No doubt the organization may be more or less favorable to this

external display or manifestation, or that, under certain conditions,

and to a certain extent, the organization is hereditary, or

transmitted by natural generation. There may be transmitted from

parents or ancestors a healthy or diseased, a normal or a more or

less abnormal organization; and so far, and in this sense, genius

may be hereditary, and a man's natural abilities may be derived

by inheritance, as are the form and features; but only to this

extent, and in this sense--that is, as to their external display or

exercise; for a man may be truly eloquent in his soul, and even in

writing, whose stammering tongue prevents him from displaying any

eloquence in his speech. The organization does not deprive the soul

of its powers. My power to will to raise my arm is not lessened by

the fact that my arm is paralyzed. And in all ordinary cases, the

soul is able, at least by the help of grace, freely given to all,

to overcome a vicious temperament, control, in the moral order, a

defective organization, and maintain her moral freedom and integrity.

It has been proved that the deaf-mute can be taught to speak, and

that idiots or natural-born fools can be so educated as to be able to

exhibit no inconsiderable degree of intelligence.

We do not believe a word in Darwin's theory of natural selection; for

all the facts on which he bases it admit of a different explanation,

nor in its kindred theory of development or evolution of species. One

of our own collaborators has amply refuted both theories, by showing

that what these theories assume to be the development or evolution

of new species, whether by natural selection or otherwise, is but a

reversion to the original type and condition, in like manner as we

have proved, over and over again, that the savage is the degenerate,

not the primeval man. It is not improbable that your African negro

is the degenerate descendant of a once over-civilized race, and that

he owes his physical peculiarities to the fact that he has become

subject, like the animal world, to the laws of nature, which are

resisted and modified in their action by the superior races. We do

not assert this as scientifically demonstrated, but as a theory which

is far better sustained by well-known facts and incontrovertible

principles than either the theory of development or of natural

selection.

Yet the soul as _forma corporis_ has an influence, we say not how

much, on organization; and high intellectual and moral culture may

modify it, and, other things being equal, render it in turn more

favorable to the external manifestation of the inherent powers of

the soul. This more favorable organization may be transmitted by

natural generation from parents to children, and, if continued

through several consecutive generations, it may give rise to noble

families and to races superior to the average. Physical habits are

transmissible by inheritance. This is not, as Darwin and Mr. Galton

suppose, owing to natural selection, but to the original mental and

moral culture become traditional in certain families and races,

and to the voluntary efforts of the soul, as is evident from the

fact that when the culture is neglected, and the voluntary efforts

cease to be made, the superiority is lost, the organization becomes

depraved, and the family or race runs out or drops into the ranks

of the ignoble. The blood, however blue, will not of itself alone

suffice to keep up the superiority of the family or the race;

nor will marriages, however judicious, through no matter how many

consecutive generations, without the culture, keep up the nobility,

as Mr. Galton would have us believe; for the superiority of the

blood depends originally and continuously on the soul, its original

endowments, and its peculiar training or culture through several

generations.

It is in this same way we explain the origin and continuance of

national characteristics and differences. Climate and geographical

position count, no doubt, for something; but more in the direction

they give to the national aims and culture than in their direct

effects on bodily organization. It is not probable that the original

tribes of Greece had any finer organic adaptation to literature

and the arts than had the Scythian hordes from which they sprang;

but their climate and geographical position turned their attention

to cultivation of the beautiful, and the continual cultivation

of the beautiful through several generations gave the Greeks an

organization highly favorable to artistic creations. Then, again,

Rome cultivated and excelled in the genius of law and jurisprudence.

But under Christian faith and culture, the various nations of Europe

became assimilated, and the peculiar national characteristics under

Gentilism were in a measure obliterated. They also revive as the

nations under Protestantism recede from Christianity and return

to Gentilism, and are held in check only by the reminiscences of

Catholicity, and by the mutual intercourse of nations kept up by

trade and commerce, literature and the arts.

The facts alleged by Mr. Galton and his brother materialists

are, therefore, explicable without impugning the doctrine of the

simplicity and immateriality of the soul, and that the soul is

created, not generated as is the body. They are perfectly explicable

without supposing our natural abilities originate in or are the

result of natural organization. They can be explained in perfect

consistency with revelation, with the teachings of the church, and

with the universal beliefs of mankind. Thus it would be supreme

unreason to require us to reject the Gospel, or our holy religion,

on the strength of the unverified and unverifiable hypotheses of the

scientists, and degrade man, the lord of this lower creation, to the

level of the beasts that perish. The quarrel we began by speaking

of is in no sense a quarrel between faith and reason, or revelation

and science; but simply a quarrel between what is certain by faith

and reason on the one side, and the unverified and unverifiable

hypotheses or conjectures of the so-called scientists on the other.

We oppose none of the real facts which the scientists set forth; we

oppose only their unsupported theories and unwarranted inductions. We

conclude by reminding the scientists that others have studied nature

as well as they, and are as familiar with its facts and as able to

reason on them as they are, and yet have no difficulty in reconciling

their science and their faith.

FOOTNOTE:

[285] 1. _Hereditary Genius, its Laws and its Consequences._ By

Francis Galton, F.R.S., etc. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1870.

8vo, pp. 390. 2. _Hereditary Genius._ An Analytical Review. From

the _Journal of Psychological Medicine_, April, 1870. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1870. 8vo, pp. 19.

DION AND THE SIBYLS.

A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.

BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING

THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.

CHAPTER IV.

Two days afterward, Dionysius the Athenian called at the inn, and

informed Aglais, Paulus, and Agatha, that after the banquet in the

Mamurran palace at Formiæ, that evening, there was to be a great

gathering of the witty, the noble, the fashionable, and the wise, and

that he was charged to invite Aglais and her two children as friends

of his.

Aglais declined the honor for herself and her daughter, but said she

wished Paulus to go with Dionysius. Paulus, therefore, laid aside

the outlandish costume in which he had travelled from Thessaly, and

dressed himself with care in the fashion suitable to a young Roman

of equestrian rank. Dionysius remained to join the family in their

repast, which was virtually what we should in modern times call the

early dinner, after which the two friends mounted Dion's chariot, and

proceeded toward Formiæ at an easy pace, along the smooth pavement of

the "queen of roads."

During the drive they had a conversation which was, for good reasons,

very interesting to Paulus.

"A most capricious course," said Dionysius, "is your suit or claim

running. In seeking to recover your family estates you prudently

avoid at first bringing the holder into a court of law; for the

judges might shrink from voiding a title which not only arises out

of an express gift of Augustus, but is identical with the title

under which half the land of Italy has been held since the battle

of Philippi. Instead of an immediate lawsuit, therefore, you try a

direct appeal to Augustus, offering to show him that at the very

time when your father's estate was taken away he had just rendered

the same services for which, had he been willing to accept it, he

would, like so many others, have had a right to be endowed with a new

estate, taken from some member of the defeated party. But Augustus

refers you back to the courts, where, for the two reasons mentioned,

you fear the result. But two other reasons might be added for fearing

it still more: first, the present holder is dreaded on account of his

political power and his station; Tiberius is the man who, by marrying

the daughter of Agrippa Vipsanius, has come into possession of your

property; secondly, wealth is necessary for the success of such a

suit; wealth he has, and wealth you have not. The courts present,

consequently, but small hopes; yet you fail to get Augustus to decide

your case himself.

"Have I correctly stated the position of your affairs?"

"To a nicety," replied Paulus. "Had I interest at court, I should

find justice there."

"In your case," said Dionysius, "interest _at court_ would be

equivalent to justice _in the courts_. As I took precisely this view

of the business, and as Augustus has paid me such honor, and shown

me such partiality as few have found with him for many years, it

occurred to me that if I threw my unclaimed and unexpected _interest_

into the same scale wherein your just demands already lay--"

"Ah kind and generous friend!" interrupted Paulus; "I understand."

"Not so kind, nor so generous," replied Dionysius, "to my friend

Paulus, as I saw Paulus show himself to be the day before yesterday

to a stranger and a slave. But hear me out. No sooner did I tell

Augustus that I had a favor to ask of him, than he placed his hand

on my mouth, and said, 'I like to hear you talk; but mine has been

too busy a life to permit me to draw forth by properly opposing you

the full force of your own opinions--OR THE TRUTH. The truth in these

matters (not your affair, Paulus, but philosophy) is the only truth

which can interest a man about to die. You must state these views in

the presence of young, vigorous, and not preoccupied intellects. If

you hold your own as well against what they can allege as against

my objections, submit to me afterward your petition. One thing at a

time.' This and the like, with the indomitable whim and obstinate

waywardness of age, he has continued to fling at me, whenever I have

renewed the attempt to state your case; and I have done so five or

six times. Titus Livy and Quintus Haterius, whom I have consulted,

advise me to take literally and in the spirit of downright business

this curious caprice. Now, do you know, to-night is appointed for a

sort of arena-fight? All the gladiatorial intellects of the west are

to be arrayed to crush the fantastic theories and pretty delusions

of a Greek, an Athenian. All motives chain me, all pledges prevent

me; moreover, honor and truth, to say nothing, my friend, of your own

personal future, interdict me from flight."

"Flight!" cried Paulus; "_you_ fly?"

"Ah!" said Dionysius; "you know not all that I mean. You and I have

been differently reared, yet in the same spirit. However, as you

said, when at the risk of your own life you stood between oppression

and an innocent young couple, the great Being whom we both expect

will be pleased with a willing effort after what is right.

"But here we are at the gates of Formiæ. How the palace of the

Mamurras glitters! How these narrow streets flare with torches! We

must go at a walk. Charioteer, let the litters pass first. Yes,

my friend, in the painful position in which I shall be forced to

stand to-night, (and I blush beforehand, knowing my incompetence,

my ignorance, and the intrinsic difficulty of what I am expected to

do,) your future fortunes and the rights of your family are by a

strange caprice made dependent upon the success with which I may be

able to defend ideas of general and unchangeable value, beauty, and

truth; ideas which it debases a man not to have, and exalts him to

entertain; ideas which were always dear to the greatest minds that

have preceded us, and which are reflected in every calm and pure

soul, as the stars in fair, sweet lakes, although the putrid, slimy

pool, and the waters tossed with storms, and an atmosphere darkened

with clouds, may forbid the image, by intercepting the heavenly light

or defacing the earthly mirror."

While Dionysius thus informed Paulus of the singular and close

connection which had arisen between the future prospects of his

mother, his sister, and himself, as well as the establishment of

their rights, and the success with which Dionysius might this night

be able to make good his philosophical doctrines against the wits,

the orators, and the sophists of the Augustan court, at the same

moment Tiberius was conversing upon the same subject with Domitius

Afer and Antistius Labio in a room of the Mamurran palace.

"Just," said he, in continuation of a conversation previously

commenced, "as if a person's claim to an estate could be rendered

either better or worse by the style of his horsemanship!"

Here Domitius Afer laughed heartily, and showed his admiration of

Cæsar's wit. Labio, a saturnine, laborious man, son of one of the

assassins of Julius Cæsar, and author of numberless works, preserved

a grim, unsmiling air, as he observed,

"A man may ride over an estate, and over all its hedges and ditches;

but he must be no bad rider if he can jump his horse into a title to

become its proprietor."

