The first monuments were simple masses of rock, 'which the iron had not touched,' as Moses says. They sealed each tradition beneath a monument. When the memory of the first races felt itself overloaded, when the mass of reminiscences of the human race became so heavy and so confused that speech naked and flying, ran the risk of losing them on the way, men transcribed them on the soil in a manner which was at once the most visible, most durable, and most natural. In fact, from the origin of things down to the fifteenth century of the Christian era, inclusive, architecture is the great book of humanity, the principal expression of man in his different stages of development, either as a force or as an intelligence. It meant, 'Printing will kill architecture.' In this connection the archdeacon's vague formula had a second sense.

It was a presentiment that human thought, in changing its form, was about to change its mode of expression that the dominant idea of each generation would no longer be written with the same matter, and in the same manner that the book of stone, so solid and so durable, was about to make way for the book of paper, more solid and still more durable. It meant, 'The press will kill the church.'īut underlying this thought, the first and most simple one, no doubt, there was in our opinion another, newer one, a corollary of the first, less easy to perceive and more easy to contest, a view as philosophical and belonging no longer to the priest alone but to the savant and the artist.

It was the terror of the soldier who examines the brazen battering ram, and says:-'The tower will crumble.' It signified that one power was about to succeed another power. It was the prognostication of the philosopher who sees human thought, volatilized by the press, evaporating from the theocratic recipient. It was the cry of the prophet who already hears emancipated humanity roaring and swarming who beholds in the future, intelligence sapping faith, opinion dethroning belief, the world shaking off Rome. It was the pulpit and the manuscript taking the alarm at the printed word: something similar to the stupor of a sparrow which should behold the angel Legion unfold his six million wings. It was the terror and dazzled amazement of the men of the sanctuary, in the presence of the luminous press of Gutenberg. It was the affright of the priest in the presence of a new agent, the printing press. In the first place, it was a priestly thought. Our lady readers will pardon us if we pause for a moment to seek what could have been the thought concealed beneath those enigmatic words of the archdeacon: 'This will kill that.

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The hunchback of notre dame 1831