PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

PART IV.

PRAYER ON THE ACROPOLIS

ST. RENAN

MY UNCLE PIERRE.

GOOD MASTER SYSTÈME.

PART I.

PART II.

LITTLE NOÉMI.

PART I.

PART II.

THE PETTY SEMINARY OF ST. NICHOLAS DU CHARDONNET.

PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

THE ISSY SEMINARY.

PART I.

PART II.

THE ST. SULPICE SEMINARY.

PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

PART IV.

PART V.

FIRST STEPS OUTSIDE ST. SULPICE.

PART I.

PART II.

PART III.

PART IV.

PART V.

APPENDIX

PREFACE.

One of the most popular legends in Brittany is that relating to an

imaginary town called Is, which is supposed to have been swallowed up

by the sea at some unknown time. There are several places along the

coast which are pointed out as the site of this imaginary city, and

the fishermen have many strange tales to tell of it. According to

them, the tips of the spires of the churches may be seen in the hollow

of the waves when the sea is rough, while during a calm the music of

their bells, ringing out the hymn appropriate to the day, rises above

the waters. I often fancy that I have at the bottom of my heart a city

of Is with its bells calling to prayer a recalcitrant congregation.

At times I halt to listen to these gentle vibrations which seem as if

they came from immeasurable depths, like voices from another world.

Since old age began to steal over me, I have loved more especially

during the repose which summer brings with it, to gather up these

distant echoes of a vanished Atlantis.

This it is which has given birth to the six chapters which make up the

present volume. The recollections of my childhood do not pretend to

form a complete and continuous narrative. They are merely the images

which arose before me and the reflections which suggested themselves

to me while I was calling up a past fifty years old, written down in

the order in which they came. Goethe selected as the title for his

memoirs "Truth and Poetry," thereby signifying that a man cannot write

his own biography in the same way that he would that of any one else.

What one says of oneself is always poetical. To fancy that the small

details of one's own life are worth recording is to be guilty of very

petty vanity. A man writes such things in order to transmit to others

the theory of the universe which he carries within himself. The form

of the present work seemed to me a convenient one for expressing

certain shades of thought which my previous writings did not convey.

I had no desire to furnish information about myself for the future use

of those who might wish to write essays or articles about me.

What in history is a recommendation would here have been a drawback;

the whole of this small volume is true, but not true in the sense

required-for a "Biographical Dictionary." I have said several things

with the intent to raise a smile, and, if such a thing had been

compatible with custom, I might have used the expression _cum grano

salis_ as a marginal note in many cases. I have been obliged to be

very careful in what I wrote. Many of the persons to whom I refer may

be still alive; and those who are not accustomed to find themselves in

print have a sort of horror of publicity. I have, therefore,

altered several proper names. In other cases, by means of a slight

transposition of date and place, I have rendered identification

impossible. The story of "the Flax-crusher" is absolutely true, with

the exception that the name of the manor-house is a fictitious one.

With regard to "Good Master Système," I have been furnished by M.

Duportal du Godasmeur with further details which do not confirm

certain ideas entertained by my mother as to the mystery in which this

aged recluse enveloped his existence. I have, however, made no change

in the body of the work, thinking that it would be better to leave

M. Duportal to publish the true story, known only to himself, of this

enigmatic character.

The chief defect for which I should feel some apology necessary if

this book had any pretension to be considered a regular memoir of

my life, is that there are many gaps in it. The person who had the

greatest influence on my life, my sister Henriette, is scarcely

mentioned in it.[1] In September 1862, a year after the death of this

invaluable friend, I wrote for the few persons who had known her well,

a short notice of her life. Only a hundred copies were printed. My

sister was so unassuming, and she was so averse from the stress

and stir of the world that I should have fancied I could hear her

reproaching me from her grave, if I had made this sketch public

property. I have more than once been tempted to include it in this

volume, but on second thoughts I have felt that to do so would be an

act of profanation. The pamphlet in question was read and appreciated

by a few persons who were kindly disposed towards her and towards

myself. It would be wrong of me to expose a memory so sacred in my

eyes to the supercilious criticisms which are part and parcel of the

right acquired by the purchaser of a book. It seemed to me that in

placing the lines referring to her in a book for the trade I should

be acting with as much impropriety as if I sent a portrait of her for

sale to an auction room. The pamphlet in question will not, therefore,

be reprinted until after my death, appended to it, very possibly being

several of her letters selected by me beforehand. The natural sequence

of this book, which is neither more nor less than the sequence in the

various periods of my life, brings about a sort of contrast between

the anecdotes of Brittany and those of the Seminary, the latter

being the details of a darksome struggle, full of reasonings and

hard scholasticism, while the recollections of my earlier years are

instinct with the impressions of childlike sensitiveness, of candour,

of innocence, and of affection. There is nothing surprising about

this contrast. Nearly all of us are double. The more a man develops

intellectually, the stronger is his attraction to the opposite pole:

that is to say, to the irrational, to the repose of mind in absolute

ignorance, to the woman who is merely a woman, the instinctive being

who acts solely from the impulse of an obscure conscience. The fierce

school of controversy, in which the mind of Europe has been involved

since the time of Abélard, induces periods of mental drought and

aridity. The brain, parched by reasoning, thirsts for simplicity, like

the desert for spring water. When reflection has brought us up to the

last limit of doubt, the spontaneous affirmation of the good and of

the beautiful which is to be found in the female conscience delights

us and settles the question for us. This is why religion is preserved

to the world by woman alone. A beautiful and a virtuous woman is the

mirage which peoples with lakes and green avenues our great moral

desert. The superiority of modern science consists in the fact

that each step forward it takes is a step further in the order of

abstractions. We make chemistry from chemistry, algebra from algebra;

the very indefatigability with which we fathom nature removes us

further from her. This is as it should be, and let no one fear to

prosecute his researches, for out of this merciless dissection comes

life. But we need not be surprised at the feverish heat which, after

these orgies of dialectics, can only be calmed by the kisses of the

artless creature in whom nature lives and smiles. Woman restores us to

communication with the eternal spring in which God reflects Himself.

The candour of a child, unconscious of its own beauty and seeing God

clear as the daylight, is the great revelation of the ideal, just as

the unconscious coquetry of the flower is a proof that Nature adorns

herself for a husband.

One should never write except upon that which one loves. Oblivion and

silence are the proper punishments to be inflicted upon all that we

meet with in the way of what is ungainly or vulgar in the course of

our journey through life. Referring to a past which is dear to me,

I have spoken of it with kindly sympathy; but I should be sorry to

create any misapprehension, and to be taken for an uncompromising

reactionist. I love the past, but I envy the future. It would have

been very pleasant to have lived upon this planet at as late a period

as possible. Descartes would be delighted if he could read some

trivial work on natural philosophy and cosmography written in the

present day. The fourth form school boy of our age is acquainted with

truths to know which Archimedes would have laid down his life. What

would we not give to be able to get a glimpse of some book which will

be used as a school-primer a hundred years hence?

We must not, because of our personal tastes, our prejudices perhaps,

set ourselves to oppose the action of our time. This action goes on

without regard to us, and probably it is right. The world is moving in

the direction of what I may call a kind of Americanism, which shocks

our refined ideas, but which, when once the crisis of the present

hour is over, may very possibly not be more inimical than the ancient

_régime_ to the only thing which is of any real importance; viz.

the emancipation and progress of the human mind. A society in which

personal distinction is of little account, in which talent and wit are

not marketable commodities, in which exalted functions do not ennoble,

in which politics are left to men devoid of standing or ability, in

which the recompenses of life are accorded by preference to intrigue,

to vulgarity, to the charlatans who cultivate the art of puffing, and

to the smart people who just keep without the clutches of the law,

would never suit us. We have been accustomed to a more protective

system, and to the government patronizing what is noble and worthy.

But we have not secured this patronage for nothing. Richelieu and

Louis XIV. looked upon it as their duty to provide pensions for men of

merit all the world over; how much better it would have been, if the

spirit of the time had admitted of it, that they should have left

the men of merit to themselves! The period of the Restoration has the

credit of being a liberal one; yet we should certainly not like

to live now under a _régime_ which warped such a genius as Cuvier,

stifled with paltry compromises the keen mind of M. Cousin, and

retarded the growth of criticism by half a century. The concessions

which had to be made to the court, to society, and to the clergy, were

far worse than the petty annoyances which a democracy can inflict upon

us.

The eighteen years of the monarchy of July were in reality a period

of liberty, but the official direction given to things of the mind was

often superficial and no better than would be expected of the average

shopkeeper. With regard to the second empire, if the ten last years of

its duration in some measure repaired the mischief done in the first

eight, it must never be forgotten how strong this government was when

it was a question of crushing the intelligence, and how feeble when

it came to raising it up. The present hour is a gloomy one, and the

immediate outlook is not cheerful. Our unfortunate country is ever

threatened with heart disease, and all Europe is a prey to some

deep-rooted malady. But by way of consolation, let us reflect upon

what we have suffered. The evil to come must be grevious indeed if we

cannot say:

"O passi graviora, dabit deus his quoque finem."

The one object in life is the development of the mind, and the first

condition for the development of the mind is that it should have

liberty. The worst social state, from this point of view, is the

theocratic state, like Islamism or the ancient Pontifical state, in

which dogma reigns supreme. Nations with an exclusive state religion,

like Spain, are not much better off. Nations in which a religion of

the majority is recognized are also exposed to serious drawbacks.

In behalf of the real or assumed beliefs of the greatest number, the

state considers itself bound to impose upon thought terms which it

cannot accept. The belief or the opinion of the one side should not

be a fetter upon the other side. As long as the masses were believers,

that is to say, as long as the same sentiments were almost universally

professed by a people, freedom of research and discussion was

impossible. A colossal weight of stupidity pressed down upon the human

mind. The terrible catastrophe of the middle ages, that break of a

thousand years in the history of civilization, is due less to the

barbarians than to the triumph of the dogmatic spirit among the

masses.

This is a state of things which is coming to an end in our time, and

we cannot be surprised if some disturbance ensues. There are no

longer masses which believe; a great number of the people decline

to recognise the supernatural, and the day is not far distant, when

beliefs of this kind will die out altogether in the masses, just as

the belief in familiar spirits and ghosts have disappeared. Even if,

as is probable, we are to have a temporary Catholic reaction, the

people will not revert to the Church. Religion has become for once and

all a matter of personal taste. Now beliefs are only dangerous

when they represent something like unanimity, or an unquestionable

majority. When they are merely individual, there is not a word to be

said against them, and it is our duty to treat them with the respect

which they do not always exhibit for their adversaries, when they feel

that they have force at their back.