"Nevertheless, the infatuation of Augustus for the Greek friend

of the claimant is such that if the Athenian acquits himself

successfully to-night in the Mæcenas-like criticisms and Plato-like

discussions which are, I suspect, to vary our entertainments, he will

next suffer the golden-tongued youth to state the case of Paulus

Lepidus Æmilius. The effect at which you must aim is to make a fool

of the Athenian; and you are the men to do it. Refute every thing he

says, ridicule him, cover him with confusion; make him the gibe of

the whole court, the derision of the brilliant circle assembling here

to-night. Put an end to his influence. We want no more mind-battles

in Italy. I set dogs upon a dog. Arouse all your attention. Bend all

your energies. Let the stranger retire from among us in disgrace."

That night, the most brilliant company which could then be culled

out of the human race was assembled in the central impluvium of the

Mamurran palace and its arcades. Lamps, hanging from the festoons of

creeping plants which adorned and connected the porphyry pillars of

the colonnades, mingled their gleam with the light of the moon and

stars. The variety of rays, of shadows, and of coloring which were

thus sprinkled over the flowers, the leaves, the walls and pillars,

the faces, figures, and dresses, produced a scene which a painter

could better render than words can. The central fountain was smitten

into a sorcery of tints, as it shed into a large basin of green

marble the drooping sheaf of waters, of which the materials were

perpetually changing, and the form and outlines perfectly maintained,

or instantly and perpetually renewed.

The Emperor, and the Cæsars, Tiberius and Germanicus, with the famous

authors we have already more than once mentioned, Livy, and Lucius

Varius, and Velleius Paterculus were present. Ælius Sejanus, the

prefect of the Prætorians; Cneius Piso, the gambler; Plancina, his

rich wife; Lucius Piso, his brother, governor of Rome; with many

persons who then sparkled in the court orbits, but whose names have

perished out of human memory; and Julia, the emperor's daughter,

Tiberius's new wife; and Agrippina Vipsania, lately his wife; and

Agrippina Julia, daughter of the former, sister of the latter, wife

of Germanicus, and mother of Caligula; and Livia, the aged wife of

Augustus himself, all appeared among the guests. Chairs and couches

had been placed here and there. Augustus and the ladies we have

mentioned were seated, some just within, others just without one of

the arcades, between two of its columns, so that the moonlight fell

upon some heads, the lamplight upon others; and a wayward, dubious

mixture of both upon the golden tresses of Agrippina Julia, and of a

beautiful young girl near her, on whom Domitius Afer, the celebrated

orator, was gazing with admiration. But she, when she at last

observed his glance, fixed upon him such a look of combined scorn

and amazement that the advocate winced and became livid. She was

destined, one day, to be the subject of his fatal eloquence, and to

appease by nothing less than her execution the vindictive vanity of

the _orator_, because she had spurned the ambitious love of the man.

Tacitus alludes to the poor Claudia Pulchra's brief tale. Quintus

Haterius, whose Shakespeare-like variety of mind and bewitching

eloquence had, as Ben Jonson implies in a comparison already

cited by us, few rivals, was seated not far from Augustus. Next

sat Livy. Antistius Labio and his rival Domitius Afer, who now

occupied the place and fame in the forum from which Haterius on

account of his age had withdrawn, stood leaning against a pillar,

each with his arms folded. Both these persons, as well as Livy and

Haterius, wore the toga; Sejanus, the scarlet _paludamentum_. The

other male guests--except Tiberius, whose dark purple robe was

conspicuous, and Germanicus, who was dressed in the costume of a

commander-in-chief--wore a species of large tunic, called _lacerna_,

which (contrary to the taste of the emperor, and despite of his

frequently expressed disapproval) had become fashionable. The story

mentioned by Suetonius is well known. One day Augustus, seeing

numbers of the people wearing the _lacerna_, asked indignantly, in a

line of Virgil's, could these be Romans, "_Romanos rerum dominos_,

GENTEMQUE TOGATAM," and ordered the ædiles to admit none but

toga-wearers into either the forum or the circus. But this was many

years before the evening with which we are now engaged.

Among the groups collected in the Mamurran palace were

representatives of the three great arts, in mastering which the

highest education of classic antiquity was exhausted; we mean the

arts of politics, of public speaking, and of strategy--government,

eloquence, and war. They were all represented, each of them had its

proper image in the groups we have described. As those pursuits

constituted the favorite intellectual sphere, and comprehended all

the fields of ambition, to be eminent in any one of them was to

succeed in life, and to be adopted into that class of society of

which so many distinguished members were entertained in the Formian

palace on the night at which our tale has arrived.

If a man excelled, like Julius Cæsar, in all the three arts named,

he could revolutionize the world. The mechanic arts, the fine arts,

philosophy, physical science, mathematics, attracted individual

votaries indeed; but were neglected by the ambition of a few, as well

as by the indolence of many.

The mention of physical studies recalls Strabo, the geographer, who

was among the guests this evening at the palace.

Many others who were there we need not enumerate; but some will

claim a word and a glance. When Dionysius arrived, and introduced

Paulus to the aged knight, Mamurra, the company was already numerous.

Mamurra patted Paulus on the shoulder, and said, although the other

day in the road he had not at once recalled old times, he remembered

Paulus's brave father very well at the battle of Philippi; and that

he, Mamurra, had seen him and Agrippa Vipsanius together, rallying

the wing which Mark Antony had broken, and that he himself had

charged with the cavalry to help him. This speech was very gracious,

and our hero, who well knew it to be true, blushed with pride and

pleasure. While the glow of this natural and honorable emotion was

still coloring his young face, as he bowed to Mamurra, the latter

took him by the arm, and said in a low voice,

"Come, let an old soldier present the son of a former comrade, whose

life was honorable, and whose memory is glorious, to the master for

whom they both fought with equal zeal, although unequal fortune."

Augustus returned Paulus's low salutation with a faint yet not

unkindly smile, and then looked with a sort of sleepy steadiness at

Tiberius, who heard Mamurra's words, and whose face was apparently

flaming with a dark red rage. Near Tiberius, who now threw himself

upon the cushions of a couch plated with gold, just opposite the

chair which Augustus had selected, stood a tall, regular-featured,

Brahmin-like man, in Asiatic dress, and next to this individual,

Sejanus, with his usual air of supercilious composure, yet intent

watchfulness.

The couch we have mentioned was long and large, and two ladies,

one old, the other young, were already sitting at the further end

of it. The first was Antonia, the mother of Germanicus, the second

was Agrippina Julia, his wife. Just in front of them, upon a low

stool, sat the son of the latter, Caius Caligula, with his eyes

yet bandaged, as the reader will not be surprised to hear; while

at his side, fidgeting with large, red, lubberly hands, stood a

big, loutish, heavy-looking boy, who was considerably the senior of

that dear child. This was no other than Claudius, the fourth of the

Cæsarian dynasty, (or the fifth, if Julius Cæsar be accounted the

first,) reserved, against his will, to mount the throne of the world

amid panic and horror, that day when Caligula shall be hacked to

pieces by Cassius Chærias, in the theatre of the palace at Rome.

Thus, three future rulers of mankind, destined to bear dire sceptres

in dark and evil days, were around the white hairs of Augustus Cæsar

to-night.

As Paulus stepped backward after Augustus's languid but not unkindly

reception of him, Dionysius, who was just behind, moved quickly and

gracefully out of his way, and Claudius, the big, loutish lad, being

impelled thereto by the nature of him, shuffled forward so as to come

in collision with Paulus.

"Monster!" exclaimed Antonia, ashamed of her son's awkwardness; "if

I wanted to prove any one void of all mind, I would call him more

stupid than you!"[286]

Paulus glided into the background, saying with a bow and a smile,

"_My_ fault!"

He now found himself in the immediate neighborhood of that eastern

group which his young sister had described as presenting themselves

one morning at the entrance of the bower in the inn garden, when she

was there listening to the strange conversation of Plancina; we mean

Queen Berenice and her daughter Herodias, and her son Herod Agrippa.

They all three fixed their gaze upon him with that unabashed, hardy

manner peculiar to the family, and Paulus was beginning to feel

uncomfortable in their vicinity and under their scrutiny, when

Germanicus Cæsar approached, and complimenting him upon his brilliant

exploit two evenings before, asked him whether he would like to join

the expedition which was to start next day to drive the Germans from

the north-east of Italy?

If he would, Germanicus offered to mount him splendidly, and keep

him near his own person, and make him the bearer of orders to the

generals; in modern phrase, give him a place on the staff. Paulus

thanked the commander-in-chief briefly and respectfully, and asked to

be allowed to wait till noon next day before giving a more definite

answer than that he should rejoice to accept the gracious offer; his

mother and sister had no protector except himself, and he should not

like to leave them, without first hearing what they said. Germanicus

assented.

During the short conversation of which this was the substance,

Germanicus had moved slowly up the gravel-walk; and Paulus of course

attended him, listening and answering, not sorry besides to put some

space between himself and the unpleasant Jewish group. By the time

they had finished speaking they had arrived opposite the couch where

Tiberius, Antonia, and Agrippina were seated, with Germanicus's

child, Caligula, as we have described, occupying a low stool in front

of his mother Agrippina. Close by, leaning against a pillar, stood

a youth in the uniform of a centurion who had a most determined,

thoughtful countenance.

On the approach of Germanicus, he briskly quitted his lounging

attitude to salute his commander.

"Young knight," said Germanicus to Paulus, "let me make you

acquainted with as brave a youth, I think, as can be found in all the

Roman legions; this is _Cassius Chærias_."

"Who, father," asked the shrill voice of the child Caligula, "is the

brave youth, do you say?"

"_Cassius Chærias._"

"Are you so brave?" persisted the impudent child, shoving up his

bandage impatiently, and disclosing a truly disfigured and malicious

little face.

"I can't see you, or what you are like. But I think I could make you

afraid if I was emperor."

The man destined hereafter to deliver mankind from the boundless

profligacy, the wicked oppression, and the insane, raging, incredible

cruelties of which it was daily the miserable victim by killing

Caligula the emperor, looked steadily at Caligula the child, and said

not a word.

"I should like to feel your sword, whether it is heavy," pursued the

child. "Give it me." And he started to his feet.

"Silence! pert baby," said Germanicus, pushing him back into his

place.

"It seems to me," said Augustus, looking round, and there was an

instantaneous hush of general conversation as he did so; "that we

have represented around us Europe, Asia, and Africa. Young Herod and

his friends may count for Asia."

"You," added Augustus, addressing the tall, Brahmin-like man who

stood near Tiberius, "come from Egypt, do you not?"

"Mighty emperor," returned the other in measured and sepulchral

tones, "I come from the land where great Babylon once was the seat of

empire."

No sooner had this man opened his mouth than the observant Sejanus

started.

Approaching his mouth to the other's ear, he whispered,

"I have heard your voice before; you are--?"

"I am," replied the other, composedly eyeing his questioner,

"Thrasyllus Magus--Thrasyllus, the student of the stars."

Sejanus smiled, twisted his moustache in his white fingers, and

asked,

"Are you sure that you are not the god Hermes? and that you do not

sometimes ride of nights, with your horse's hoofs wrapped in cloth?"

It was now the other's turn to start.

"Do you suppose," pursued Sejanus, still in a whisper, "that I had

not every stable in Formiæ searched the night you played that trick

on the road? I know my master Tiberius's taste for divination and

the various deep things you practice. You, then, are the oracle who

reveals to him the decrees of fate?"

The exchange of further remarks between these worthy men was here

suspended; for Augustus again spoke amid general attention.

"I think," said he, "that we should all now be glad to hear Dionysius

the Athenian." An eager hum of assent and approval arose from the

jaded and sated, but inquisitive and critical society around.

