by this interesting debate, in which, moreover, I do not wish to intervene in any way. First of all, however, let me tell you that, if your gathering was animated, this animation meant nothing in relation to that which reigned among the numerous groups of eminent Spirits whom these almost academic sessions had attracted. Ah! certainly if you had instantly become a seer, you would have been surprised and confused before this superior areopagus. But it is not my intention to unveil to you today what passed among us; my aim is solely to make you understand a few words about the profit you ought to draw from this discussion, as regards your Spiritist instruction. You have known Lamennais for a long time and, certainly, you appreciated how much this philosopher remained impassioned for the abstract idea; doubtless you noticed how much he follows with persistence, and with talent — I must say it — his philosophical and religious theories. Logically you must deduce that the personal thinking being pursues, even after the tomb, his studies and works, and that, by means of that lucidity which is the particular prerogative of Spirits, comparing his spiritual thought with his human thought, he must eliminate all that obscured it materially. Very well! what is true for Lamennais, is equally so for the others, and each one, in the vast country of erraticity, preserves his aptitudes and his originality. Buffon, Gérard de Nerval, the Viscount de Launay, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre preserve, like Lamennais, the tastes and the literary form that you observed in them, when they were alive. I believe it useful to draw your attention to this condition of being of our world beyond the tomb, so that you may not come to believe that we instantly abandon our inclinations, habits, and passions when we strip off the human garments. On Earth, Spirits are like prisoners, whom death must liberate; nevertheless, just as he who is behind bars has the same propensities, preserves the same individuality when at liberty, Spirits preserve their tendencies, originality, and aptitudes, upon arriving among us. However, with the exception of those who have passed, not through a life of work and trials, but through a life of expiation, like the idiots, the cretins, and the mad, their intelligent qualities, kept in a latent state, do not awaken except upon leaving the earthly prison. As you may think, this must be understood of the inferior or middling Spirit world, and not of the elevated Spirits freed from corporeal influence. You are going to take your vacation, gentlemen associates. Permit me to address a few friendly words to you, before we separate for some time. I believe that the consoling doctrine we have come to teach you counts, among you, only fervent adepts. This is why, as it is essential that each one submit to the law of progress, I judge it my duty to advise you to examine, before yourselves, what profit you have personally drawn from our Spiritist works, and what moral progress has resulted therefrom in your reciprocal milieus. For — you well know it — it is not enough to say: I am a Spiritist, and to enclose this belief within yourself; what is indispensable for you to know is whether your acts are in accord with the prescriptions of your new faith, which, it could never be too much repeated, is Love and charity. May God be with you! Erastus. n [1]

[v. Lamennais.]

[2] Translator's note: League – Allusion to the political-religious movement that opposed Henry III (Valois) and continued against his successor and former brother-in-law, Henry IV (Bourbon), in the most heightened period of the so-called Wars of Religion, in France.

[3] [v.

Buffon.]

[4]

Paul et Virginie (in Portuguese: Paulo e Virgínia) is a novel written in 1787, by Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, French writer. When Paul and Virginia was published, in 1788, it had such great success that it was translated, ever since, into various languages, among them English, German, Spanish, Greek, Polish, Italian, Armenian, Portuguese, Hungarian, Dutch, and Russian, coming to belong to the international public domain, becoming a classic of universal literature. — Continue this bibliographical review on the Web.

[5] Allusion to a series of communications dictated by Lamennais, under the title of Philosophical and Religious Meditations, which we shall publish in the next number.

[6] Translator's note: Sometimes it appears written Viscount Delaunay, sometimes Viscount de Launay (Delphine de Girardin). We prefer the latter.

[7] [v.

Gérard de Nerval.]

[8] [v.

Erastus.]