There can be no denying that it will take time for the liberty, which

is the aim and object of human society, to take root in France as it

has in America. French democracy has several essential principles to

acquire, before it can become a liberal _régime_. It will be above

all things necessary that we should have laws as to associations,

charitable foundations, and the right of legacy, analogous to those

which are in force in England and America. Supposing this progress to

be effected (if it is Utopian to count upon it in France, it is not so

for the rest of Europe, in which the aspirations for English liberty

become every day more intense), we should really not have much cause

to look regretfully upon the favours conferred by the ancient _régime_

upon things of the mind. I quite think that if democratic ideas were

to secure a definitive triumph, science and scientific teaching would

soon find the modest subsidies now accorded them cut off. This is an

eventuality which would have to be accepted as philosophically as may

be. The free foundations would take the place of the state institutes,

the slight drawbacks being more than compensated for by the advantage

of having no longer to make to the supposed prejudices of the majority

concessions which the state exacted in return for its pittance. The

waste of power in state institutes is enormous. It may safely be said

that not 50 per cent of a credit voted in favour of science, art, or

literature, is expended to any effect. Private foundations would not

be exposed to nearly so much waste. It is true that spurious science

would, in these conditions, flourish side by side with real science,

enjoying the same privileges, and that there would be no official

criterion, as there still is to a certain extent now, to distinguish

the one from the other. But this criterion becomes every day less

reliable. Reason has to submit to the indignity of taking second

place behind those who have a loud voice, and who speak with a tone of

command. The plaudits and favour of the public will, for a long time

to come, be at the service of what is false. But the true has great

power, when it is free; the true endures; the false is ever changing

and decays. Thus it is that the true, though only understood by a

select few, always rises to the surface, and in the end prevails.

In short, it is very possible that the American-like social condition

towards which we are advancing, independently of any particular

form of government, will not be more intolerable for persons of

intelligence than the better guaranteed social conditions which we

have already been subject to. In such a world as this will be, it

will be no difficult matter to create very quiet and snug retreats

for oneself. "The era of mediocrity in all things is about to begin,"

remarked a short time ago that distinguished thinker, M. Arniel of

Geneva. "Equality begets uniformity, and it is by the sacrifice of the

excellent, the remarkable, the extraordinary that we extirpate what

is bad. The whole becomes less coarse; but the whole becomes more

vulgar." We may at least hope that vulgarity will not yet a while

persecute freedom of mind. Descartes, living in the brilliant

seventeenth century, was nowhere so well off as at Amsterdam, because,

as "every one was engaged in trade there," no one paid any heed to

him. It may be that general vulgarity will one day be the condition

of happiness, for the worst American vulgarity would not send Giordano

Bruno to the stake or persecute Galileo. We have no right to be

very fastidious. In the past we were never more than tolerated.

This tolerance, if nothing more, we are assured of in the future.

A narrow-minded, democratic _régime_ is often, as we know, very

troublesome. But for all that men of intelligence find that they

can live in America, as long as they are not too exacting. _Noli me

tangere is_ the most one can ask for from democracy. We shall pass

through several alternatives of anarchy and despotism before we find

repose in this happy medium. But liberty is like truth; scarcely any

one loves it on its own account, and yet, owing to the impossibility

of extremes, one always comes back to it.

We may as well, therefore, allow the destinies of this planet to

work themselves out without undue concern. We should gain nothing by

exclaiming against them, and a display of temper would be very much

out of place. It is by no means certain that the earth is not falling

short of its destiny, as has probably happened to countless worlds;

it is even possible that our age may one day be regarded as

the culminating point since which humanity has been steadily

deteriorating; but the universe does not know the meaning of the

word discouragement; it will commence anew the work which has come

to naught; each fresh check leaves it young, alert, and full of

illusions. Be of good cheer, Nature! Pursue, like the deaf and blind

star-fish which vegetates in the bed of the ocean, thy obscure task of

life; persevere; mend for the millionth time the broken meshes of the

net; repair the boring-machine which sinks to the last limits of the

attainable the well from which living water will spring up. Sight and

sight again the aim which thou hast failed to hit throughout the ages;

try to struggle through the scarcely perceptible opening which leads

to another firmament. Thou hast the infinity of time and space to try

the experiment. He who can commit blunders with impunity is always

certain to succeed.

Happy they who shall have had a part in this great final triumph which

will be the complete advent of God! A Paradise lost is always, for him

who wills it so, a Paradise regained. Often as Adam must have mourned

the loss of Eden, I fancy that if he lived, as we are told, 930 years

after his fall, he must often have exclaimed: _Felix culpa!_ Truth is,

whatever may be said to the contrary, superior to all fictions. One

ought never to regret seeing clearer into the depths. By endeavouring

to increase the treasure of the truths which form the paid-up capital

of humanity, we shall be carrying on the work of our pious ancestors,

who loved the good and the true as it was understood in their time.

The most fatal error is to believe that one serves one's country by

calumniating those who founded it. All ages of a nation are leaves of

the self-same book. The true men of progress are those who profess as

their starting-point a profound respect for the past. All that we do,

all that we are, is the outcome of ages of labour. For my own part,

I never feel my liberal faith more firmly rooted in me than when I

ponder over the miracles of the ancient creed, nor more ardent for the

work of the future than when I have been listening for hours to the

bells of the city of Is.

[Footnote 1: Upon the very day that this volume was going to press,

news reached me of the death of my brother, snapping the last thread

of the recollections of my childhood's home. My brother Alain was

a warm and true friend to me; he never failed to understand me,

to approve my course of action and to love me. His clear and sound

intellect and his great capacity for work adapted him for a profession

in which mathematical knowledge is of value or for magisterial

functions. The misfortunes of our family caused him to follow a

different career, and he underwent many hardships with unshaken

courage. He never complained of his lot, though life had scant

enjoyment save that which is derived from love of home. These joys

are, however, unquestionably the most unalloyed.]

THE FLAX-CRUSHER.

PART I.

Tréguier, my native place, has grown into a town out of an ancient

monastery founded at the close of the fifth century by St. Tudwal (or

Tual), one of the religious leaders of those great migratory movements

which introduced into the Armorican peninsula the name, the race, and

the religious institutions of the island of Britain. The predominating

characteristic of early British Christianity was its monastic

tendency, and there were no bishops, at all events among the

immigrants, whose first step, after landing in Brittany, the north

coast of which must at that time have been very sparsely inhabited,

was to build large monasteries, the abbots of which had the cure of

souls. A circle of from three to five miles in circumference, called

the _minihi_, was drawn around each monastery, and the territory

within it was invested with special privileges.

The monasteries were called in the Breton dialect _pabu_ after the

monks (_papae_), and in this way the monastery of Tréguier was known

as _Pabu Tual_.

It was the religious centre of all that part of the peninsula which

stretches northward. Monasteries of a similar kind at St. Pol de Léon,

St. Brieuc, St. Malo, and St. Samson, near Dol, held a like position

upon the coast. They possessed, if one may so speak, their diocese,

for in these regions separated from the rest of Christianity nothing

was known of the power of Rome and of the religious institutions which

prevailed in the Latin world, or even in the Gallo-Roman towns of

Rennes and Nantes, hard by.

When Noménoé, in the ninth century, reduced to something like a

regular organisation this half savage society of emigrants and created

the Duchy of Brittany by annexing to the territory in which the

Breton tongue was spoken, the Marches of Brittany, established by the

Carlovingians to hold in respect the forayers of the west, he found it

advisable to assimilate its religious organisation to that of the rest

of the world. He determined, therefore, that there should be bishops

on the northern coast, as there were at Rennes, Nantes, and Vannes,

and he accordingly converted into bishoprics the monasteries of St.

Pol de Léon, Tréguier, St. Brieuc, St. Malo, and Dol. He would

have liked to have had an archbishop as well and so form a separate

ecclesiastical province, but, despite the well-intentioned devices

employed to prove that St. Samson had been a metropolitan prelate, the

grades of the Church universal were already apportioned, and the new

bishoprics were perforce compelled to attach themselves to the nearest

Gallo-Roman province at Tours.

The meaning of these obscure beginnings gradually faded away, and from

the name of _Pabu Tual, Papa Tual_, found, as was reported, upon some

old stained-glass windows, it was inferred that St. Tudwal had been

Pope. The explanation seemed a very simple one, for St. Tudwal, it was

well known, had been to Rome, and he was so holy a man that what could

be more natural than that the cardinals, when they became acquainted

with him, should have selected him for the vacant See. Such things

were always happening, and the godly persons of Tréguier were

very proud of the pontifical reign of their patron saint. The more

reasonable ecclesiastics, however, admitted that it was no easy matter

to discover among the list, of popes the pontiff who previous to his

election was known as Tudwal.

In course of time a small town grew up around the bishop's palace,

but the lay town, dependent entirely upon the Church, increased very

slowly. The port failed to acquire any importance, and no wealthy

trading class came into existence. A very fine cathedral was built

towards the close of the thirteenth century, and from the beginning

of the seventeenth the monasteries became so numerous that they formed

whole streets to themselves. The bishop's palace, a handsome building

of the seventeenth century, and a few canons' residences were the only

houses inhabited by people of civilized habits. In the lower part of

the town, at the end of the High Street, which was flanked by several

turreted buildings, were a few inns for the accommodation of the

sailors.

It was only just before the Revolution that a petty nobility,

recruited for the most part from the country around, sprang up under

the shadow of the bishop's palace. Brittany contained two distinct

orders of nobility. The first derived its titles from the King of

France and displayed in a very marked degree the defects and the

qualities which characterised the French nobility. The other was of

Celtic origin and thoroughly Breton. This latter nobility comprised,

from the period of the invasion, the chief men of the parish, the

leaders of the people, of the same race as them, possessing by

inheritance the right of marching at their head and representing them.

No one was more deserving of respect than this country nobleman when

he remained a peasant, innocent of all intrigues or of any effort to

grow rich: but when he came to reside in town he lost nearly all

his good qualities and contributed but little to the moral and

intellectual progress of the country.