"There are in your philosophy," continued Augustus, "two leading

principles, my Athenian, in support of which I am both curious and

anxious to hear you advance some solid and convincing reasons. You

despise, as Cicero despised it, the notion of a plurality of gods.

You affirm there is only one. You say that a god who could begin to

be a god, or begin at all, can be no god; and that the true King of

all kings, is the giver of whatever exists, and the recipient of

nothing. That he is without a body, a pure and holy intelligence.

That as every thing else is his work, there never were, and never

will be, and never could be, any limits either of his power or of his

knowledge. At the same time, you reject the notion, adopted in some

Greek systems, that he is the soul of the visible universe, and this

universe his body; affirming him to be antecedent to and independent

of all things, and all other things to be absolutely dependent upon

him.

"Is it not so?"

"Yes," answered Dionysius; "such is my assured conviction."

"This, then," said Augustus, "is the first question upon which I

wish to hear you; and the second is, whether that force or principle

within each of us which thinks, reflects, reasons, and is conscious

of itself, will perish at our death, or will live beyond it, and

is of such a nature that it will never perish, as Plato, Xenophon,

Cicero, and many other illustrious men and very great thinkers have

so ardently contended."

"Ah!" said Dionysius, in a voice indescribably sweet and thrilling,

while all turned their eyes toward him; "unless that God himself

assist me, I shall be quite unequal to the task you impose upon

me, Augustus. I am not worthy to treat the subject upon which you

desire me to speak. You are aware that many learned persons in

our Europe expect, and for a long time have expected, some divine

being to appear one day among men. I see the able governor of Rome,

Lucius Piso. None will accuse Piso of credulity, none suppose him a

weaver of idle fancies, or a dreamer of gratuitous reveries. An able

administrator, an accomplished man of the world, and, if he will

pardon me, more inclined to be too sarcastic than too indulgent,

he, nevertheless, despises not this expectation. Our learned

friend Strabo, whom I see near me, will tell you moreover how it

prevails, and has from immemorial times prevailed, in various and

often perverted forms, yet with an underlying essence of permanent

identity, among the innumerable nations which make some thirty

languages resound through the immense expanses of Asia. But Domitius

Afer desires to interrupt me."

Afer said,

"I do not discern how this ancient and mysterious expectation which

floats vaguely through the traditions of all mankind, and in a more

definite shape forms the groundwork for the whole religion of the

Jewish nation, can be at all connected either with the immortality

of the thinking principle inside of us, or with the question whether

there is one supreme, absolute, and eternal God who made this

universe."

"All I would have added," replied Dionysius, "in regard to that

expectation was, that after the appearance of this universal

benefactor, many sublime ideas which hitherto only the strongest

intellects have entertained, will probably become familiar to the

meanest--common to all.

"I pass to the two questions which Augustus desires to hear argued;

and, first, let me collect the opinions of this brilliant company; I

will then compare them with mine. What does Antistius Labio think?"

"I should have to invent a term to express my notion," said Labio.

"I think all things are but emanations from, and return to, the same

being. What might be called _pantheism_, if we coined a word from the

language of your country, best explains, I fancy, the phenomena of

the universe. Every thing is growth and decay; but as decay furnishes

larger growth, every thing is growth at last and in the total sum."

"Is this growth of all things under any general control?" asked

Dionysius.

"Each thing," replied Labio, "is under the control of its own nature,

which evidently it cannot change, and every inferior thing besides

is under the control of any superior thing with which it may come

into relations. Thus what is _active_ is superior as such to what is

_passive_; it is more excellent and a higher force to act upon, or

sway, or change, or move, or form, than to be acted upon, moved, or

modified. The mind of an architect, for instance, is a higher force

than the dead weight of the inert stones from which he builds a

palace."

"Then you hold that some things have force, and that there are

greater and smaller forces?" asked Dionysius.

"Undoubtedly," said Labio.

"Which is more excellent," asked Dionysius, "a force which can move

itself, or a force which, in order to exist, must be set in motion by

another?"

"This last," said Labio, "is only the first prolonged; it is but a

continuation, an effect."

"And an effect," pursued the Greek, "is inferior, as such, to what

controls it; and inferior also in its very nature to that which

requires no cause?"

"Certainly," returned Labio; "I am not so dull as to gainsay that."

"Now favor me with your attention," returned the Athenian; "I

want you to extricate me from a dilemma. Either every thing which

possesses force has received its force from something else; or there

is something which possesses force, and which never received this

force from any thing else, and which, therefore, has possessed it

from all eternity. Which of these two alternatives do you select?"

Labio paused, and by this time the whole of that strangely mixed

society was listening with the keenest relish and the most genuine

interest to the conversation.

"I see whither you tend," replied Labio, "but I do not believe in

that universal ruler and original mind, or first force, which you

think to demonstrate. All things go in circles, and serially. Every

force which exists has been derived from some other; and each in its

turn continues the movement, or communicates the impact."

"Prettily expressed," remarked Velleius Paterculus.

"I beg Augustus," said the Athenian, "to mark and remember Labio's

words. Every thing which has force has received its force from

something else. Do you say _every thing_, Labio, without exception?"

"Yes, every thing," said Labio. "I conceive the chain to be endless."

"But _not having_, good Labio," replied the Athenian, "goes before

_receiving_. I cannot, and you cannot, receive that which we have

already. In order to say that we receive any thing, we must first be

without it--must we not? The state of not having, I repeat, precedes

the act of receiving. Does any person deny this? Does Labio?"

No one here spoke.

"Then," said the Athenian, "in maintaining that every thing which

possesses force _has received_ that force from something else, Labio

necessarily maintains that every thing which possesses force _was

first without it_. I therefore perceive there must have been a time

when nothing possessed any force whatever. The very first thing which

possessed any, received it; but whence? For, at that time, there was

nothing to give it. What says Labio? Is pantheism silent?"

"I wish to hear more," said Labio; "I will answer you afterward."

A momentary smile, like a passing gleam, lit up the faces of those

around, as the Athenian, looking toward Domitius Afer, requested him

the next to favor the company with his opinion upon the two momentous

questions propounded by Augustus.

"I need not, like Labio, coin a term from the Greek," said Afer,

"to describe my system. I am a materialist. I believe nothing save

what my senses attest. They show me neither God nor soul; and I am

determined never to accept any other criterion."

"Are you quite sure," asked Dionysius, "that you are thus determined?

I should like to shake such a determination."

"You'll fail," replied Afer, smiling. "Which of your senses, then,

has attested to you that very determination? Can you see, taste,

smell, hear, or touch it? And yet you tell us you are sure of it. If

so, you can believe in, and be sure of, something which has never

been submitted to the criterion which alone you admit."

"A determination is not a thing," said Afer hastily, and with a

little confusion.

"Was Julius Cæsar a thing?" persisted Dionysius; "because if you

believe that Julius Cæsar existed, having heard of him and read of

him, your senses of hearing and seeing do not attest to you in this

case the existence of Julius Cæsar, but simply the affirmations of

others that he has existed. My hearing attests to me that Strabo says

he has been in Spain; and this, if there were no other reason, would

satisfy me that Spain exists; yet it is Strabo whom I hear. I do not

hear Spain."

Augustus clapped his hands gently, and laughed. Domitius Afer, with

visible anger, exclaimed,

"I mean, that I will take nothing but upon proof. Prove that the soul

is immortal; prove that one supreme God exists. Every thing which a

reasonable man believes ought to be demonstrated."

"I hope," said Dionysius, "to prove those two truths to your

satisfaction. But as you say that all we believe ought to be

demonstrated, I will first offer you a demonstration, that it is

impossible to demonstrate every thing. To prove any proposition,

you require a second; and to prove the second, in its turn, you

require a third; and it is upon this third, if you admit it, that

the demonstration of the first depends. But if you had fifty

propositions, or any number, in the chain, what proves _the last of

them_?"

"Another yet," said Afer.

"But," said the Greek, "either you come to a last, or you never come

to a last. If you never come to a last proposition, you never finish

your proof; you leave it uncompleted; _it remains still no proof at

all_; you have not performed what you undertook. And if you do come

to a final proposition, which is supported by no other, what supports

it?"

There was a little start of pleasure in the company at the sudden

and clear closes to which the Athenian was, each and every time,

bringing what seemed likely to have grown into intricate and long

disquisitions.

"My object, Augustus," pursued Dion, "was to show that we are all so

made that we feel compelled to believe much more than we can prove.

Otherwise, our knowledge would be confined within narrow limits

indeed. He who knows no more than he can demonstrate, knows but

little. May I now ask the distinguished orators, Montanus and Capito,

for their theories respecting the questions which interest us so much

to-night?"

Quintus Haterius prevented any answer to this appeal. "The eloquent

and learned thinker," said he--"who will yet, I have no doubt, be the

ornament of the Athenian Areopagus--has placed me, and, I think, many

others near me, completely on his side, in what has hitherto passed.

Young as he is, he has made us feel the masterful facility with which

he is able to throw light upon errors placed where truth ought to

stand. The operation is highly amusing; we could pass a long evening

in watching it repeated against any number of antagonists. But come,

Dionysius, reverse the process; take your own ground; maintain it;

raise there your system like your castle; and let those assail it,

if they please, whom your aggressive genius on the contrary turns to

assail."

"Haterius is right," said Augustus. "I could assist at any number of

these collisions; but they take a form which presents your mind to

us, my Athenian, as a hunter and conqueror rather than a founder."

"But I am no founder," replied the youth, earnestly and modestly;

"and I aspire to nothing of the kind. The fact is merely and simply

this: After much study I have arrived at the conviction--first,

that there is one absolutely perfect and eternal Being who governs

the universe; and, next, that what thinks within each of us never

will die. Since you desire to hear the reasons which have brought

me to these conclusions, I cannot decline to state one or two of

them at least--though this place, this occasion, and this dazzling

company befit the subject far less, I fear, than if a few studious

friends discussed it, sitting under the starry sky, on some quiet,

unfrequented shore."

"Now we shall hear Plato," said Tiberius, with something almost like

a sneer.

"Pardon me," said Dionysius, "Plato may speak for himself. You have

him to read; why should I repeat him? Those who miss Plato's meaning

in his own pages would miss it in my commentary."

Julia uttered a taunting laugh, as she glanced at her new husband

Tiberius, whom she always treated with scorn.

"You remember, Augustus," Dionysius continued, "that a few minutes

ago, Antistius Labio, in answering one of my questions, stated that a

force which could move itself was more excellent, as such, than one

which required to be set in motion by another, as the mind of the

architect, said he, is superior to the stones from which he builds a

palace. Labio then very justly added, in reply to another question,

that what was moved only by the force of something else possessed no

proper force of its own, its force being but a continuation of the

first, an effect of the impact. He finally assented, when I showed

that it is impossible that every thing without exception which

possesses force should have received it, because _not having_ goes

before receiving, and because this is only another mode of saying

that every thing without exception was once devoid of force. If a

particular being has received the force it possesses, that particular

being must once have been without it; and if all beings without

exception who possess force have received it, they likewise without

exception must all, in the same manner, have first been without it,

a supposed state during which no force at all existed anywhere. That

any being should ever acquire force, when there was nowhere any force

for it to acquire, would be an unsatisfactory philosophy."

"There has, perhaps, been," said Tiberius, "an eternal chain of these

forces transmitting themselves onward."

