intellect excites in our soul an emotion of adoration. When the first
rays of morning light up with a pure brightness the lofty summits of our
Alps; when the sun at his setting stretches a path of fire along the
waters of our lake, who does not feel impelled to render glory to the
supreme Artist? When dark cold fogs rest upon our valleys at the decline
of autumn, it only needs sometimes to climb the mountain-side, in order
to issue all at once from the gloomy region, and see the chain of high
peaks, resplendent with light, mark themselves out upon a sky of
incomparable blue. Often have I given myself the delight of this grand
spectacle, and always at such a time my heart has uttered spontaneously
from its depths that hymn of adoration:


Tout l'univers est plein de sa magnificence.
Qu'on l'adore, ce Dieu, qu'on l'invoque à jamais![99]


Such is, in the presence of nature, the spontaneous movement of the
heart and of the reason. But a false wisdom obscures these clear
verities by clouds of sophisms. When your heart feels impelled to render
glory to God, there is danger lest importunate thoughts rise in your
mind and counteract the impulse of your adoration. Perhaps you have
heard it said, perhaps you have read, that the accents of spiritual
song, those echoes, growing ever weaker, of by-gone ages, are no longer
heard by a mind enlightened by modern science. I should wish to deliver
you from this painful doubt. I should wish to protect you from the
fascinations of a false science. I should wish that in the view of
nature, even those who have as yet no wish to adore, with St. Paul, Him
whose invisible perfections are clearly seen when we contemplate His
works, may at least feel themselves free to admire, with Socrates, "the