The Revolution seemed for this agglomeration of priests and monks

neither more nor less than a death warrant. The last of the bishops of

Tréguier left one evening by a back door leading into the wood behind

his palace and fled to England. The concordat abolished the bishopric,

and the unfortunate town was not even given a sub-prefect, Lannion and

Guingamp, which are larger and busier, being selected in preference.

But large buildings, fitted up so as to fulfil only one object, nearly

always lead to the reconstitution of the object to which they were

destined. We may say morally what is not true physically: when the

hollows of a shell are very deep, these hollows have the power of

re-forming the animal moulded in them. The vast monastic edifices of

Tréguier were once more peopled, and the former seminary served for

the establishment of an ecclesiastical college, very highly esteemed

throughout the province. Tréguier again became in a few years' time

what St. Tudwal had made it thirteen centuries before, a town of

priests, cut off from all trade and industry, a vast monastery within

whose walls no sounds from the outer world ever penetrated, where

ordinary human pursuits were looked upon as vanity and vexation of

spirit, while those things which laymen treated as chimerical were

regarded as the only realities.

It was amid associations like these that I passed my childhood, and

it gave a bent to my character which has never been removed. The

cathedral, a masterpiece of airy lightness, a hopeless effort to

realise in granite an impossible ideal, first of all warped my

judgment. The long hours which I spent there are responsible for my

utter lack of practical knowledge. That architectural paradox made me

a man of chimeras, a disciple of St. Tudwal, St. Iltud, and St. Cadoc,

in an age when their teaching is no longer of any practical use.

When I went to the more secular town of Guingamp, where I had some

relatives of the middle class, I felt very ill at ease, and the only

pleasant companion I had there was an aged servant to whom I used

to read fairy tales. I longed to be back in the sombre old place,

overshadowed by its cathedral, but a living protest, so to speak,

against all that is mean and commonplace. I felt myself again when

I got back to the lofty steeple, the pointed nave, and the cloisters

with their fifteenth century tombs, being always at my ease when in

the company of the dead, by the side of the cavaliers and proud dames,

sleeping peacefully with their hound at their feet, and a massive

stone torch in their grasp. The outskirts of the town had the same

religious and idealistic aspect, and were enveloped in an atmosphere

of mythology as dense as Benares or Juggernaut. The church of

St. Michael, from which the open sea could be discerned, had been

destroyed by lightning and was the scene of many prodigies. Upon

Maunday Thursday the children of Tréguier were taken there to see the

bells go off to Rome. We were blindfolded, and much we then enjoyed

seeing all the bells in the peal, beginning with the largest and

ending with the smallest, arrayed in the embroidered lace robes which

they had been dressed in upon their baptismal day, cleaving the air on

their way to Rome for the Pope's benediction.

Upon the opposite side of the river there was the beautiful valley

of the Tromeur, watered by a sacred fountain which Christianity had

hallowed by connecting it with the worship of the Virgin. The chapel

was burnt down in 1828, but it was at once rebuilt, and the statue of

the Virgin was replaced by a much more handsome one. That fidelity

to the traditions of the past which is the chief trait in the Breton

character was very strikingly illustrated in this connection, for the

new statue, which was radiant with white and gold over the high altar,

received but few devotions, the prayers of the faithful being said to

the black and calcined trunk of the old statue which was relegated

to a corner of the chapel. The Bretons would have thought that to

pay their devotions to the new Virgin was tantamount to turning their

backs upon their predecessor.

St. Yves was the object of even deeper popular devotion, the patron

saint of the lawyers having been born in the _minihi_ of Tréguier,

where the church dedicated to him is held in great veneration. This

champion of the poor, the widows and the orphans, is looked upon as

the grand justiciary and avenger of wrong. Those who have been badly

used have only to repair to the solemn little chapel of _Saint Yves de

la Vérité_, and to repeat the words: "Thou wert just in thy lifetime,

prove that thou art so still," to ensure that their oppressor will die

within the year. He becomes the protector of all those who are left

friendless, and at my father's death my mother took me to his chapel

and placed me under his tutelary care. I cannot say that the good St.

Yves managed our affairs very successfully, or gave me a very clear

understanding of my worldly interests, but I nevertheless have much to

thank him for, as he endowed me with a spirit of content which passeth

riches, and a native good humour which has never left me.

The month of May, during which the festival of St. Yves fell, was

one long round of processions to the _minihi_, and as the different

parishes, preceded by their processional crucifixes, met in the

roads, the crucifixes were pressed one against the other in token of

friendship. Upon the eve of the festival the people assembled in the

church, and on the stroke of midnight the saint stretched out his arms

to bless the kneeling congregation. But if among them all there was

one doubting soul who raised his eyes to see if the miracle really did

take place, the saint, taking just offence at such a suspicion did not

move, and by the misconduct of this incredulous person, no benediction

was given.

The clergy of the place, disinterested and honest to the core,

contrived to steer a middle course between not doing anything to

weaken these ideas and not compromising themselves. These worthy men

were my first spiritual guides, and I have them to thank for whatever

may be good in me. Their every word was my law, and I had so much

respect for them that I never thought to doubt anything they told me

until I was sixteen years of age, when I came to Paris. Since that

time I have studied under many teachers far more brilliant and

learned, but none have inspired such feelings of veneration, and this

has often led to differences of opinion between some of my friends and

myself. It has been my good fortune to know what absolute virtue is. I

know what faith is, and though I have since discovered how deep a

fund of irony there is in the most sacred of our illusions, yet the

experience derived from the days of old is very precious to me. I feel

that in reality my existence is still governed by a faith which I

no longer possess, for one of the peculiarities of faith is that its

action does not cease with its disappearance. Grace survives by mere

force of habit the living sensation of it which we have felt. In a

mechanical kind of way we go on doing what we had before been doing

in spirit and in truth. After Orpheus, when he had lost his ideal,

was torn to pieces by the Thracian women, his lyre still repeated

Eurydice's name.

The point to which the priests attached the highest importance was

moral conduct, and their own spotless lives entitled them to be severe

in this respect, while their sermons made such an impression upon

me that during the whole of my youth I never once forgot their

injunctions. These sermons were so awe-inspiring, and many of the

remarks which they contained are so engraved upon my memory, that I

cannot even now recall them without a sort of tremor. For instance,

the preacher once referred to the case of Jonathan, who died for

having eaten a little honey. "_Gustans gustavi paululum mellis, et

ecce morior_." I lost myself in wonderment as to what this small

quantity of honey could have been which was so fatal in its effects.

The preacher said nothing to explain this, but heightened the effect

of his mysterious allusion with the words--pronounced in a very hollow

and lugubrious tone--_tetigisse periisse_. At other times the text

would be the passage from Jeremiah, "_Mors ascendit per fenestras_"

This puzzled me still more, for what could be this death which came

up through the windows, these butterfly wings which the lightest touch

polluted? The preacher pronounced the words with knitted brow and

uplifted eyes. But what perplexed me most of all was a passage in the

life of some saintly person of the seventeenth century who compared

women to firearms which wound from afar. This was quite beyond me,

and I made all manner of guesses as to how a woman could resemble

a pistol. It seemed so inconsistent to be told in one breath that a

woman wounds from afar, and in another that to touch her is perdition.

All this was so incomprehensible that I immersed myself in study, and

so contrived to clear my brain of it.

Coming from persons in whom I felt unbounded confidence, these

absurdities carried conviction to my very soul, and even now, after

fifty years' hard experience of the world[1] the impression has not

quite worn off. The comparison between women and firearms made me very

cautious, and not until age began to creep over me did I see that this

also was vanity, and that the Preacher was right when he said: "Go thy

way, eat thy bread joyfully ... with the woman whom thou lovest." My

ideas upon this head outlived my ideas upon religion, and this is

why I have enjoyed immunity from the opprobrium which I should not

unreasonably have been subjected to if it could have been said that I

left the seminary for other reasons than those derived from philology.

The commonplace interrogation, "Where is the woman?" in which laymen

invariably look for an explanation of all such cases cannot but seem

a paltry attempt at humour to those who see things as they really are.

My early days were passed in this high school of faith and of respect.

The liberty in which so many giddy youths find themselves suddenly

landed was in my case acquired very gradually; and I did not attain

the degree of emancipation which so many Parisians reach without any

effort of their own, until I had gone through the German exegesis.

It took me six years of meditation and hard study to discover that my

teachers were not infallible. What caused me more grief than anything

else when I entered upon this new path was the thought of distressing

my revered masters; but I am absolutely certain that I was right, and

that the sorrow which they felt was the consequence of their narrow

views as to the economy of the universe.

[Footnote 1: This passage was written at Ischia in 1875.]

THE FLAX-CRUSHER.

PART II.

The education which these worthy priests gave me was not a very

literary one. We turned out a good deal of Latin verse, but they would

not recognize any French poetry later than the _Religion_ of Racine

the younger. The name of Lamartine was pronounced only with a sneer,

and the existence of M. Hugo was not so much as known. To compose

French verse was regarded as a very dangerous habit, and would have

been sufficient to get a pupil expelled. I attribute partly to this my

inability to express thoughts in rhyme, and this inability has

often caused me great regret, for I have frequently felt a sort

of inspiration to do so, but have invariably been checked by the

association of ideas which has led me to regard versification as a

defect. Our studies of history and of the natural sciences were not

carried far, but, on the other hand, we went deep into mathematics,

to which I applied myself with the utmost zest, these abstract

combinations exercising a wonderful fascination over me. Our

professor, the good Abbé Duchesne, was particularly attentive in his

lessons to me and to my close friend and fellow-student Guyomar,

who displayed a great aptitude for this branch of study. We always

returned together from the college. Our shortest cut was by the

square, and we were too conscientious to deviate from the most direct

route; but when we had had to work out some problem more intricate

than usual our discussion of it lasted far beyond class-time, and on

those occasions we made our way home by the hospital. This road took

us past several large doors which were always shut, and upon which we

worked out our calculations and drew our figures in chalk. Traces

of them are perhaps visible there still, for these were the doors of

large monasteries, where nothing ever changes.

The hospital-general, so called because it was the trysting-place

alike of disease, old age, and poverty, was a very large structure,

standing, like all old buildings, upon a good deal of ground, and

having very little accommodation. Just in front of the entrance

there was a small screen, where the inmates who were either well or

recovering from illness used to meet when the weather was fine, for

the hospital contained not only the sick, but the paupers, and even

persons who paid a small sum for board and lodging. At the first

glimpse of sunshine they all came to sit out beneath the shade of the

screen upon old cane chairs, and it was the most animated place in the

town. Guyomar and myself always exchanged the time of day with these

good people as we passed, and we were greeted with no little respect,

for though young we were regarded as already clerks of the Church.

