If, then, the religious man is urged by his nature to speak, it is the
same nature which secures to him the certainty of hearers. There is no
element of his being with which, at the same time, there is implanted
in man such a lively feeling of his total inability to exhaust it by
himself alone, as with that of religion. A sense of religion has no
sooner dawned upon him, than he feels the infinity of its nature and
the limitation of his own; he is conscious of embracing but a small
portion of it; and that which he cannot immediately reach he wishes
to perceive, as far as he can, from the representations of others who
have experienced it themselves, and to enjoy it with them. Hence,
he is anxious to observe every manifestation of it; and, seeking
to supply his own deficiencies, he watches for every tone which
he recognizes as proceeding from it. In this manner, mutual
communications are instituted; in this manner, every one feels equally
the need both of speaking and hearing.
But the imparting of religion is not to be sought in books, like
that of intellectual conceptions and scientific knowledge. The pure
impression of the original product is too far destroyed in this
medium, which, in the same way that dark-colored objects absorb the
greatest proportion of the rays of light, swallows up everything
belonging to the pious emotions of the heart, which cannot be embraced
in the insufficient symbols from which it is intended again to
proceed.
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