"If," said the Athenian, "you admit the existence of any one being

who possesses a force which he never received from another, that

being is evidently eternal. But to say that a being has received its

force, is to say that its force has had a beginning; and to say that

any thing begins, is to say that once it was not. A chain of forces

all received is, therefore, a chain of forces all begun--is it not?

Now, if they have all begun, they have all had something prior to

them. But nothing can be prior to what is eternal; such a chain or

series, therefore, cannot itself be eternal."

"No link is eternal," said Tiberius; "but all the links of the chain

together may surely be so."

The Athenian looked round with a smile at Tiberius, and said, "If all

the forces which exist now, and all those which ever existed in the

universe, without exception, have been received from something else,

what is that something else _beyond all the forces of the universe_?

They would all without exception have begun. To say this of them, is

merely to say that they were all non-existent once; and this without

exception. In other words, the whole chain, even with all its links

taken together, is short of eternal. If so, it has been preceded

either by blank nothing, or by some being who has a force _not_ thus

received, a force which is his own inherently and absolutely, as I

maintain. Tell me of a chain, the top of which recedes beyond our

ken, that the lowest link depends on the next to it, and this on

the third, I understand you; but if I ask what suspends the whole

chain, with all its links taken together, it is no answer to say that

the links are so numerous and the chain is so long that it requires

nothing but itself to keep it in suspension. The longer it is, the

greater must be the necessity of the ultimate grasp, and the stronger

must that grasp be; and observe, it must be truly ultimate, otherwise

you have not solved the difficulty; nay, the suspending force must

be distinct from and beyond the chain itself, or you do not account

for the suspension. But I will put all this past a cavil. What I

said respecting proofs to Domitius Afer, I say respecting causes to

Tiberius Cæsar. No one denies that various forces are operating in

the universe. Now, of two things, one: Either there is a first force,

acting and moving by its own freedom, which; being antecedent to all

other forces, not only must be independent of them all, but can alone

have produced them all; or else there is in the universe no force

which has not some other antecedent to it. This last proposition is

easily shown to be an absurdity; _for to say that every force has a

force antecedent to it, is the same as to say that all forces have

another force antecedent to them; in other words, that, over and

above all things of a given class, there is another thing of that

class_. Can there be more than the whole? Can there be another thing

of a certain kind, beyond all things of that kind? Besides every

force, is there yet another force? If any one is here who would say

so, I wait to hear him."

No one said a word.

"Then remark the conclusion," pursued Dionysius. "It is a

self-contradiction to contend that there can be one thing more of

a class than all things of that class; therefore there is not,

and cannot be, a force antecedent to every force in the universe;

therefore there is, and must be, in the universe, a force which

is the first force, a force which has not and could not have any

other antecedent to it. Now this force, being the first, could be

controlled by no other; by its action every other must have been

produced, and under its control every other must lie."

"Do not you contradict yourself?" inquired Afer; "you show there

cannot be a force antecedent to all forces, and still you conclude

that there is."

"There cannot," said Dionysius, "be a force antecedent to all forces,

because this would be one more of a class beyond all of a class. But

there may be the first of the class, before which no other was;

and this is what I have demonstrated to exist. That first force

is antecedent, not to _all_, but to all _others_; there you stop;

there is none antecedent to _Him_. As he is the first force, all

things must have come from him. He made and built this universe; it

is his imperial palace. You have asked me to prove that one eternal

and omnipotent God lives. I have now given you an argument which I

am by no means afraid, in this, or any other assembly, to call a

demonstration. And it is but one out of a great many."

A low murmur of spontaneous plaudits and frank assent ran round

that luxurious, but highly cultivated, appreciative, and brilliant

company; and one voice a little too loud was heard exclaiming,

"It is as clear as the light of day, dear Dion!"

All eyes turned in one direction, and Paulus, whose feelings of

admiration and sympathy had thus betrayed him, blushed scarlet as he

withdrew behind the stately form of Germanicus, who looked round at

him smiling, half in amusement, half in kindness.

"I do think it a demonstration indeed," said Augustus, musing gravely.

"How strangely must that stupendous Being," said Strabo, the

geographer, "deem of a world which has come so completely to forget

and ignore him!"

"Your reasoning," resumed Augustus, "differs much, as you said it

would, from Plato's. Plato is too subtle for our Roman taste."

"So is he," said Dionysius, "too subtle, and, I think, too

hesitating, for the taste of most men everywhere. I admire his

genius, but I disclaim many of his theories, and am not a disciple of

his school."

"Of what school are you?"

"I am dissatisfied with every school," replied the future convert of

St. Paul, blushing. "But I am quite certain that there is only one

God, and that he is eternal and all-perfect.

"What I have said, I have said because I believe it; not in order

to play at mental swords with these eloquent and gifted men, whom

I honor. There is, if we would look for it, a reflection of this

great Being in our minds like that of a star in water; but the water

must be undisturbed, or the light wavers and is broken. We see many

beings, greater and smaller. Now, who can doubt that, where there

are greater and smaller, there must be a greatest? Each one of us is

conscious and certain of three things: first, that he himself has not

existed from all eternity; secondly, each of us feels that he did not

make his own mind; and thirdly, that he could not make another mind.

Now, the mind who made ours must be superior to any thing contained

in what he thus made; therefore, although we can conceive a being of

whose power, knowledge, and perfection we discern no possible limit,

this very conception must be inferior to its object. There must exist

outside of our mind some being greater still than the greatest of

which we can form any intellectual idea, however boundless. The lead

fused in a mould cannot be greater in its outlines than the mould

which presents the form. Again, no person will contend that the

sublime and the absurd are one and the same thing--that the terms are

convertible. But yet, if an absolutely perfect and sovereign being

did not exist, the conception which we form of such a being, instead

of constituting the highest heaven of sublimity to which our thoughts

can soar, would constitute the lowest depth of absurdity into which

they could sink."

A little pause followed.

"Do you, then," said Afer, with a subtle smile, "introduce to us the

novel doctrine, that whatever is sublime must therefore be true?"

"If I said yes," replied Dionysius, "and I am not a little tempted,

you would succeed in drawing me aside into a very long and darkling

road. But I have advanced nothing to that effect. My inference

depended not on assuming that every thing which is sublime must be

true, but on the supposition that nothing which is absurd could be

sublime."

"Quite so," remarked Haterius; "and was there not another inference

dormant in what you said?"

"There was," said Dionysius; "but it looks like subtilizing to wake

it and give it wings; and, as I am a Greek, I fear--I--in short, I

have tried to confine myself to the plainest and broadest reasonings."

"Fear not," said Germanicus; "learned Greece, you know, has conquered

her fierce vanquishers."

Tiberius gnawed his under-lip; and the Lady Plancina, glancing at him

and then at her husband Cneius Piso, who was listening attentive but

ill at ease, exclaimed,

"Enervated them, you mean!"

Germanicus threw back his head, smiled, and remarked, "To-morrow the

legions are going forth to try against the Germans whether the Roman

heart beats as of old; what was the further inference, Athenian?"

"Since there must," said Dion, "where greater and smaller beings

exist, be a greatest, we can all try to form some conception of him.

Now, this conception must fall short of his real greatness. Why?

Because as I have demonstrated that this being is the first force,

from which all others in the universe, including our minds, must

have come, no idea contained in our minds can be greater than the

very power which made those minds themselves. But, apart from this

demonstration, every one of us can say, a being may exist so great

as to be incapable of non-existence. Such a being is conceivable;

it is his non-existence which then, by the very supposition, is

inconceivable. Now, if there be something the non-existence of which

would be inconceivable, while of the being himself you possess a

notion, thinking of him as, for example, and terming him, the first

force, eternal, boundless--giver of all, recipient of naught--the

certainty of his existence is established already _for the heart_;

for that faculty which precedes demonstration in accepting truth--for

remember I have shown, and I have proved, that we are so made as to

be compelled to believe far more than any of us can ever demonstrate."

"This, then," said Augustus, "is the dim image of which you spoke;

the reflection of the star in water?"

"Yes, emperor," replied Dionysius; "but not always dim; the deepest

and the purest of all the lights which that water reflects. Often

it reflects no image, however; and often it reflects but clouds and

storms. To say you truly conceive a thing, is to say you are certain

of it _in the way you conceive it_. If you conceive any thing to be

certain, you possess the certainty of it. You may be certain that a

thing is _un_certain; in other words, you have arrived at a clear

notion of its uncertainty. To conceive the contingency of an object,

is to possess the positive idea that it is contingent. To conceive

a necessary being, is to have the clear idea not simply that he is,

_but that he must be_. He could not be conceived at all, he could not

even be an object of thought, as both necessary and non-existent. All

conceivable objects, except one, are conceived as either possible

or actual. But that one alone is conceived as necessary, and,

therefore, _necessarily actual_. Either a necessary being is not

conceivable--and which of us, I should like to know, cannot sit down

and indulge in the conception?--or, if he be so much as conceivable,

then his reign is recognized, because far more than his existence is

involved--I mean the impossibility of his non-existence."

"Are all the dreams," said Domitius Afer, "of a poet's imagination

truths because they are conceptions?"

A few moments of silence followed, and Paulus Æmilius looked at his

friend with an expression of terror which he had not exhibited in his

own contest with the Sejan horse.

"When the poet," replied Dionysius, "imagines what might have been,

he believes it might have been, and asks you to believe no more; but

he would be shocked if you believed less; would be shocked if you

told him he was depicting not that which had not been, for this he

cheerfully professes, but that which _could not ever be supposed_.

What I say here," added the Athenian, "belongs to a different and

somewhat higher plane of thought. The impossibility to suppose

non-existent an infinitely perfect being, who, on the other hand, is

himself found not impossible to suppose, ought to bring home _to the

heart_ the fact that he lives. To be able, in the first place, to

conceive him existing, and straightway thereafter to feel an utter

inability to form even the conception of his non-existence, because

it is only as the necessary being and first force that we can think

of him at all, are a handwriting upon the porch of every human soul.

He lives, I say it rejoicing, an eternal, necessary, and personal

reality; the very conception of him would be an impossibility if his

existence were not a fact; yes, and far more than a fact, a primeval

truth and a primordial necessity."

As the Athenian thus spoke in a clear and firm voice, which seemed

to grow more musical the more it was raised and exerted, Augustus

stood up and paced to and fro a few steps on the gravel walk of the

impluvium, with his hands behind him and his eyes cast down. All who

had been sitting rose at the same time, except Livia, Julia, Antonia,

and the two Agrippinas.

"This," whispered Tiberius in Afer's ear, "is not much like failure,

or derision, or disgrace for the Greek."

"My predecessor, Julius Cæsar," said Augustus at length, looking

round as he stood still, "was the best astronomer and mathematician

of his age--we have his calendar now to record it; the best engineer

of his age--look at his bridge over the Rhine; the best orator,

except one, to whom Rome perhaps ever listened; a most charming

talker and companion on any subject; a very great and simple

writer; as great a general probably as ever lived; a consummate

politician; a keen, wary, swift, yet profound thinker at all times;

a man whose intellect was one vast sphere of light; and yet I

remember well in what anxiety and curiosity he lived respecting the

power which governs the universe, and with what minute and even

frivolous precautions he was forever trying to propitiate a good

award for his various undertakings; how he muttered charms, whether

he was ascending his chariot or descending, or mounting his horse

or dismounting--in short, at every turn. Evidently it is not the

brightest intellects, or the most perfectly educated, which are the

most disposed to scout and scorn such ideas as we have just heard

from Dionysius; it is precisely they who are prepared to ponder them

the most."