This seemed quite natural, but there was one thing which excited our

astonishment, though we were too inexperienced to know much of the

world.

Among the paupers in the hospital was a person whom we never passed

without surprise. This was an old maid of about five-and-forty, who

always wore over her head a hood of the most singular shape; as a

rule she was almost motionless, with a sombre and lost expression of

countenance, and with her eyes glazed and hard-set. When we went by

her countenance became animated, and she cast strange looks at us,

sometimes tender and melancholy, sometimes hard and almost ferocious.

If we looked back at her she seemed to be very much put out. We

could not understand all this, but it had the effect of checking our

conversation and any inclination to merriment. We were not exactly

afraid of her, for though she was supposed to be out of her mind, the

insane were not treated with the cruelty which has since been imported

into the conduct of asylums. So far from being sequestered they were

allowed to wander about all day long. There is as a rule a good deal

of insanity at Tréguier, for, like all dreamy races, which exhaust

their mental energies in pursuit of the ideal, the Bretons of this

district only too readily allow themselves to sink, when they are

not supported by a powerful will, into a condition half way between

intoxication and folly, and in many cases brought about by the

unsatisfied aspirations of the heart. These harmless lunatics, whose

insanity differed very much in degree, were looked upon as part and

parcel of the town, and people spoke about "our lunatics" just as at

Venice people say "_nostre carampane_." One was constantly meeting

them, and they passed the time of day with us and made some joke, at

which, sickly as it was, we could not help smiling. They were treated

with kindness, and they often did a service in their turn. I shall

never forget a poor fellow called Brian, who believed that he was a

priest, and who passed part of the day in church, going through

the ceremonies of mass. There was a nasal drone to be heard in the

cathedral every afternoon, and this was Brian reciting prayers which

were doubtless not less acceptable than those of other people. The

cathedral officials had the good sense not to interfere with him, and

not to draw frivolous distinctions between the simple and the humble

who came to kneel before their God.

The insane woman at the hospital was much less popular, on account

of her taciturn ways. She never spoke to any one, and no one knew

anything of her history. She never said a word to us boys, but her

haggard and wild look made a deep and painful impression upon us. I

have often thought since of this enigma, though without being able

to decipher it; but I obtained a clue to it eight years ago, when

my mother, who had attained the age of eighty-five without loss

of health, was overtaken by an illness which slowly undermined her

strength.

My mother was in every respect, whether as regarded her ideas or her

associations, one of the old school. She spoke Breton perfectly,

and had at her fingers' ends all the sailors' proverbs and a host of

things which no one now remembers. She was a true woman of the people,

and her natural wit imparted a wonderful amount of life to the long

stories which she told and which few but herself knew. Her sufferings

did not in any way affect her spirits, and she was quite cheerful the

afternoon of her death. Of an evening I used to sit with her for an

hour in her room, with no other light--for she was very fond of this

semi-obscurity--than that of the gas-lamp in the street. Her lively

imagination would then assume free scope, and, as so often happens

with old people, the recollections of her early days came back with

special force and clearness. She could remember what Tréguier and

Lannion were before the Revolution, and she would describe what the

different houses were like, and who lived in them. I encouraged her

by questions to wander on, as it amused her and kept her thoughts away

from her illness.

Upon one occasion we began to talk of the hospital, and she gave me

the complete history of it. "Many changes," to use her own words,

"have occurred there since I first knew it. No one need ever feel any

shame at having been an inmate of it, for the most highly respected

persons have resided there. During the First Empire, and before the

indemnities were paid, it served as an asylum for the poor daughters

of the nobles, who might be seen sitting out at the entrance upon cane

chairs. Not a complaint ever escaped their lips, but when they saw the

persons who had acquired possession of their family property rolling

by in carriages, they would enter the chapel and engage in devotions

so as not to meet them. This was done not so much to avoid regretting

the loss of goods, of which they had made a willing sacrifice to God,

as from a feeling of delicacy lest their presence might embarrass

these _parvenus_. A few years later the parts were completely

reversed, but the hospital still continued to receive all sorts

of wreckage. It was there that your uncle, Pierre Renan, who led

a vagabond life, and passed all his time in taverns reading to the

tipplers the books he borrowed from us, died; and old Système, whom

the priests disliked though he was a very good man; and Gode, the old

sorceress, who, the day after you were born, went to tell your fortune

in the Lake of the Minihi; and Marguerite Calvez, who perjured herself

and was struck down with consumption the very day she heard that St.

Yves had been implored to bring about her death within the year."[1]

"And who," I asked her, "was that mad woman who used to sit under the

screen, and of whom Guyomar and myself were so afraid?"

Reflecting a moment to remember whom I meant, she replied, "Why, she

was the daughter of the flax-crusher."

"Who was he?"

"I have never told you that story. It is too old-fashioned to be

understood at the present day. Since I have come to Paris there are

many things to which I have never alluded.... These country nobles

were so much respected. I always considered them to be the genuine

noblemen. It would be no use telling this to the Parisians, they would

only laugh at me. They think that their city is everything, and in my

view they are very narrow-minded. People have no idea in the present

day how these old country noblemen were respected, poor as they were."

Here my mother paused for a little, and then went on with the story,

which I will tell in her own words.

[Footnote 1: I may perhaps relate all these anecdotes at a future

time.]

THE FLAX-CRUSHER.

PART III.

"Do you remember the little village of Trédarzec, the steeple of which

was visible from the turret of our house? About half a mile from the

village, which consisted of little more than the church, the priest's

house, and the mayor's office, stood the manor of Kermelle, which

was, like so many others, a well-kept farmhouse, of very antiquated

appearance, surrounded by a lofty wall, and grey with age. There was

a large arched doorway, surmounted by a V-shaped shelter roofed with

tiles, and at the side of this a smaller door for everyday use. At the

further end of the courtyard stood the house with its pointed roof and

its gables covered with ivy. The dovecote, a turret, and two or three

well-constructed windows not unlike those of a church, proved that

this was the residence of a noble, one of those old houses which were

inhabited, previous to the Revolution, by a class of men whose habits

and mode of life have now passed beyond the reach of imagination.

"These country nobles were mere peasants,[1] but the first of their

class. At one time there was only one in each parish, and they were

regarded as the representatives and mouthpieces of the inhabitants,

who scrupulously respected their right and treated them with great

consideration. But towards the close of the last century they were

beginning to disappear very fast. The peasants looked upon them

as being the lay heads of the parish just as the priest was the

ecclesiastical head. He who held this position at Trédarzec of whom I

am speaking, was an elderly man of fine presence, with all the force

and vigour of youth, and a frank and open face; he wore his hair long,

but rolled up under a comb, only letting it fall on Sunday, when he

partook of the Sacrament. I can still see him--he often came to visit

us at Tréguier--with his serious air and a tinge of melancholy, for

he was almost the sole survivor of his order, the majority having

disappeared altogether, while the others had come to live in towns. He

was a universal favourite. He had a seat all to himself in church, and

every Sunday he might be seen in it, just in front of the rest of

the congregation, with his old-fashioned dress and his long gloves

reaching almost to the elbow. When the Sacrament was about to be

administered he withdrew to the end of the choir, unfastened his hair,

laid his gloves upon a small stool placed expressly for him near the

rood screen, and walked up the aisle unassisted and erect. No one

approached the table until he had returned to his seat and put on his

gauntlets.

"He was very poor, but he made a point of concealing it from the

public. These country nobles used to enjoy certain privileges which

enabled them to live rather better than the general mass of peasants,

but these gradually faded away, and Kermelle was in a very embarrassed

condition. He could not well work in the fields, and he kept in doors

all day, having an occupation which could be followed under cover.

When flax has ripened, it is put through a process of decortication,

which leaves only the textile fibre, and this was the work which poor

old Kermelle thought that he could do without loss of dignity. No

one saw him at it, and thus appearances were saved; but the fact was

generally known, and as it was the custom to give every one a nickname

he was soon known all the country over as 'the flax-crusher.' This

sobriquet, as so often happens, gradually took the place of his proper

name, and as 'the flax-crusher' he was soon generally known.

"He was like a patriarch of old, and you would laugh if I told you

how the flax-crusher eked out his subsistence, and added to the scanty

wage which he received for this work. It was supposed that as head of

the village he had special gifts of healing, and that by the laying

on of his hands, and in other ways, he could cure many complaints. The

popular belief was that this power was only possessed by those who

had ever so many quartering, of nobility, and that he alone had the

requisite number. On certain days his house was besieged by people

who had come a distance of fifty miles. If a child was backward in

learning to walk or was weak on its legs, the parents brought it to

him. He moistened his fingers in his mouth and traced figures on the

child's loins, the result being that it soon was able to walk. He was

thoroughly in earnest, for these were the days of simple faith. Upon

no account would he have taken any money, and for the matter of that

the people who came to consult him were too poor to give him any, but

one brought a dozen eggs, another a flitch of bacon, a third a jar of

butter, or some fruit. He made no scruple about accepting these, and

though the nobles in the towns ridiculed him, they were very wrong in

doing so. He knew the country very well, and was the very incarnation

and embodiment of it.

"At the outbreak of the Revolution he emigrated to Jersey, though

why it is difficult to understand, for no one assuredly would have

molested him, but the nobles of Tréguier told him that such was the

king's order, and he went off with the rest. He was not long away, and

when he came back he found his old house, which had not been occupied,

just as he had left it. When the indemnities were distributed some

of his friends tried to persuade him to put in a claim; and there

was much, no doubt, which could have been said in support of it. But

though the other nobles were anxious to improve his position, he would

not hear of any such thing, his sole reply to all arguments being,

'I had nothing, and I could lose nothing.' He remained, therefore, as

poor as ever.

