s with every affection of the soul; it is the
power of love and pity; it is the worship of sentiment and of
indulgence, so favourable to the flights of the soul towards heaven.
How are we to interpret the parable of the Prodigal Son, if not that
love, sincere love, is preferred even to the most exact discharge of
every duty? This son had quitted his paternal abode, and his brother had
remained there; he had plunged into all the dissipation and pleasure of
the world, and his brother had never deviated for a single moment from
the regularity of domestic life; but he returned, full of love for his
father and of repentance for his past follies, and his parent celebrated
this return by a festival. Ah! can it be doubted that among the
mysteries of our nature, to love and to love again is what remains to us
of our celestial inheritance? Even our virtues are often too complicated
with life, for us to comprehend the gradations of good, and what is the
secret sentiment that governs and leads us astray: I ask of my God to
teach me to adore him, and I feel the effect of my prayers in the tears
that I shed. But to support this disposition of the soul, religious
practices are more necessary than you think; they are a constant
communication with the Deity; they are daily actions, unconnected with
the interests of life and solely directed towards the invisible world.
External objects are also a great help to piety; the soul falls back
upon itself, if the fine arts, great monuments, and harmonic strains, do
not reanimate that poetical genius, which is synonymous with religious
inspiration.

"The most vulgar man, when he prays, when he suffers, and places hope in
heaven, has at that moment something in him which he would express like
Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had taught him to clothe his
thoughts with words. There are only two distinct classes of men in the
world; those who feel enthusiasm, and those who despise it; every other
difference is the work of society. The former cannot find words to
express their sentiments, and the latter know what it is necessary to
say to conceal the emptiness of their heart. But the spring that bursts
from the rock at the voice of heaven, that spring is the true talent,
the true religion, the true love.

"The pomp of our worship; those pictures in which the kneeling saints
express a continual prayer in their looks; those statues placed on the
tombs as if they were one day to rise with their in