"Julius Cæsar," said Tiberius, "thought, I suspect, pretty much as a

great many others do, that this is a very dark, difficult subject;

and that we cannot expect to come to any certain conclusions."

"Not to _many_ conclusions," said Dionysius; "that much I fully

grant. But two or three broad and general truths are attainable by

means of reasonings as close, secure, and irresistible as any in

geometry. One such proof--and pray do not forget that I said it was

only one out of many--making clear the fact that a single eternal

God reigns over all things, I have laid before Augustus and this

company already. My _last_ remarks, however, were not disputations,

but were only intended to show how those conceptions--to tear which

from the mind would be to tear the heat from fire and the rays

from light--tend exactly to that conclusion which I had _first_

established by a rigorous demonstration."

"Would not some call your inference from those conceptions themselves

a demonstration also?" asked Germanicus.

"I think," replied the Athenian, "that all would so call it if we had

but time to examine it thoroughly. There are three other complete

lines of argument, however, each of them as interesting as a poem;

but so abstruse that I will not travel along them. I will merely

show the gates which open into these three ascents of the glorious

mountain. It could, then, be demonstrated, first, that all things

are objects of mind or of knowledge, _somewhere_; secondly, that all

things undergo some action, or are objects of power, _somewhere_;

thirdly, that all things are loved and cared for _somewhere_; and

this as forming one whole work or production that is, in their

relations with each other. Now, the knowledge, the power, and the

love (or care) in question can belong only to that first force of

whom I speak; and I distinctly affirm, Augustus, that I believe

I should be quite able, not to prove by probable reasons merely,

but to demonstrate positively and absolutely, the existence of one

omnipotent God, by three distinct arguments, starting from the three

points I have here mentioned. Yet I pass by those golden gates with a

wistful glance at them, and no more."

"It is the _horn_ gates, you know," said Labio, smiling, "which open

to the true dreams."

"Ah! poor Virgil!" said Augustus, first with a smile, and then with a

long, heart-felt sigh. "I wish he could have heard you, my Athenian."

"The natures of things," said the Athenian, "and the number of

individuals are known and counted _somewhere_; the attraction of

physical things is weighed in a balance somewhere, and all things

are maintained in their order by _limits_, and protected in their

relations by a measured mark, _somewhere_. But as I have forbidden

myself this vast and difficult field, I will turn elsewhere."

"Before you turn elsewhere," exclaimed Antistius Labio, "I would fain

test by a single question the soundness of the principle from which

you will draw no deductions; you say all things undergo some action.

Does not this imply the actual presence of some force in or upon all

things?"

"It is not to be denied," answered the Athenian.

"What force," asked Labio, "is actually present in or upon _inert

matter_?"

"The force of cohesion," replied the Athenian; "and, moreover, the

force of weight, which I take to be only the same force with wider

intervals ordained for its operation."

A dead pause of an instant or two followed, and was broken by Herod

Agrippa, who was a person bad indeed and odious, but of great

acuteness and natural abilities, exclaiming "The Athenian reminds me

of the _number_, _weight_, _and measure_ of our holy books."

"It is there, indeed, I found them," said Dionysius.

"You mentioned," observed Augustus, after musing a few seconds, "that

the demonstration you gave us a while ago of a single eternal God was

only one out of many. I do not want many more, nor several more; but

one more, might gluttony ask of hospitality? We roam the halls of a

great intellectual fortress and mental palace to-night, superior to

the palace of the Mamurras."

"Has it such an impluvium, Augustus?" chuckled the old knight,

caressing his white moustache.

"The impluvium," said Dionysius, "is that part of the palace where

the light of heaven falls. But the palace, Augustus, I take to be

the sublime theme; my poor mind is only its beggarly porter and

ostiarius. Suppose, then, there were only two beings in all the

universe, one more excellent than the other, which of them would have

preceded the other?"

No one replied.

"If the inferior be the senior," pursued the Greek, "by so much as

the superior afterward came to excel him, by so much that superior

must have obtained his perfections from nothing whatever, from blank

nonentity; because the inferior, by the very supposition, (_ex

hypothesi_,) had them not to bestow."

"The superior being," answered Augustus, "must therefore be the

elder."

"You speak justly, Augustus," said the Athenian. "Therefore the less

perfect could never exist, if the more perfect had not first existed.

The existence, then, of imperfect beings proves the prior existence

of one all-perfect being, self-dependent, from whom the endowments

of the others must unquestionably have been derived."

"Cannot things grow?" asked Labio.

"Growth is feeding," answered Dion; "growth is accretion,

assimilation, condensation in one form of many scattered elements.

Growth is possible, first, if we have a seed, that is, an organism

capable, when fed, of filling out proportions defined beforehand;

and, secondly, if we have the food by which it is sustained. But who

defines the proportions? Who ordained the form? Who formed the seed?

Who supplies the air, the light, the food? Would a seed grow of its

own energy if not sown in fostering earth, or placed in fostering air

and light--in short, if not fed by the proper natural juices? Would

it grow if starved of air, earth, light--thrown back upon its sole

self? Is not growth necessarily stimulated _from without_?"

"Growth is a complicated and manifold operation," said Augustus,

"implying evidently a whole world previously set systematically in

motion."

"Whence, Labio," asked the Athenian, "comes your seed that will grow?"

"From a plant," replied Labio.

"Whence the plant?" pursued the Greek.

"From a seed."

"Which was first?" asked Dion.

"The plant."

"Then that plant, at least, never came from a seed," said Dionysius.

"Whence came it?"

"The seed was first," said Labio.

"Then _that_ seed," said Dionysius, "never came from a plant. Whence

came it?"

There was a laugh, in which not only Labio, but even Tiberius joined.

"No," said Dionysius; "whatever the power which traced out

beforehand the limits and proportions which the seed, by growing or

feeding, is to fill; whatever the power which surrounds that seed,

or other organism, with the manifold conditions for its development,

that power must be something more perfect and excellent than the

elements which it thus dispenses and controls; and the existence

of these less perfect things would have been impossible, had not

the other existed first. Thus, ascending the scale of beings, from

the less to the more excellent, the simple fact that each exists,

proves that a being superior to it must somewhere else be found,

and that the superior was in existence first; until we reach that

self-existent, all-perfect, eternal being whose life accounts for a

universe which his power governs, and which without him would have

been an impossibility.

"Without him imperfect things could never have obtained existence,

and could not keep it for an instant; and without recognizing him

they cannot be explained. This, Augustus, is the second demonstration

for which you have asked me. I have just touched, in passing, the

porches which led to three others. A sixth could be derived from the

nature of free force. No force is real which is not free. The force

of a ball flung through the air, is really the force of something

else, not of the ball; a hand imparted it; that hand was moved by

the mind. In the mind at last, and there alone, the force becomes

real, because there alone it is free. All the forces of nature could

be shown to be thus communicated, or derivative; and the question,

where do they originate? would ultimately bring us to some mind, some

intelligence. That intelligence is God."

"Could not all the forces of the universe be blind and mechanical?"

said Afer.

"If so, they would none of them be free," said the Athenian.

"Well, be it so," said Afer.

"If not free," persisted the Greek, "they are compulsory; if

compulsory, who compels them? I say, _God_. You would have to say,

_nothing_; which is very like _having nothing to say_."

A clamor of merriment followed this, and Dionysius had to wait until

it subsided.

"I am only showing," he resumed, "where and how the proof could be

found. A seventh demonstration can be derived from the moral law.

To deny God, or to misdescribe him, would necessitate the denial

of any difference between good and evil, between virtue and vice.

It would be a little long, but very easy to establish this; far

easier than it was to make intelligible the two proofs which I have

already submitted to you. I have said enough, however. This brilliant

assemblage perceives that the belief in one sovereign and omnipotent

mind is not a vain reverie for which nothing substantial can be

advanced; but a truth demonstrable, which neither human wit nor human

wisdom can shake from its everlasting foundations."

"I wonder," said Strabo, "whether this being, of whose knowledge and

power there are no limits, is also mild and compassionate."

Dionysius was buried in thought for a short time, and then said,

"Pray favor me with your attention for a few moments. Love draws nigh

to its object; hatred draws away from its object, which it never

approaches except in order to destroy it. But the non-existent cannot

be destroyed; therefore the non-existent never could draw hatred

toward it. Hatred would say, those things are non-existent which I

should hate, and which I would destroy if they existed; therefore let

them continue non-existent. But this sovereign being is antecedent

to all things; in his mind alone could they have had any existence

before he created them. If, then, he drew near them, so to speak,

approached them, called them out of nothing into his own palace, the

palace of being, love alone could have led him. Therefore, by the

most rigorous reasoning, it is evident that creation is inexplicable

except as an act of love. It is more an act of love than even

preservation and protection. This omnipotent being, then, must be

love in perpetual action; love in universal action, boundless and

everlasting love."

"Certainly yours is a grand philosophy," said Augustus.

"This sublime being," pursued Dionysius, "is, and cannot but be,

an infinite mind; he is boundless knowledge, boundless power, and

boundless goodness. The mere continuance from day to day of this

universe--"

Here the Athenian suddenly stopped and looked round.

"Why, were the most beneficent human being that ever lived,"

exclaimed he, "able by a word to cast the universe into

destruction; were it in his power to say, at any moment of wrath or

disappointment, that the sun should not rise on the morrow, mankind

would fall into a chronic frensy of terror."

"If," cried a shrill voice--that of the child Caligula--"if the sun

shines and one cannot see, it is no use! I know what I would do with

the sun to-morrow morning, unless I recover the use of my eyes."

"What?" asked Dionysius.

"I'd blow it out!" cried the dear boy, tearing off his bandage,

stamping his feet, and turning toward his interrogator a face neither

beautiful in feature nor mild in expression.

"The sun is in good keeping," said the Athenian.

Augustus turned, after a short, brooding look at Caligula, to

Haterius, and said,

"What think you, my Quintus? Has our Athenian made good his theories?"

"He has presented them like rocks of adamant," responded Haterius.

"Dionysius has convinced me perfectly that the universe has been

produced and is governed by the great being of whom he has so

earnestly and so luminously spoken."

"Yet one word with you, young philosopher," said Antistius Labio,

sending a glance all round the circle, and finally contemplating

intently the broad, candid brow and kindly blue eyes of the Athenian;

"one word! You remarked that you could prove all things to be cared

for and loved somewhere. You afterward mentioned that the care or

love in question could be exercised by none save the stupendous

king-spirit whose existence, I confess, you almost persuade me to

believe. But now solve me a difficulty. You have alluded to the moral

law. You maintain, although this has not been a subject of our debate

to-night, the immortality of our souls. Finally--none can forget

it--you hinted that there could be no morality, no difference between

right and wrong, virtue and vice, were there not one sovereign God.

Does this mean, or does it not, that morality is that which pleases

his eternal and therefore unchanging views?"

"Ah!" said Dionysius, "I perceive your drift. You land me amid real

enigmas. But go on; I answer honestly--_Yes_."

"Then," pursued Labio, "if the ghost within us be immortal, it will

be happy after death, provided it shall have pleased this being, and

miserable should it have offended him."

"Yes."

"Now, Augustus," persisted Labio, "what would you think of the

justice of a monarch who proclaimed rewards for conforming with his

will, and punishments for thwarting it, but at the same time would

not make it known what his will was, nor afford any protection to

those who might be desirous of giving it effect?

"Can Dionysius of Athens or any body else tell us what are the

special desires of this great being in our regard? Does he imagine

that unlettered, mechanical, toiling men have either understandings

or the leisure to arrive at the conclusions which his own splendid

intellect has attained? Then why is there not some authoritative

teacher sent down among men from heaven?"