"His wife died, I believe, while he was at Jersey, and he had a

daughter who was born about the same time. She was a tall and handsome

girl (you have only known her since she has lost her freshness), with

much natural vigour, a beautiful complexion, and no lack of generous

blood running through her veins. She ought to have been married

young, but that was out of the question, for those wretched little

starvelings of nobles in the small towns, who are good for nothing,

and not to be compared with him, would not have heard of her for their

sons. As a matter of etiquette she could not marry a peasant, and

so the poor girl remained, as it were, in mid-air, like a wandering

spirit. There was no place for her on earth. Her father was the last

of his race, and it seemed as if she had been brought into the world

with the destiny of not finding a place for herself in it. Endowed

with great physical beauty, she scarcely had any soul, and with her

instinct was everything. She would have made an excellent mother, but

failing marriage a religious vocation would have suited her best,

as the regular and austere mode of life would have calmed her

temperament. But her father, doubtless, could not afford to provide

her with a dowry, and his social condition forbade the idea of making

her a lay-sister. Poor girl, driven into the wrong path, she was fated

to meet her doom there. She was naturally upright and good, with a

full knowledge of her duties, and her only fault was that she had

blood in her veins. None of the young men in the village would have

dreamt of taking a liberty with her, so much was her father respected.

The feeling of her superiority prevented her from forming any

acquaintance with the young peasants, and they never thought of paying

their addresses to her. The poor girl lived, therefore, in a state of

absolute solitude, for the only other inhabitant of the house was a

lad of twelve or thirteen, a nephew, whom Kermelle had taken under his

care and to whom the priest, a good man if ever there was one, taught

what little Latin he knew himself.

"The Church was the only source of pleasure left for her. She was of a

pious disposition, though not endowed with sufficient intelligence to

understand anything of the mysteries of our religion. The priest, very

zealous in the performance of his duties, felt no little respect for

the flax-crusher, and spent whatever leisure time he had at his

house. He acted as tutor to the nephew, treating the daughter with the

reserve which the clergy of Brittany make a point of showing in their

intercourse with the opposite sex. He wished her good day and inquired

after her health, but he never talked to her except on commonplace

subjects. The unfortunate girl fell violently in love with him. He was

the only person of her own station, so to speak, whom she ever saw,

and moreover, he was a young man of very taking appearance; combining

with an attitude of great outward modesty an air of subdued melancholy

and resignation. One could see that he had a heart and strong feeling,

but that a more lofty principle held them in subjection, or rather

that they were transformed into something higher. You know how

fascinating some of our Breton clergy are, and this is a fact very

keenly appreciated by women. The unshaken attachment to a vow, which

is in itself a sort of homage to their power, emboldens, attracts, and

flatters them. The priest becomes for them a trusty brother who

has for their sake renounced his sex and carnal delights. Hence is

begotten a feeling which is a mixture of confidence, pity, regret,

and gratitude. Allow priests to marry and you destroy one of the most

necessary elements of Catholic society. Women will protest against

such a change, for there is something which they esteem even more

than being loved, and that is for love to be made a serious business.

Nothing flatters a woman more than to let her see that she is feared,

and the Church by placing chastity in the first place among the duties

of its ministers, touches the most sensitive chord of female vanity.

"The poor girl thus gradually became immersed in a deep love for

the priest. The virtuous and mystic race to which she belonged knew

nothing of the frenzy which overcomes all obstacles and which accounts

nothing accomplished so long as anything remains to be accomplished.

Her aspirations were very modest, and if he would only have admitted

the fact of her existence she would have been content. She did not

want so much as a look; a place in his thoughts would have been

enough. The priest was, of course, her confessor, for there was no

other in the parish. The mode of Catholic confession, so admirable

in some respects, but so dangerous, had a great effect upon her

imagination. It was inexpressibly pleasing to her to find herself

every Saturday alone with him for half an hour, as if she were face

to face with God, to see him discharging the functions of God, to feel

his breath, to undergo the welcome humiliation of his reprimands, to

confide to him her inmost thoughts, scruples, and fears. You must not

imagine, however, that she told him everything, for a pious woman

has rarely the courage to make use of the confessional for a love

confidence. She may perhaps give herself up to the enjoyment of

sentiments which are not devoid of peril, but there is always a

certain degree of mysticism about them which is not to be conciliated

with anything so horrible as sacrilege. At all events, in this

particular case, the girl was so shy that the words would have died

upon her lips, and her passion was a silent, inward, and devouring

fire. And with all this, she was compelled to see him every day and

many times a day; young and handsome, always following a dignified

calling, officiating with the people on their knees before him, the

judge and keeper of her own conscience. It was too much for her, and

her head began to go. Her vigorous organization, deflected from its

proper course, gave way, and her old father attributed to weakness

of mind what was the result of the ravages wrought by the fantastic

workings of a love-stricken heart.

"Just as a mountain stream is turned from its course by some

insuperable barrier, the poor girl, with no means of making her

affection known to the object of it, found consolation in very

insignificant ways: to secure his notice for a moment, to be able to

render him any slight service, and to fancy that she was of use to him

was enough, and she may have said to herself, who can tell? he is

a man after all, and he may perhaps be touched in reality and only

restrained from showing that he is through discipline. All these

efforts broke against a bar of iron, a wall of ice. The priest

maintained the same cool reserve. She was the daughter of the man for

whom he felt the greatest respect; but she was a woman. Oh! if he had

avoided her, if he had treated her harshly, that would have been a

triumph and a proof that she had made his heart beat for her, but

there was something terrible about his unvarying politeness and his

utter disregard of the most potent signs of affection. He made no

attempt to keep her at a distance, but merely continued steadfastly to

treat her as a mere abstraction.

"After the lapse of a certain time things got very bad. Rejected and

heartbroken, she began to waste away, and her eye grew haggard, but

she put a restraint upon herself, no one knew her secret! 'What,' she

would say to herself,' I cannot attract his notice for a moment; he

will not even acknowledge my existence; do what I will, I can only

be for him a _shadow_, a phantom, one soul among a hundred others. It

would be too much to hope for his love, but his notice, a look from

him.... To be the equal of one so learned, so near to God, is more

than I could hope, and to bear him children would be sacrilege; but

to be his, to be a Martha to him, to be his servant, discharging the

modest duties of which I am capable, so as to have all in common with

him, the household goods and all that concerns a humble woman who is

not initiated in any higher ideas, that would be heavenly!' She would

remain motionless for whole afternoons upon her chair, nursing this

idea. She could see him and picture herself with him, loading him with

attentions, keeping his house, and pressing the hem of his garment.

She thrust away these idle dreams from her but after having been

plunged in them for hours she was deadly pale and oblivious of all

those who were about her. Her father might have noticed it, but what

could the poor old man do to cure an evil which it would be impossible

for a simple soul like his so much as to conceive.

"So things went on for about a year. The probability is that the

priest saw nothing, so firmly do our clergy adhere to the resolution

of living in an atmosphere of their own. This only added fuel to the

fire. Her love became a worship, a pure adoration, and so she gained

comparative peace of mind. Her imagination took quite a childish turn,

and she wanted to be able to fancy that she was employed in doing

things for him. She had got to dream while awake, and, like a

somnambulist, to perform acts in a semi-unconscious state. Day and

night, one thought haunted her: she fancied herself tending him,

counting his linen, and looking after all the details of his

household, which were too petty to occupy his thoughts. All these

fancies gradually took shape, and led up to an act only to be

explained by the mental state to which she had for some time been

reduced."

What follows would indeed be incomprehensible without a knowledge of

certain peculiarities in the Breton character. The most marked feature

in the people of Brittany is their affection. Love is with them a

tender, deep, and affectionate sentiment, rather than a passion. It

is an inward delight which wears and consumes, differing _toto caelo_

from the fiery passion of southern races.

The paradise of their dreams is cool and green, with no fierce heat.

There is no race which yields so many victims to love; for, though

suicide is rare, the gradual wasting away which is called consumption

is very Prevalent. It is often so with the young Breton conscripts.

Incapable of finding any satisfaction in mercenary intrigues,

they succumb to an indefinable sort of languor, which is called

home-sickness, though, in reality, love with them is indissolubly

associated with their native village, with its steeple and vesper

bells, and with the familiar scenes of home. The hot-blooded

southerner kills his rival, as he may the object of his passion. The

sentiment of which I am speaking is fatal only to him who is possessed

by it, and this is why the people of Brittany are so chaste a race.

Their lively imagination creates an aerial world which satisfies their

aspirations. The true poetry of such a love as this is the sonnet on

spring in the Song of Solomon, which is far more voluptuous than it is

passionate. "Hiems transiit; imber abiit et recessit.... Vox turturis

audita est in terra nostra.... Surge, amica mea, et veni."

[Footnote 1: What grand _landwehr_ leaders they would have made! There

are no such men in the present day.]

THE FLAX-CRUSHER

PART IV.

My mother, resuming her story, went on to say:--

"We are all, as a matter of fact, at the mercy of our illusions, and

the proof of this is that in many cases nothing is easier than to

take in Nature by devices which she is unable to distinguish from the

reality. I shall never forget the daughter of Marzin, the carpenter in

the High Street, who, losing her senses owing to a suppression of the

maternal sentiment, took a log of wood, dressed it up in rags, placed

on the top of it a sort of baby's cap, and passed the day in fondling,

rocking, hugging, and kissing this artificial infant. When it was

placed in the cradle beside her of an evening, she was quiet all

night. There are some instincts for which appearances suffice, and

which can be kept quiet by fictions. Thus it was that Kermelle's

daughter succeeded in giving reality to her dreams. Her ideal was a

life in common with the man she loved, and the one which she shared in

fancy was not, of course, that of a priest, but the ordinary domestic

life. She was meant for the conjugal existence, and her insanity

was the result of an instinct for housekeeping being checkmated. She

fancied that her aspiration was realized and that she was keeping

house for the man whom she loved; and as she was scarcely capable of

distinguishing between her dreams and the reality she was the victim

of the most incredible aberrations, which prove in the most effectual

way the sacred laws of nature and their inevitable fatality.

"She passed her time in hemming and marking linen, which, in her idea,

was for the house where she was to pass her life at the feet of her

adored one. The hallucination went so far that she marked the linen

with the priest's initials; often with his and her own interlaced. She

plied her needle with a very deft hand, and would work for hours at

a stretch, absorbed in a delicious reverie. So she satisfied her

cravings, and passed through moments of delight which kept her happy

for days.

