And in order that there may be no mistake, he cites Machiavel, and allows him to complete the idea: “Mai non fu alcuno ordinatore de leggi «STRAORDINARIE» in un popolo che non ricorresse a Dio.” But why does Machiavel counsel us to have recourse to ‹God›, and Rousseau to ‹the gods›, to the ‹immortals›? The reader can answer that question for himself. I do not indeed accuse the modern ‹Fathers of nations› of making use of these unworthy deceptions. But when we place ourselves in their point of view, we see that they readily allow themselves to be hurried along by the desire of success. When an earnest and philanthropical man is deeply convinced that he possesses a social secret by means of which all his fellow-men may enjoy in this world unlimited happiness,—when he sees clearly that he can practically establish that idea neither by force nor by reasoning, and that deception is his only resource, he is laid under a very strong temptation. We know that the ministers of religion themselves, who profess the greatest horror of untruth, have not rejected ‹pious frauds›; and we see by the example of Rousseau [p057] (that austere writer, who has inscribed at the head of all his works the motto, ‹Vitam impendere vero›), that even a proud philosophy can allow itself to be seduced by the attraction of a very different maxim, namely, ‹The end justifies the means›. Why then should we be surprised that modern ‹organisateurs› should think also “‹to place their own wisdom to the credit of the gods, to put their decisions in the mouths of the immortals, hurrying us along without violence and persuading without convincing us›!” We know that, after the example of Moses, Fourier has preceded his Deuteronomy by a Genesis. Saint Simon and his disciples had gone still farther in their apostolic senilities. Others, more discreet, attached themselves to a latitudinarian faith, modified to suit their views, under the name of ‹néochristianisme›; and every one must be struck with the tone of mystic affectation which nearly all our modern reformers have introduced into their sermons. Efforts of this kind have served only to prove one thing, and it is not unimportant—namely, that in our days the man is not always a prophet who wishes to be one. In vain he proclaims himself a god; he is believed by no one; neither by the public, nor by his compeers, nor by himself. Since I have spoken of Rousseau, I may be permitted to make here some observations on that manufacturer of systems, inasmuch as they will serve to point out the distinctions between artificial and natural organization. This digression, besides, is not out of place, as the ‹Contrat Social› has again for some time been held forth as the oracle of the future. Rousseau was convinced that ‹isolation› was man’s ‹natural state›, and, consequently, that ‹society› was a human invention. “‹The social order›,” he says in the outset, “‹comes not from nature›, and is therefore founded on convention.”