Dionysius answered not. Labio continued,

"I speak roughly and plainly. I transfix him with his own principles.

He is too honest not to feel the force of what I say. He cannot

reply. Mark next: we live but a short while in this world; and if we

be immortal, our state here is downright contemptible in importance

compared with that which has to come; and yet he tells us that

this contemptible point of time, this mere dot of existence, is

to determine our lot for everlasting ages, and he that says this

proclaims the being whose existence he certainly has demonstrated

to be the very principle of love itself. Yet this being who will

establish our destinies according as we please him, tells us not how

to do it."

Again the Athenian refrained from breaking the expectant silence

which ensued.

"Would not one imagine," said Strabo, "that the most particular

instructions would be given to us how to regulate a conduct upon

which so much depends?"

"Yes," observed Labio; "and not instructions alone, but instructors,

to whom occasional reference would be always possible."

All eyes turned toward Dionysius. He blushed, hesitated, and at last

said,

"You only echo thoughts long familiar to my mind. I cannot answer; I

am not capable of solving these difficulties. Time is not completed.

I think, like the Sibyls, that some special light is yet to come down

from heaven."

Here the conversation ended.

Half an hour afterward, Dionysius, who had begged to be excused for

that night from entering upon the second of the two doctrines which

he had been challenged to sustain, was walking part of the way with

Paulus toward the Inn of the Hundredth Milestone, along the fretwork

of light which was shed upon the Appian Road by the moon and stars

through the leaves of the chestnut-trees.

"I feel confident, Paulus," said he, "that Augustus will restore your

family estates; and should you accept the liberal offer of Germanicus

Cæsar, and depart upon this German expedition to-morrow morning, I

will watch your interests while you are absent."

"I know it well, generous friend," replied the other youth; "and I do

hope my mother will not object to my going. Only think, I may come

back a military tribune! Only think!"

"Yes," said Dion, "and enter that great castle which glitters yonder

in the moonlight as proprietor."

"If so, will you not," said Paulus, "come and stay with us?"

"That is an engagement," said the Athenian, "provided some day you

will all pay me a return visit at Athens."

"We'll exchange the _tessera hospitalis_ on it," exclaimed Paulus.

Thus they parted on the moonlit road, Dionysius returning to Formiæ,

and Paulus walking onward with long, rapid strides.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTE:

[286] "_Mater Antonia portentum eum hominis dictabat; nec absolutum

à naturâ, sed tantum inchoatum; ac si quem socordiæ argueret,

stultiorem aiebat filio suo Claudio._" _Sueton._ in Claud. s. 3.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH.

OUR LADY OF LOURDES.

BY HENRI LASSERRE.

PART I.

INTRODUCTION.

The full and complete history of the remarkable apparition of Lourdes

is now, for the first time, presented to the English-speaking

Catholic public. Mr. Lawlor has given an abridgment of M. Lasserre's

narrative, with some interesting additions from other sources, in his

charming volume, _Pilgrimages in the Pyrenees and Landes_. A short

sketch of the history of the events at Lourdes has also been given

in the _Irish Ecclesiastical Record_, of Dublin. In this country the

_Ave Maria_ is now engaged in republishing Mr. Lawlor's sketch of

the history. We trust our readers will thank us for placing before

them the full and authentic history of M. Lasserre, a work which

has received the favorable notice of the most competent judges, and

has been honored by a brief of felicitation from the Holy Father.

The author, who was himself one of the subjects of the miraculous

efficacy of the water of the fountain of Lourdes, has spared no

pains to make his work perfectly satisfactory. The evidence, which

he has collected and arranged with consummate care and skill, leaves

nothing to be desired in respect to the proof of the reality and

the supernatural character of the events related. The charm of his

style, the subtle and powerful irony which he employs with so much

effect against the sceptics who deny the possibility of any sort

of supernatural incidents, and the vivacity of his descriptions,

make his work extremely pleasant and profitable reading. Our devout

Catholic readers will find great delight in perusing M. Lasserre's

narrative; and others, although they may receive it with a smile of

incredulity, and perhaps favor us with a few witticisms in respect to

its contents, will find it to be, as the French sceptics have found

it, a very tough subject for any thing like serious and reasonable

refutation.--EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

I.

The little town of Lourdes is situated in the department of the

Upper Pyrenees, at the entrance to the seven vales of Lavedan, and

between the low hills that sink into the plain of Tarbes and the

steeper ranges which grow into the Grande Montagne. Its houses, built

irregularly on a natural terrace, are grouped, in almost absolute

disorder, around the base of a rocky spur, on the summit of which the

formidable castle sits like an eyrie. Along the base of the cliff,

on the side opposite the town, the Gave dashes boisterously through

groves of alder, ash, and poplar, and, pausing at numerous dykes,

turns the equally sonorous machinery of several mills. The hum of the

driving-wheels and the jar of the rattling stones mingle with the

music of the winds and the splash of the rushing water.

The Gave is formed by several torrents from the upper valleys, which

spring from the glaciers, whose spotless snow covers the barren sides

of the Haute Montagne. The principal tributary comes from the cascade

of Gavarnie, which falls from one of those peaks never scaled by man.

Leaving on its right the town, the castle, and, with one exception,

all the mills of Lourdes, the Gave hastens toward Pau, which it

passes with all speed, to throw itself into the Adour, and thence

into the sea.

In the neighborhood of Lourdes, the country which skirts the Gave is

by turns wild and savage, and fair and smiling. Blooming meadows,

cultivated fields, woodland, and barren cliffs are alternately

presented to the gaze. Here are fertile plains and smiling

landscapes, the highway of Pau, never without its wagons, horsemen,

and pedestrian travellers; yonder, the giant mountains and their

awful solitudes.

The castle of Lourdes, almost impregnable before the invention of

artillery, was formerly the key of the Pyrenees. Tradition says that

Charlemagne, warring with the infidels, was unable to carry this

stronghold. Scarcely had he determined to raise the siege, when an

eagle seated itself on the highest tower of the citadel, and let

fall a large fish which it had caught up from some neighboring lake.

Either because it happened on the day when the holy church prescribes

abstinence from flesh-meat, or because the fish was at that time the

popular symbol of Christianity, the infidel commander, Mirat, saw in

this fact a prodigy, and, demanding instruction, was converted to

the true faith. This conversion was all that was necessary to bring

his castle into the hands of Christendom. Nevertheless, the Saracen

stipulated, as says the chronicler, "that in becoming the knight of

Our Lady, the Mother of God, his lands, both for himself and his

descendants, should be free from every worldly fief, and should

belong to her alone."

The arms of the town still bear, in testimony of this extraordinary

fact, the eagle and the fish. Lourdes carries, on a red field, three

golden towers, pointed with sable, on a silver rock; the middle tower

is higher than the others, and is surmounted by a black spread eagle,

limbed with gold, holding in his beak a silver trout.

During the middle ages, the castle of Lourdes was an object of terror

to the surrounding country. At one time in the name of the English,

at another in that of the Counts of Bigorre, it was occupied by

robber chieftains, who cared for little besides themselves, and who

plundered the inhabitants of the plain for forty or fifty leagues

around. They even had the audacity, it is said, to seize goods and

men at the very gates of Montpellier, and then to retreat, like birds

of prey, to their inaccessible abode.

In the eighteenth century, the castle of Lourdes became a

state-prison. It was the Bastille of the Pyrenees. The revolution

opened the gates of this prison to three or four persons, confined

there by the arbitrary command of despotism, and in return peopled

it with several hundred criminals of quite another description. A

contemporary writer has copied from the jailer's record the offences

for which the prisoners had been immured. Besides the name of each

prisoner, the specifications of the crime are thus formulated:

"Unpatriotic.--Refusing to give the kiss of peace to citizen N----

before the altar of our country.--Busybody.--Drunkard.--Indifferent

about the revolution.--Hypocritical character, reserved in his

opinions.--Lying character.--A peace-loving miser.--Indifferent

toward the revolution," etc., etc.[287]

We may thus see what reason the revolution had to complain of the

arbitrary conduct of kings, and also how it changed the frightful

despotism of the monarchy into a reign of peace, toleration, and

perfect liberty.

The empire still retained the fortress of Lourdes as a state-prison,

and this character it kept until the return of the Bourbons. After

the restoration, the terrible castle of the middle ages naturally

became a place of less importance, garrisoned by a company of

infantry.

II.

The tower still remains the key of the Pyrenees, but in a very

different way from what it was formerly. Lourdes is at the junction

of the roads to the various watering-places. In going to Barèges,

to Saint-Sauveur, to Cauterets, to Bagnères-de-Bigorre, or from

Cauterets or Pau to Luchon, in any case, one must pass through

Lourdes. During the fashionable season, countless diligences,

employed in the service of the baths, stop at the Hotel de la Poste.

Generally they allow the travellers sufficient time to dine, to visit

the castle, and to admire the country, before passing on.

Thus from the constant visits of bathers and tourists from all parts

of Europe, this little town has been brought to quite an advanced

state of civilization.

In 1858, the earliest date of our story, the Parisian journals were

regularly received at Lourdes. The _Revue des Deux-Mondes_ counted

there many subscribers. The inns and cafés presented their guests

with three numbers of the _Siècle_, that of the latest date and

the two preceding ones. The _bourgeoisie_ and clergy divided their

patronage between the _Journal des Débats_, the _Presse_, _Moniteur_,

_Univers_ and _Union_.

Lourdes had a club, a printing-house, and a journal. The _sous

préfet_ was at Argelès; but the sorrow which the inhabitants of

Lourdes showed for the absence of this functionary was tempered by

the joy of possessing the _Tribunal de première instance_, that is,

three judges, a president, a _procureur impérial_, and a deputy.

Around this brilliant centre revolved as inferior satellites, a

justice of the peace, a commissary of police, six constables, and

seven gendarmes, one of whom was invested with the rank of corporal.

Inside of the town we find a hospital and a prison; and circumstances

sometimes come to pass, as we shall have occasion to state, in which

independent spirits, nourished with the sound and humane doctrines of

the _Siècle_, think that criminals should be put into the hospital

and the sick into the jail. But these gentlemen of such extraordinary

reasoning powers are not in exclusive possession at the bar of

Lourdes and in the medical profession; men of great learning and high

distinction are to be met--remarkable minds and impartial observers

of facts--such as are not always to be found in more important cities.

Mountaineers are generally endowed with strong and practical good

sense; and the people of this neighborhood, almost unmixed with

foreign blood, excel in this respect. Scarcely one place in France

could be cited where the schools are better attended than at

Lourdes. There is hardly a boy who does not for several years go to

lay-teachers or to the institution of the "Brothers;" hardly a little

girl who does not complete the course of instruction at the school of

the Sisters of Nevers. Far better taught than the mechanics of most

of our cities, the people of Lourdes still preserve the simplicity

of rural life. They have warm veins and southern heads, but upright

hearts and a perfect morality. They are honest, religious, and not

over-inclined to novelties.

Certain local institutions, dating back to forgotten times,

contribute toward maintaining this happy state of things. The people

of these regions, long before the pretended discoveries of modern

progress, had learned and practised, under the shadow of the church,

those ideas of union and prudence which have given rise to our

mutual aid societies. Such associations have for centuries existed

and worked at Lourdes. They date from the middle ages; they have

survived the revolution, and philanthropists would long since have

made them famous, if they had not drawn their vitality from religion,

and if they were not called to-day, as in the fifteenth century,

"confraternities."