"Thus the weeks passed, while she traced the name so dear to her, and

associated it with her own--this alone being a pastime which consoled

her. Her hands were always busy in his service, and the linen which

she had sewn for him seemed to be herself. It would be used and

touched by him, and there was deep joy in the thought. She would be

always deprived of him, it was true, but the impossible must remain

the impossible, and she would have drawn herself as near to him as

could be. For a whole year she fed in fancy upon her pitiful little

happiness. Alone, and with her eyes intent upon her work, she lived

in another world, and believed herself to be his wife in a humble

measure. The hours flowed on slowly like the motion of her needle; her

hapless imagination was relieved. And then she at times indulged in a

little hope. Perhaps he would be touched, even to tears, when he made

the discovery, testifying to her great love. 'He will see how I love

him, and he will understand how sweet it is to be brought together.'

She would be wrapped for days at a time in these dreams, which were

nearly always followed by a period of extreme prostration.

"In course of time the work was completed, and then came the question,

'What should she do with it?' The idea of compelling him to accept

a service, to be under some sort of obligation to her, took complete

possession of her mind. She determined to steal his gratitude, if I

may so express myself; to compel him by force to feel obliged to her;

and this was the plan she resolved upon. It was devoid of all sense or

reason, but her mind was gone, and she had long since been led away by

the vagaries of her disordered imagination. The festivals of Christmas

were about to be celebrated. After the midnight mass the priest was

in the habit of entertaining the mayor and the notabilities of the

village at supper. His house adjoined the church, and besides the

principal door opening on to the village square, there were two

others, one leading into the vestry and so into the church, and

another into the garden and the fields beyond. Kermelle Manor was

about five hundred yards distant, and to save the nephew--who took

lessons from the priest--making a long round, he had been given a key

of this back door. The daughter got possession of this key while the

mass was being celebrated, and entered the house. The priest's servant

had laid the cloth in advance, so as to be free to attend mass, and

the poor daft girl hurriedly removed the tablecloth and napkins and

hid them in the manor-house. When mass was over the theft was detected

at once, and caused very great surprise, the first thing noticed being

that the linen alone had been taken. The priest was unwilling to let

his guests go away supperless, and while they were consulting as to

what to do, the girl herself arrived, saying, 'You will not decline

our good offices this time, Monsieur le Curé. You shall have our

linen here in a few minutes.' Her father expressed himself in the same

sense, and the priest could not but assent, little dreaming of what a

trick had been played upon him by a person who was generally supposed

to be so wanting in intelligence.

"This singular robbery was further investigated the next day. There

was no sign of any force having been used to get into the house.

The main door and the one leading into the garden were untouched and

locked as usual. It never occurred to any one that the key intrusted

to young Kermelle could have been used to commit the robbery. It

followed, therefore, that the theft must have been committed by way

of the vestry door. The clerk had been in the church all the time,

but his wife had been in and out. She had been to the fire to get some

coals for the censers, and had attended to two or three other little

details; and so suspicion fell on her. She was a very respectable

woman, and it seemed most improbable that she would be guilty of such

an offence, but the appearances were dead against her. There was

no getting away from the argument that the thief had entered by the

vestry door, that she alone could have gone through this door, and

that, as she herself admits, she did go through it. The far too

prevalent idea of those days was that every offence must be followed

by an arrest. This gave a very high idea of the extraordinary sagacity

of justice, of its prompt perspicacity, and of the rapidity with which

it tracked out crime. The unfortunate woman was walked off between two

gendarmes. The effect produced by the gendarmes, with their burnished

arms and imposing cross-belts, when they made their appearance in

a village, was very great. All the spectators were in tears; the

prisoner alone retained her composure, and told them all that she was

convinced her innocence would be made clear.

"As a matter of fact, within forty-eight hours it was seen that a

blunder had been committed. Upon the third day, the villagers hardly

ventured to speak to one another on the subject, for they all of them

had the same idea in their heads, though they did not like to give

utterance to it. The idea seemed to them not less absurd than it was

self-evident, viz., that the flax-crusher's key must have been used

for the robbery. The priest remained within doors so as to avoid

having to give utterance to the suspicion which obtruded itself upon

him. He had not as yet examined very closely the linen which had been

sent from the manor in place of his own. His eyes happened to

fall upon the initials, and he was too surprised to understand the

mysterious allusion of the two letters, being unable to follow the

strange hallucinations of an unhappy lunatic.

"While he was immersed in melancholy reflection, the flax-crusher

entered the room, with his figure as upright as ever but pale as

death. The old man stood up in front of the priest and burst into

tears, exclaiming: 'It is my miserable girl. I ought to have kept a

closer watch over her and have found out what her thoughts were

about, but with her constant melancholy she gave me the slip.' He then

revealed the secret, and within an hour the stolen linen was brought

back to the priest's house. The delinquent had hoped that the scandal

would soon be forgotten, and that she would revel in peace over the

success of her little plot, but the arrest of the clerk's wife and the

sensation which it caused spoilt the whole thing. If her moral sense

had not been entirely obliterated, her first thought would have been

to get the clerk's wife set at liberty, but she paid little or no

heed to that. She was plunged in a kind of stupor which had nothing

in common with remorse, and what so prostrated her was the evident

failure of her attempt to move the feelings of the priest. Most men

would have been touched by the revelation of so ardent a passion, but

the priest was unmoved. He banished all thought of this remarkable

event from his mind, and when he was fully convinced of the imprisoned

woman's innocence he went to sleep, celebrated mass the next morning,

and recited his breviary just as if nothing had happened.

"That a blunder had been committed in arresting this woman then became

painfully evident, as but for this the matter might have been hushed

up. There had been no actual robbery, but after an innocent woman

had been several days in prison on the charge of theft, it was very

difficult to let the real culprit go unpunished. Her insanity was not

self-evident, and it may even be said that there were no outward signs

of it. Up to that time it had never occurred to anyone that she was

insane, for there was nothing singular in her conduct except her

extreme taciturnity. It was easy, therefore, to question her insanity,

while the true explanation of the act was so incredible and so strange

that her friends could not well bring it forward. The fact of having

allowed the clerk's wife to be arrested was inexcusable. If the taking

of the linen had only been a joke, the perpetrator ought to have

brought it to an end when a third person was made a victim of it. She

was arrested and taken to St. Brieuc for the assizes. Her prostration

was so complete that she seemed to be out of the world. Her dream was

over, and the fancy upon which she had fed and which had sustained her

for a time had fled. She was not in the least violent but so dejected

that when the medical men examined her they at once saw what was the

true state of the case.

"The case was soon disposed of in court. She would not reply a word

to the examining judge. The flax-crusher came into court erect and

self-possessed as usual, with a look of resignation on his face. He

came up to the bar of the witness-box and deposited upon the ledge

his gloves, his cross of St. Louis, and his scarf. 'Gentlemen of the

jury,' he said. 'I can only put these on again if you tell me to do

so; my honour is in your hands. She is the culprit, but she is not

a thief. She is ill.' The poor fellow burst into tears, and his

utterance was choked with them. There was a general murmur of 'Don't

carry it any further.' The counsel for the Crown had the tact not to

enter upon a dissertation as to a singular case of amorous physiology

and abandoned the prosecution.

"The jury, all of whom were in tears, did not take long to deliberate.

When the verdict of acquittal was recorded the flax-crusher put on his

decorations again and left the court as quickly as possible, taking

his daughter back with him to the village at nightfall.

"The scandal was such a public one that the priest could not fail to

learn the truth in respect to many matters which he had endeavoured

to ignore. This, however, did not affect him, and he did not ask the

bishop to remove him to another parish, nor did the bishop suggest any

change. It might be thought that he must have felt some embarrassment

the first time that he met Kermelle and his daughter. But such was not

the case. He went to the manor at an hour when he knew that he would

find Kermelle and his daughter at home, and addressing himself to the

latter he said: 'You have been guilty of a great sin, not so much by

your folly, for which God will forgive you, but in allowing one of

the best of women to be sent to gaol. An innocent woman has, by your

misconduct, been treated for several days as a thief, and carried off

to prison by gendarmes in the sight of the whole parish. You owe her

some sort of reparation. On Sunday, the clerk's wife will be seated as

usual in the last row, near the church-door; at the Belief, you will

go and fetch her and lead her by the hand to your seat of honour,

which she is better worthy to occupy than you are."

The poor creature did mechanically what she was bid, and she had

ceased to be a sentient being. From this time forth, little was ever

seen of the flax-crusher and his family. The manor had become, as it

were, a tomb, from which issued no sign of life.

The clerk's wife was the first to die. The emotion had been too

much for this simple soul. She had never doubted the goodness of

Providence, but the whole business had upset her, and she gradually

grew weaker. She was a saintly woman, with the most exquisite

sentiment of devotion for the Church. This would scarcely be

understood now in Paris, where the church, as a building, goes for so

little. One Saturday evening, she felt her end approaching, and

her joy was great. She sent for the priest, her mind full of a

long-cherished project, which was that during high mass on Sunday her

body should be laid upon the trestles which are used for the coffins.

It would be joy indeed to hear mass once again, even in death, to

listen to those words of consolation and those hymns of salvation;

to be present there beneath the funeral pall, amid the assembled

congregation, the family which she had so dearly loved, to hear them

all, herself unseen, while all their thoughts and prayers were for

her, to hold communion once again with these pious souls before being

laid in the earth. Her prayer was granted, and the priest pronounced a

very edifying discourse over her grave.

"The old man lived on for several years, dying inch by inch, secluded

in his house, and never conversing with the priest. He attended

church, but did not occupy his front seat. He was so strong that his

agony lasted eight or ten years.

"His walks were confined to the avenue of tall lime-trees which

skirted the manor. While pacing up and down there one day, he saw

something strange upon the horizon. It was the tricolour flag floating

from the steeple of Tréguier; the Revolution of 1830 had just been

effected. When he learnt that the king was an exile, he saw only too

well that he had been bearing his part in the closing scenes of a

world. The professional duty to which he had sacrificed everything

ceased to have any object. He did not regret having formed too high

an idea of duty, and it never occurred to him that he might have

grown rich as others had done; but he lost faith in all save God. The

Carlists of Tréguier went about declaring that the new order of things

would not last, and that the rightful king would soon return. He

only smiled at these foolish predictions, and died soon afterwards,

assisted in his last moments by the priest, who expounded to him that

beautiful passage in the burial service: 'Be not like the heathen, who

are without hope.'

"After his death his daughter was totally unprovided for, and

arrangements were made for placing her in the hospital where you saw

her. No doubt she, too, is dead ere this, and another sleeps in her

bed at the hospital."

