What he loved were his Galilean villages, confused mixtures of huts, of nests and holes cut in the rocks, of wells, of tombs, of fig-trees, and of olives.

He always clung close to Nature.

The courts of kings appeared to him as places where men wear fine clothes.

The charming impossibilities with which his parables abound, when he brings kings and the mighty ones on the stage,[1] prove that he never conceived of aristocratic society but as a young villager who sees the world through the prism of his simplicity.
[Footnote 1: See, for example, Matt.xxii.2, and following.] Still less was he acquainted with the new idea, created by Grecian science, which was the basis of all philosophy, and which modern science has greatly confirmed, to wit, the exclusion of capricious gods, to whom the simple belief of ancient ages attributed the government of the universe.

Almost a century before him, Lucretius had expressed, in an admirable manner, the unchangeableness of the general system of Nature.