"Nearly all the people," says M. de Lagrèze, "enter these pious

and benevolent associations. The mechanics, whom the title

of brotherhood thus unites, place their labor under heavenly

patronage, and exchange with one another assistance in work and

the succors of Christian charity. The common alms-box receives

a weekly offering from the stout and healthy artisan, to return

it at some future day when the charitable hands can no longer

earn wages."

On the death of a laborer the association pays the funeral expenses

and accompanies the body to its resting-place.

"Each confraternity except two, who share the high altar

between them, has a particular chapel, whose name it takes,

and which it supports by the collection made every Sunday.

The confraternity of Notre Dames des Grâces is made up of

farmers, tillers of the soil; that of Notre Dame de Monsarrat,

of masons; that of Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, of slaters; that

of St. Anne, of carpenters; that of St. Lucy, of tailors and

dress-makers; that of the Ascension, of quarry-workers; that

of the Blessed Sacrament, of church-wardens; that of St. James

and St. John, of all who have received either of these names in

holy baptism."

The women are likewise divided Into similar religious associations.

One of them, "the Congregation of Children of Mary," has a special

character. It is also a society for mutual aid and encouragement, but

in relation to spiritual things. To enter this congregation, although

it is merely an association of persons living in the secular state,

and not a religious society, a young person must give evidence that

she possesses a well-tried steadiness of character. The young girls

look forward to it for a long time before they reach the proper age

for admission. The members of the congregation are bound never to

put themselves in danger by frequenting worldly festivities where

the religious spirit is lost, nor to adopt eccentric fashions, but

to be exact in attending the meetings and instructions on Sunday. It

is an honor to belong to this association, a disgrace to be excluded

from it. And the amount of good which it has done in maintaining

public morality and preparing good mothers of families, is truly

incalculable. In many dioceses, confraternities have been founded on

the same plan and after this model.

This part of the country has ever shown great devotion to the Blessed

Virgin. Her sanctuaries are numerous throughout the Pyrenees from

Piétat or Garaison to Bétharram. All the altars of the church of

Lourdes have been dedicated under the invocation of the Mother of

God.

III.

Such was Lourdes ten years ago.

The railway did not pass through it; indeed, no one then dreamed that

it ever would. A much more direct route seemed to be marked out in

advance for the line through the Pyrenees.

The entire town and fortress are situated, as we have said, on

the right bank of the Gave, which, prevented from going north by

the rocky foundation of the castle, turns at a right angle to the

west. An old bridge, built at some distance above the first houses

communicates with the plains, meadows, forests, and mountains of the

left bank.

On this side of the stream, below the bridge, and nearly opposite

the castle, an aqueduct conducts much of the water of the Gave into

a large canal. The latter rejoins the main stream at the distance

of one kilometre below, after having passed along the base of the

cliffs of Massabielle. The long island thus formed by the Gave and

by the canal is a large and fertile meadow. In the neighborhood it

is called l'Ile du Châlet, or more briefly, le Châlet. The mill of

Sâvy is the only one on the left bank, and is built across the canal,

thus serving as a bridge. This mill and le Châlet belong to a citizen

of Lourdes, M. de Laffite. In 1858, as wild a place as could be

found in the neighborhood of the thriving little town, which we have

described, was at the foot of these cliffs of Massabielle, where the

mill-race rejoins the Gave. A few paces from the junction, on the

banks of the river, the steep rock is pierced at its base by three

irregular excavations, fantastically arranged, and communicating

like the pores of a huge sponge. The singularity of these excavations

renders them difficult to be described. The first and largest is on

a level with the ground. It resembles a trader's booth, or a kiln

roughly built, and cut vertically in two, thus forming a half dome.

The entrance, formed into a distorted arch, is about four metres in

height. The breadth of the grotto, a little less than its depth, is

from twelve to fifteen metres. From this entrance the rocky roof

lowers and narrows on the right and left.

Above and to the right of the spectator, are found two openings

in the rock, which seem like adjoining caves. Seen from without,

the principal one of these openings has an oval form, and is about

the size of an ordinary house window or niche in a church wall.

It pierces the rock above, and at a depth of two metres divides,

descending on one side to the interior of the grotto and ascending

on the other toward the outside of the rock, where its orifice forms

the second cave of which we have spoken, which is of use to let in

light upon the others. An eglantine growing from a cleft in the

rock extends its long branches around the base of this orifice, in

the form of a niche. At the foot of this system of caves, so easy

to comprehend to one who looks upon it, but complicated enough for

one who tries to give merely a word-sketch, the water of the canal

rushes over a chaos of enormous stones to meet the Gave, a few steps

farther on. The grotto, then, is close by the lower point of the

Ile du Châlet, formed, as we have said, by the Gave and the canal.

The caverns are called the Grotte de Massabielle, from the cliffs

in which they are situated. "Massabielle" signifies in the _patois_

of the place, "old cliffs." On the river banks, below, a steep and

uncultivated slope, belonging to the _commune_, extends for some

distance. Here the swineherds of Lourdes frequently bring their

animals to feed. When a storm arises, these poor people shelter

themselves in the grotto, as do likewise a few fishermen who cast

their lines in the Gave. Like other caves of this kind, the rock is

dry in ordinary weather, and slightly damp in times of rain. But

this dampness and dripping of the rainy season can be noticed only

on the right side of the entrance. This is the side on which the

storms always beat, driven by the west wind; and the phenomena here

take place which can be noticed on the honey-combed walls of stone

houses, similarly exposed, and built with bad mortar. The left side

and floor, however, are always as dry as the walls of a parlor. The

accidental dampness of the west side even sets off the dryness of the

other parts of the grotto.

Above this triple cavern the cliffs of Massabielle rise almost into

peaks, draped with masses of ivy and boxwood, and folds of heather

and moss. Tangled briers, hazel shoots, eglantines, and a few trees,

whose branches the winds often break, have struck root in clefts of

the rock, wherever the crumbling mountain has produced or the wings

of the storm have borne a few handfuls of soil. The eternal Sower,

whose invisible hand fills with stars and planets the immensity of

space, who has drawn from nothing the ground which we tread, and its

plants and animals, the Creator of the millions of men who people

the earth, and the myriads of angels who dwell in heaven, this God,

whose wealth and power know no bounds, takes care that no atom shall

be lost in the vast regions of his handiwork. He leaves barren no

spot which is capable of producing any thing. Throughout the extent

of our globe, countless germs float in the air, covering the earth

with verdure, where there seemed before no chance of life for even a

single herb, or tuft of moss. Thus, O Divine Sower! thy graces, like

invisible but fruitful motes, float about and rest upon our souls.

And, if we are barren, it is because we present hearts harder and

more arid than the rocky and the beaten highway, or covered with

tangled thorns that prevent the up-growing of thy heavenly seed.

IV.

It was requisite to the ensuing narrative to describe first the scene

where its events took place. But it is of no less importance to point

out in advance that profound moral truth, which is the starting-point

from which this history begins, in the course of which, as we shall

see, God manifested his power in a visible manner. These reflections

will, moreover, delay only for an instant the commencement of our

narrative.

Every one has noticed the striking contrasts presented by the

various conditions of men who live on this earth, where wicked and

good, rich and needy, are mingled together, and where a thin wall

often separates the hovel from the palace. On one side are all the

pleasures of life, softly arranged in the midst of rare delicacies,

comfort, and the elegance of luxury; on the other, the horrors of

want, cold, hunger, sickness, and all the sad train of human woes.

For the former, adulation, joyous visits, charming friendships. For

the latter, indifference, loneliness, and neglect. Whether it fears

the importunity of his spoken or his mute appeals, or shrinks from

the rebuke of his wretched nakedness, the world avoids the poor man,

and makes its arrangements without regard to him. The rich form an

exclusive circle, which they call "good society," and they regard

as unworthy of serious attention the existence of those secondary

but "indispensable" beings. When they hire the services of one of

the latter--even when they are good people and accustomed to succor

the needy--it is always in a patronizing way. They never use, in

this case, the language and tone which they apply to one of their

own kind. Except a few rare Christians, no one treats the poor man

as an equal and a brother. Except the saint--alas! too rare in

these days--who follows out the idea of looking upon the wretched

as representing Christ! In the world, properly so called, the vast

world, the poor are absolutely forsaken. Weighed down beneath the

burden of toil and care, despised and abandoned, does it not seem

as if they were cursed by their Maker? And, yet, it is just the

contrary; they are the best beloved of the Father. While the world

has been pronounced accursed by the infallible word of Christ, on

the other hand, the poor, the suffering, the humble, are God's "good

society." "Ye are my friends," he has said to them in his Gospel. He

has done more; he has identified himself with them. "What you have

done to the least of these, you have done also to me."

Moreover, when the Son of God came upon the earth, he chose to be

born, and to live and die, among the poor, and to be a poor man.

From the poor he selected his apostles and his principal disciples,

the first-born of his church. And, in the long history of that same

church, it is upon the poor that he lavishes his greatest spiritual

favors. In every age, and with few exceptions, apparitions, visions,

and particular revelations have been the privilege of those whom the

world disdains. When, in his wisdom, God sees fit to manifest himself

sensibly to men, by these mysterious phenomena, he descends into the

dwellings of his servants and particular friends. And mark why he

prefers the houses of the poor and humble. Two thousand years have

only served to verify that saying of the apostle, "The weak things of

the world hath God chosen, that he may confound the strong." (1 Cor.

i. 27.)

The facts which we are about to state will perhaps furnish further

proof of this truth.

V.

In 1858, the eleventh of February opened the week of profane

rejoicing which from time immemorial has preceded the austerities of

Lent. It was the _Jeudi-Gras_, or Thursday before Quinquagesima. The

weather was cold and slightly overcast, but very calm. The clouds

hung motionless in the heavens; there was no breeze abroad; and the

atmosphere was perfectly still. At times a few drops of rain fell

from the skies. This day is celebrated by special privilege in the

diocese of Tarbes as the feast of the illustrious shepherdess of

France, St. Genevieve.[288]

Eleven o'clock in the morning had already sounded from the church

tower of Lourdes.

While all the neighborhood was preparing for the festivities, one

family of poor people who lived as tenants of a miserable dwelling

in the Rue des Petits-Fossés, had not even enough wood to cook their

scanty dinner. The father, still a young man, was by trade a miller,

and had for some time endeavored to run a little mill which he had

leased on one of the streamlets that go to make up the Gave. But

his business exacted advances, the people being accustomed to have

their wheat ground on credit; and the poor miller had been forced to

give the mill back to the firm, and his labor, instead of putting

him in better circumstances, had only helped to throw him into utter

poverty. Waiting for brighter days, he labored--not at his own place,

for he had no property, not even a small garden--but at various

places belonging to his neighbors, who employed him occasionally as

a day laborer. His name was François Soubirous, and he was married

to a faithful wife, Louise Castérot, who was a good Christian, and

kept up his courage by loving sympathy. They had four children: two

daughters, the elder of whom was fourteen years of age; and two boys,

still quite young, the smaller being scarcely four years old.

For fifteen days only, had their older daughter, a puny child from

infancy, lived with them. This is the little girl who is to play an

important part in this narrative, and we have carefully studied all

the details and particulars of her life. At the time of her birth,

her mother, being ill, was unable to nurse the child, and she was

consequently sent to the neighboring village of Bartrès. Here the

infant remained after being weaned. Louise Soubirous, having become

a mother for the second time, would have been kept at home by the

care of two children and hindered from going out to daily service

or to the fields, which, however, would not be the case if her care

were limited to one. Accordingly the parents left their first-born at

Bartrès. They paid for her support, sometimes in money, more often in

kind, five francs a month.