PRAYER ON THE ACROPOLIS.

It was not until I was well advanced in life that I began to have any

souvenirs. The imperious necessity which compelled me during my early

years to solve for myself, not with the leisurely deliberation of the

thinker, but with the feverish ardour of one who has to struggle for

life, the loftiest problems of philosophy and religion never left me

a quarter of an hour's leisure to look behind me. Afterwards dragged

into the current of the century in which I lived, and concerning which

I was in complete ignorance, there was suddenly disclosed to my gaze a

spectacle as novel to me as the society of Saturn or Venus would be

to any one landed in those planets. It struck me as being paltry and

morally inferior to what I had seen at Issy and St. Sulpice; though

the great scientific and critical attainments of men like Eugéne

Burnouf, the brilliant conversation of M. Cousin, and the revival

brought about by Germany in nearly all the historical sciences,

coupled with my travels and the fever of production, carried me away

and prevented me from meditating on the years which were already

relegated to what seemed like a distant past. My residence in Syria

tended still further to obliterate my early recollections. The new

sensations which I experienced there, the glimpses which I caught of

a divine world, so different from our frigid and sombre countries,

absorbed my whole being. My dreams were haunted for a time by the

burnt-up mountain-chain of Galaad and the peak of Safed, where the

Messiah was to appear, by Carmel and its beds of anemone sown by

God, by the Gulf of Aphaca whence issues the river Adonis. Strangely

enough, it was at Athens, in 1865, that I first felt a strong backward

impulse, the effect being that of a fresh and bracing breeze coming

from afar.

The impression which Athens made upon me was the strongest which I

have ever felt. There is one and only one place in which perfection

exists, and that is Athens, which outdid anything I had ever imagined.

I had before my eyes the ideal of beauty crystallised in the marble of

Pentelicus. I had hitherto thought that perfection was not to be

found in this world; one thing alone seemed to come anywhere near to

perfection. For some time past I had ceased to believe in miracles

strictly so called, though the singular destiny of the Jewish people,

leading up to Jesus and Christianity, appeared to me to stand alone.

And now suddenly there arose by the side of the Jewish miracle the

Greek miracle, a thing which has only existed once, which had never

been seen before, which will never be seen again, but the effect of

which will last for ever, an eternal type of beauty, without a single

blemish, local or national. I of course knew before I went there that

Greece had created science, art, and philosophy, but the means of

measurement were wanting. The sight of the Acropolis was like a

revelation of the Divine, such as that which I experienced when,

gazing down upon the valley of the Jordan from the heights of Casyoun,

I first felt the living reality of the Gospel. The whole world then

appeared to me barbarian. The East repelled me by its pomp, its

ostentation, and its impostures. The Romans were merely rough

soldiers; the majesty of the noblest Roman of them all, of an Augustus

and a Trajan, was but attitudinising compared to the ease and simple

nobility of these proud and peaceful citizens. Celts, Germans, and

Slavs appeared as conscientious but scarcely civilised Scythians. Our

own Middle Ages seemed to me devoid of elegance and style, disfigured

by misplaced pride and pedantry, Charlemagne was nothing more than an

awkward German stableman; our chevaliers louts at whom Themistocles

and Alcibiades would have laughed. But here you had a whole people

of aristocrats, a general public composed entirely of connoisseurs,

a democracy which was capable of distinguishing shades of art so

delicate that even our most refined judges can scarcely appreciate

them. Here you had a public capable of understanding in what consisted

the beauty of the Propylon and the superiority of the sculptures of

the Parthenon. This revelation of true and simple grandeur went to

my very soul. All that I had hitherto seen seemed to me the

awkward effort of a Jesuitical art, a rococo mixture of silly pomp,

charlatanism, and caricature.

These sentiments were stronger as I stood on the Acropolis than

anywhere else. An excellent architect with whom I had travelled would

often remark that to his mind the truth of the gods was in proportion

to the solid beauty of the temples reared in their honour. Judged by

this standard, Athens would have no rival. What adds so much to the

beauty of the buildings is their absolute honesty and the respect

shown to the Divinity. The parts of the building not seen by the

public are as well constructed as those which meet the eye; and

there are none of those deceptions which, in French churches more

particularly, give the idea of being intended to mislead the

Divinity as to the value of the offering. The aspect of rectitude and

seriousness which I had before me caused me to blush at the thought

of having often done sacrifice to a less pure ideal. The hours which

I passed on the sacred eminence were hours of prayer. My whole life

unfolded itself, as in a general confession, before my eyes. But the

most singular thing was that in confessing my sins I got to like them,

and my resolve to become classical eventually drove me into just the

opposite direction. An old document which I have lighted upon among my

memoranda of travel contains the following:--

_Prayer which I said on the Acropolis when I had succeeded in

understanding the perfect beauty of it_.

"Oh! nobility! Oh! true and simple beauty! Goddess, the worship of

whom signifies reason and wisdom, thou whose temple is an eternal

lesson of conscience and truth, I come late to the threshold of thy

mysteries; I bring to the foot of thy altar much remorse. Ere finding

thee, I have had to make infinite search. The initiation which thou

didst confer by a smile upon the Athenian at his birth I have acquired

by force of reflection and long labour.

"I am born, O goddess of the blue eyes, of barbarian parents,

among the good and virtuous Cimmerians who dwell by the shore of a

melancholy sea, bristling with rocks ever lashed by the storm. The

sun is scarcely known in this country, its flowers are seaweed, marine

plants, and the coloured shells which are gathered in the recesses

of lonely bays. The clouds seem colourless, and even joy is rather

sorrowful there; but fountains of fresh water spring out of the rocks,

and the eyes of the young girls are like the green fountains in which,

with their beds of waving herbs, the sky is mirrored.

"My forefathers, as far as we can trace them, have passed their lives

in navigating the distant seas, which thy Argonauts knew not, I used

to hear as a child the songs which told of voyages to the Pole; I was

cradled amid the souvenir of floating ice, of misty seas like milk,

of islands peopled with birds which now and again would warble, and

which, when they rose in flight, darkened the air.

"Priests of a strange creed, handed down from the Syrians of

Palestine, brought me up. These priests were wise and good. They

taught me long lessons of Cronos, who created the world, and of his

son, who, as they told me, made a journey upon earth. Their temples

are thrice as lofty as thine, O Eurhythmia, and dense like forests.

But they are not enduring, and crumble to pieces at the end of five or

six hundred years. They are the fantastic creation of barbarians, who

vainly imagine that they can succeed without observing the rules which

thou hast laid down, O Reason! Yet these temples pleased me, for I

had not then studied thy divine art and God was present to me in them.

Hymns were sung there, and among those which I can remember were:

'Hail, star of the sea.... Queen of those who mourn in this valley of

tears ...' or again, 'Mystical rose, tower of ivory, house of gold,

star of the morning....' Yes, Goddess, when I recall these hymns of

praise my heart melts, and I become almost an apostate. Forgive

me this absurdity; thou canst not imagine the charm which these

barbarians have imparted to verse, and how hard it is to follow the

path of pure reason.

"And if thou knewest how difficult it has become to serve thee. All

nobility has disappeared. The Scythians have conquered the world.

There is no longer a Republic of free citizens; the world is governed

by kings whose blood scarcely courses in their veins, and at whose

majesty thou wouldst smile. Heavy hyperboreans denounce thy servants

as frivolous.... A formidable _Panbaeotia_, a league of fools, weighs

down upon the world with a pall of lead. Thou must fain despise even

those who pay thee worship. Dost thou remember the Caledonian who half

a century ago broke up thy temple with a hammer to carry it away with

him to Thulé? He is no worse than the rest.... I wrote in accordance

with some of the rules which thou lovest, O Théonoé, the life of the

young god whom I served in my childhood, and for this they beat me

like a Euhemerus and wonder what my motives can be, believing only in

those things which enrich their trapezite tables. And why do we write

the lives of the gods if it is not to make the reader love what is

divine in them, and to show that this divine past yet lives and will

ever live in the heart of humanity?

"Dost thou remember the day when, Dionysodorus being archon, an ugly

little Jew, speaking the Greek of the Syrians, came hither,

passed beneath thy porch without understanding thee, misread thy

inscriptions, and imagined that he had discovered within thy walls an

altar dedicated to what he called the Unknown God? Well, this little

Jew was believed; for a thousand years thou hast been treated as an

idol, O Truth! for a thousand years the world has been a desert

in which no flower bloomed. And all this time thou wert silent, O

Salpinx, clarion of thought. Goddess of order, image of celestial

stability, those who loved thee were regarded, as culprits, and now,

when by force of conscientious labour we have succeeded in drawing

near to thee, we are accused of committing a crime against human

intelligence because we have burst the chains which Plato knew not.

"Thou alone art young, O Cora; thou alone art pure, O Virgin; thou

alone art healthy, O Hygeia; thou alone art strong, O Victory! Thou

keepest the cities, O Promachos; thou hast the blood of Mars in thee,

O Area; peace is thy aim, O Pacifica! O Legislatress, source of just

constitutions; O Democracy[1] thou whose fundamental dogma it is

that all good things come from the people, and that where there is no

people to fertilise and inspire genius there can be none, teach us to

extricate the diamond from among the impure multitudes! Providence of

Jupiter, divine worker, mother of all industry, protectress of labour,

O Ergane, thou who ennoblest the labour of the civilised worker and

placest him so far above the slothful Scythian; Wisdom, thou whom

Jupiter begot with a breath; thou who dwellest within thy father,

a part of his very essence; thou who art his companion and his

conscience; Energy of Zeus, spark which kindles and keeps aflame the

fire in heroes and men of genius, make us perfect spiritualists!

On the day when the Athenians and the men of Rhodes fought for the

sacrifice, thou didst choose to dwell among the Athenians as being the

wisest. But thy father caused Plutus to descend in a shower of gold

upon the city of the Rhodians because they had done homage to his

daughter. The men of Rhodes were rich, but the Athenians had wit, that

is to say, the true joy, the ever-enduring good humour, the divine

youth of the heart.

"The only way of salvation for the world is by returning to thy

allegiance, by repudiating its barbarian ties. Let us hasten into thy

courts. Glorious will be the day when all the cities which have stolen

the fragments of thy temple, Venice, Paris, London, and Copenhagen,

shall make good their larceny, form holy alliances to bring these

fragments back, saying: 'Pardon us, O Goddess, it was done to save

them from the evil genii of the night,' and rebuild thy walls to the

sound of the flute, thus expiating the crime of Lysander the infamous!