When the little girl grew old enough to be useful, and the question

arose as to bringing her home, the good peasants who had reared her

found themselves attached to her, and, considering her as one of

their own, no longer charged her parents any thing, and employed her

to tend their sheep. Thus she grew up in her adopted family, passing

her days in solitude on the lonely hill-tops, where her humble flock

grazed.

Of prayers she knew none except the rosary. Whether her foster-mother

had recommended it to her, or whether it was the dictate of her pure

and innocent heart, she kept up the hourly practice of reciting this

prayer of the simple. Then she amused herself with those natural

playthings which kind providence furnishes for the children of the

poor, and with which they are more content than their richer cousins

with costly toys. She played with the pebbles, piling up miniature

castles, with the flowers which she culled on every side, with the

water of the brooklet, where she launched and followed great fleets

of leaf-boats; besides, she had her pets among the flock. "Of all

my lambs," she said, "there is one that I prefer to all the rest."

"And which is it?" asked somebody. "The one that I most love is

the smallest one." And she delighted in fondling and caressing it.

She herself was among children like her own darling in the flock.

Although she was already fourteen years old, she seemed no more than

eleven or twelve. Without being rendered infirm, she was subject to

asthmatic affections, which at times caused her great pain. She bore

her ills patiently and accepted her physical sufferings with that

resignation which seems so difficult to the rich, but to the needy so

very natural.

In this innocent and silent school the poor shepherdess learned that

which the world knows not; the simplicity of soul which pleases the

heart of God. Far from every impure influence, conversing with the

Blessed Virgin Mary, passing her time in crowning her with prayers

and telling her chaplet, this little maid preserved that absolute

purity and baptismal innocence which the breath of the world so

easily tarnishes, even in the best. Such was this childish soul,

bright and calm as the unknown lakes which lie hidden among lofty

mountains and silently reflect the splendors of heaven. "Blessed are

the clean of heart," says the Gospel; "for they shall see God."

These great gifts are concealed treasures, and the humility which

possesses them is often unconscious of their presence. The little

girl of fourteen years charmed all who happened to approach her, and

yet she was entirely unaware of it. She considered herself as the

least and most backward of her age. Indeed, she did not know how to

read or write. Moreover, she was an entire stranger to the French

tongue, and knew only her own poor _patois_ of the Pyrenees. She had

never learned the catechism, and in this respect her ignorance was

extraordinary. The Our Father, Hail Mary, Apostles' Creed, and Glory

be to the Father, which make up the chaplet, constituted the sum of

her religious knowledge. Hence it is unnecessary to add that she had

not yet made her first communion. It was to prepare her for this,

that the Soubirous determined to bring her home, in spite of their

poverty, and send her to the catechetical instructions at Lourdes.

She had now been for two weeks under her father's roof. Alarmed by

her asthma and her frail appearance, her mother watched over her with

particular care. While the other children went barefoot in their

sabots, (wooden shoes,) she was provided with stockings; and while

her sister and brothers went freely out of doors, she was constantly

employed in the house. The child, accustomed to the open air, would

very gladly have gone out into it.

The day, then, was _Jeudi-Gras_, eleven o'clock had struck, and these

poor people had no wood to cook their dinner.

"Go, and gather some sticks by the Gave or on the common," said the

mother to Marie, her second daughter.

Here, as in many other places, the poor have a sort of customary

right to glean the dried branches which the wind blows from the trees

in the _commune_, and to the driftwood which the torrent leaves among

the pebbles on its bank.

Marie put on her sabots. The eldest child, of whom we have been

speaking, the little shepherdess of Bartrès, looked wistfully at her

sister.

"Let me go, too?" she finally asked of her mother. "I will carry my

little bundle of sticks."

"No," replied Louise Soubirous, "you have a cough, and you will catch

more cold."

A little girl from a neighboring house, named Jeanne Abadie, about

fifteen years of age, having come in during this conversation, was

likewise preparing to go for wood. All joined in importuning, and the

mother allowed herself to be persuaded.

The child at once covered her head with her kerchief, tied on one

side, as is the custom among peasants of the south. This did not

appear sufficient to her mother.

"Put on your _capulet_," said the latter. The capulet is a graceful

garment worn by the dwellers in the Pyrenees. It is at once a hood

and a mantle, made of very stout cloth, sometimes white as fleece,

sometimes of a bright scarlet color; it covers the head and falls

over the shoulders to the waist. In cold or stormy weather, the women

use it to wrap their neck and arms, and, when the garment is too

warm, they fold it up in a square and wear it as a cap upon their

heads. The capulet of the little shepherdess of Bartrès was white.

VI.

The three children left the town, and crossing the bridge, reached

the left bank of the Gave. They passed the mill of M. de Laffite and

entered the Chalêt, gathering here and there sticks for their little

fagots. They walked down the river's course, the delicate child

following at some distance her stronger companions. Less fortunate

than they, she had not yet found any thing, and her apron was empty,

while her sister and Jeanne had begun to load themselves with twigs

and chips.

Clad in a black gown, well worn and patched, her pale countenance

inclosed in the fold of the capulet which fell over her shoulders,

and her feet protected by a large pair of sabots, she wore an air

of grace and rustic innocence which appealed more to the heart than

to the senses. She was still quite small for her age. Although her

childish features had been touched by the sun, they had not lost

their natural delicacy. Her fine black hair scarcely appeared from

beneath her kerchief. Her brow, open to the air, was free from any

line or wrinkle. Under her arching eyebrows, her eyes of brown, in

her softer than blue, had a deep and tranquil beauty whose clearness

no evil passion had ever disturbed. Hers was the "single" eye of

which the Gospel speaks. Her mouth, wonderfully expressive, revealed

the habitual tenderness of her soul and pity for every kind of

suffering. Her whole appearance, while it pleased, also possessed

that extraordinary power of attraction exerted by lofty minds. And

what was it that gave this secret power to a child so poor, so

ignorant, clothed in tatters? It was the greatest and rarest of

possessions, the majesty of innocence.

We have not yet told her name. She had for her patron a great and

holy doctor of the church, whose genius was especially sheltered

under the protection of the Mother of God, the author of the

_Memorare_, the illustrious St. Bernard. Following a fashion which

has its charms, his great name, given to this humble peasant, had

taken a childish and rustic form. The little maid bore a title as

gracious and as pretty as herself. She was called Bernadette.

She followed her sister and companion through the fields that belong

to the mill, and sought, but vainly, among the grass and shrubbery

for some bits of wood to warm their family hearth. So Ruth or Noemi

might have appeared, going to glean in the harvest-fields of Booz.

VII.

Straying in this manner, the three little girls reached the lower end

of the Châlet opposite the triple cave, the grotto of Massabielle,

which we have endeavored to describe. They were separated from it

only by the mill-race, which bathes the foot of the cliffs, and

whose current is usually very strong. To-day, however, the mill of

Sâvy has stopped work, and the small quantity of water which leaks

into the aqueduct makes but a slender stream, very easy to wade. The

fallen branches of various trees lie thick among the rocks in this

lonely and ordinarily inaccessible place. Rejoiced at this discovery,

bustling and active as Martha, Jeanne and Marie took off their

sabots, and in an instant were across the stream.

"The water is very cold," they cried as they hastily put on their

wooden shoes.

It was the month of February, and these mountain torrents, fresh

from the glacial snows, are always icy cold.

Bernadette, less alert or less eager, tarrying behind, was still on

the nearer side of the stream. It was a more serious undertaking for

her to cross. She wore stockings, while Jeanne and Marie had only to

take off their sabots, in order to wade. Even before the exclamation

of her companions, she feared the cold of the water.

"Throw in a couple of large stones," she cried, "so that I may go

over without getting wet."

The two little girls, already engaged in making up a pair of fagots,

did not wish to lose time by turning from their task.

"Do as we have done," said Jeanne, "take off your shoes."

Bernadette resigned herself, and, seated on a large stone, began to

do as she was bid.

It was about noon; the Angelus was about to sound from all the

belfries of the Pyrenees.

VIII.

She was in the act of drawing off her first stocking, when she heard

near her a shock like a blast of wind, bursting with irresistible

force upon the fields. She thought it was a sudden storm, and

instinctively looked behind her. To her great surprise, the poplars

which border the Gave were perfectly motionless. Not even the

slightest breeze stirred their boughs.

"I must be dreaming," she said, and, still thinking of the noise,

she could not believe that she had heard it. She turned again to her

stocking. At this instant the impetuous roar of this unknown wind was

heard again. Bernadette raised her glance, and uttered, or would have

uttered, a loud cry, but it died upon her lips. Her limbs trembled

and gave way. Astounded by what she saw, and as if shrinking from

it, she fell upon her knees.

A vision of surpassing wonder was before her eyes. The child's

story, the countless inquiries to which she has since been subjected

by thousands of active and shrewd investigators, have brought out

all the details, and enabled us to trace each line of the general

appearance of that wonderful being who met at this moment the

ravished glance of Bernadette.

IX.

Above the grotto, before which Marie and Jeanne, busily employed and

bent toward the ground, were gathering sticks, in the rude niche

formed by the rock, surrounded by a heavenly glory, stood a lady of

matchless beauty.

The ineffable radiance which floated around her did not hurt the

eyes, like the brightness of the sun. On the contrary, this aureole

of soft and gentle light irresistibly attracted the glance, which

it seemed to relieve and fill with pleasure. It was like the gleam

of the morning-star. But there was nothing vague or misty about the

apparition. It had not the shifting contour of a fantastic vision; it

was a reality, a human body, which to the eye seemed palpable as our

own flesh, and which resembled the figure of an ordinary human person

in all respects, except that it was surrounded by a luminous halo,

and was radiant with celestial beauty. The lady was of medium height.

She looked very youthful, like one who had attained her twentieth

year, without losing any of the tender delicacy of girlhood, which

usually fades so soon. This beauty bore in her countenance the

impress of everlasting durability. Moreover, in her features the

heavenly lines blended, without disturbing their mutual harmony, the

peculiar charms of the four seasons of human life. The innocent

candor of the child, the spotless purity of the virgin, the calm

tenderness of the loftiest maternity, a wisdom surpassing the lore

of centuries, blended together without effacing each other, in this

wonderful and youthful countenance. To whom shall we liken her in

this sinful world, where the rays of beauty are scattered, broken, or

discolored, and seldom reach us without some impure mixture? Every

image, every comparison would only abase this unspeakable type. No

majesty, no excellence, no simplicity here below could ever give us

an idea whereby we might better understand it. It is not with the

lamps of earth that we can light up the stars of heaven.

The regularity and ideal beauty of these features surpassed all

description. It could only be said that their oval curve was of

infinite grace, that the eyes were blue and of a tenderness that sank

through the heart of the beholder to its very depths. The lips wore

an expression of heavenly goodness and mildness. The brow was like

the seat of the highest wisdom; that wisdom which combines universal

knowledge with boundless virtue.

Her garments were of an unknown fabric, woven in the mysterious looms

which serve to robe the lily of the valley; for they were white as

the stainless mountain snows, and yet more splendid than the raiment

of Solomon in all his glory. The vesture, long and trailing in

chaste folds, revealed her virginal feet, which lightly pressed the

broad branch of eglantine, and on each of which blossomed the golden

mystical rose.