Thence they shall go to Sparta and curse the site where stood that

city, mistress of sombre errors, and insult her because she is no

more. Firm in my faith, I shall have force to withstand my evil

counsellors, my scepticism, which leads me to doubt of the people, my

restless spirit which, after truth has been brought to light, impels

me to go on searching for it, and my fancy which cannot be still even

when Reason has pronounced her judgment. O Archegetes, ideal which the

man of genius embodies in his masterpieces, I would rather be last in

thy house than first in any other. Yes, I will cling to the stylobate

of thy temple, I will be a stylites on thy columns, my cell shall be

upon thy architrave and, what is more difficult still, for thy sake

I will endeavour to be intolerant and prejudiced. I will love thee

alone. I will learn thy tongue, and unlearn all others. I will be

unjust for all that concerns not thee; I will be the servant of the

least of thy children. I will exalt and natter the present inhabitants

of the earth which thou gavest to Erechthea. I will endeavour to like

their very defects; I will endeavour to persuade myself, O Hippia,

that they are descendants of the horsemen who, aloft upon the marble

of thy frieze celebrate without ceasing their glad festival. I will

pluck out of my heart every fibre which is not reason and pure art.

I will try to love my bodily ills, to find delight in the flush of

fever. Help me! Further my resolutions, O Salutaris! Help, thou who

savest!

"Great are the difficulties which I foresee. Inveterate the habits of

mind which I shall have to change. Many the delightful recollections

which I shall have to pluck out of my heart. I will try, but I am not

very confident of my power. Late in life have I known thee, O perfect

Beauty. I shall be beset with hesitations and temptation to fall

away. A philosophy, perverse no doubt in its teachings, has led me to

believe that good and evil, pleasure and pain, the beautiful and

the ungainly, reason and folly, fade into one another by shades as

impalpable as those in a dove's neck. To feel neither absolute love

nor absolute hate becomes therefore wisdom. If any one society,

philosophy, or religion, had possessed absolute truth, this society,

philosophy, or religion, would have vanquished all the others and

would be the only one now extant. All those who have hitherto believed

themselves to be right were in error, as we see very clearly. Can we

without utter presumption believe that the future will not judge us as

we have judged the past? Such are the blasphemous ideas suggested to

me by my corrupt mind. A literature wholesome in all respects like

thine would now be looked upon as wearisome.

"Thou smilest at my simplicity. Yes, weariness. We are corrupt; what

is to be done? I will go further, O orthodox Goddess, and confide to

you the inmost depravation of my heart. Reason and common sense are

not all-satisfying. There is poetry in the frozen Strymon and in the

intoxication of the Thracian. The time will come when thy disciples

will be regarded as the disciples of _ennui_. The world is greater

than thou dost suppose. If thou hadst seen the Polar snows and the

mysteries of the austral firmament thy forehead, O Goddess, ever so

calm, would be less serene; thy head would be larger and would embrace

more varied kinds of beauty.

"Thou art true, pure, perfect; thy marble is spotless; but the temple

of Hagia-Sophia, which is at Byzantium, also produces a divine effect

with its bricks and its plaster-work. It is the image of the vault of

heaven. It will crumble, but if thy chapel had to be large enough to

hold a large number of worshippers it would crumble also.

"A vast stream called Oblivion hurries us downward towards a nameless

abyss. Thou art the only true God, O Abyss! the tears of all nations

are true tears; the dreams of all wise men comprise a parcel of truth;

all things here below are mere symbols and dreams. The Gods pass away

like men; and it would not be well for them to be eternal. The faith

which we have felt should never be a chain, and our obligations to it

are fully discharged when we have carefully enveloped it in the purple

shroud within the folds of which slumber the Gods that are dead."

[Footnote 1: [Greek: ATHAENAS DAEMOKRATIAS], Le Bas. I. 32nd Inscrip.]

ST. RENAN.

When I come to look at things very closely, I see that I have changed

very little; my destiny had practically welded me, from my earliest

youth, to the place which I was to hold in the world. My vocation was

thoroughly matured when I came to Paris; before leaving Brittany my

life had been mapped out. By the mere force of things, and despite

my conscientious efforts to the contrary, I was predestined to

become what I am, a member of the romantic school, protesting against

romanticism, a Utopian inculcating the doctrine of half-measures, an

idealist unsuccessfully attempting to pass muster for a Philistine, a

tissue of contradictions, resembling the double-natured _hircocerf_

of scholasticism. One of my two halves must have been busy demolishing

the other half, like the fabled beast of Ctesias which unwittingly

devoured its own paws. As was well said by that keen observer,

Challemel-Lacour: "He thinks like a man, feels like a woman, and acts

like a child." I have no reason to complain of such being the case, as

this moral constitution has procured for me the keenest intellectual

joys which man can taste.

My race, my family, my native place, and the peculiar circle in which

I was brought up, by diverting me from all material pursuits, and by

rendering me unfit for anything except the treatment of things of the

mind, had made of me an idealist, shut out from everything else. The

application of my intellect might have been a different one, but the

principle would have remained the same. The true sign of a vocation

is the impossibility of getting away from it: that is to say, of

succeeding in anything except that for which one was created. The man

who has a vocation mechanically sacrifices everything to his dominant

task. External circumstances might, as so often happens, have checked

the cause of my life and prevented me from following my natural bent,

but my utter incapability of succeeding in anything else would have

been the protest of baffled duty, and Predestination would in one way

have been triumphant by proving the subject of the experiment to be

powerless outside the kind of labour for which she had selected him.

I should have succeeded in any variety of intellectual application; I

should have failed miserably in any calling which involved the pursuit

of material interests.

The characteristic feature of all degrees of the Breton race is its

idealism--the endeavour to attain a moral and intellectual aim, which

is often erroneous but always disinterested. There never was a race of

men less suited for industry and trade. They can be got to do anything

by putting them upon their honour; but material gain is deemed

unworthy of a man of spirit, the noblest occupations being those which

bring no profit, as of the soldier, the sailor, the priest, the true

gentleman who derives from his land no more than the amount sanctioned

by long tradition, the magistrate and the thinker. These ideas are

based upon the theory, an incorrect one perhaps, that wealth is only

to be acquired by taking advantage of others, and grinding down the

poor. The outcome of these views is that the man of wealth is not

thought nearly so much of as he who devotes himself to the public

welfare, or who represents the views of the district. The people have

no patience with the idea, very prevalent among self-made men, that

their accumulation of wealth confers a benefit upon the community.

When in former times they were told that "the king sets great value

upon the Bretons," they were content, and in his abundance they felt

themselves rich. Being convinced that money gained must be taken from

some one else, they despised greed. A like idea of political economy

is very old-fashioned, but human opinion will perhaps come back to

it some day. In the meanwhile, let me claim immunity for these few

survivors of another world, in which this harmless error has kept

alive the tradition of self-sacrifice. Do not improve their worldly

lot, for they would be none the happier; do not add to their wealth,

for they would be less unselfish; do not drive them into the primary

schools, for they would perhaps lose some of their good qualities

without acquiring those which culture bestows; but do not despise

them. Contempt is the one thing which tells upon those of simple

nature; it either shakes their faith in what is right or makes them

doubt whether the better classes are good judges upon this point.

This disposition, for which I can find no better name than moral

romanticism, was inherent in me from my birth, and in some measure

by descent. I had, so Code, the old sorceress, often told me, been

touched by some fairy's wand before my birth. I came into the world

before my time, and was so weak for two months that they did not think

I should live. Code informed my mother that she had an infallible way

of ascertaining my fate. She went one morning with one of the little

shifts which I wore to the sacred lake, and returned in high glee,

exclaiming: "He means to live! No sooner had I thrown the little shift

on to the surface than it lifted itself up." In later years she used

often to say to me with much animation of feature: "Ah! if you had

seen how the two arms stretched themselves out." The fairies were

attached to me from my childhood, and I was very fond of them. You

must not laugh at us Celts. We shall never build a Parthenon, for we

have not the marble; but we are skilled in reading the heart and soul;

we have a secret of our own for inserting the probe; we bury our hands

in the entrails of a man, and, like the witches in _Macbeth_, withdraw

them full of the secrets of infinity. The great secret of our art is

that we can make our very failing appear attractive. The Breton race

has in its heart an everlasting source of folly. The "fairy kingdom,"

which is the most beautiful on earth, is its true domain. The Breton

race alone can comply with the strange conditions exacted by the fairy

Gloriande from all who seek to enter her realm; the horn which will

give no sound except when touched by lips that are pure, the magic

cup which is filled only for the faithful lover, are our special

appurtenances.

Religion is the form behind which the Celtic races disguise their love

of the ideal, but it would be a mistake to imagine that religion is

to them a tie or a servitude. No race has a greater independence of

sentiment in religion. It was not until the twelfth century, and owing

to the support which the Normans of France gave to the See of Rome,

that Breton Christianity was unmistakably brought into the current of

Catholicism. It would have taken very little for the Bretons of France

to have become Protestant like their brethren the Welsh in England.

In the seventeenth century French Brittany was completely permeated by

Jesuitical customs and by the modes of piety common to the rest of the

world. Up to that time the religion of the country had had features of

its own, its special characteristic being the worship of saints. Among

the many peculiarities for which Brittany is noteworthy, its local

hagiography is assuredly the most remarkable. Going through the

country on foot there is one thing which immediately strikes the

observer. The parish churches, in which the Sunday services are

held, do not differ in the main from those of other countries. But in

country districts it is no uncommon thing to find as many as ten or

fifteen chapels in a single parish, most of them little huts with a

single door and window, and dedicated to some saint unknown to the

rest of Christendom. These local saints, who are to be counted by the

hundred, all date from the fifth or the sixth century; that is to say

from the period of the emigration. Most of them are persons who have

really existed, but who have been wrapped by tradition in a very

brilliant network of fable. These fables, which are of the most

primitive simplicity, and form a complete treasure of Celtic mythology

and popular fancies, have never been reduced to writing in their

entirety. The instructive compilations made by the Benedictines and

the Jesuits, even the candid and curious work of Albert Legrand, a

Dominican of Morlaix, reproduce but a very small fraction of them.

So far from encouraging these antique forms of popular worship, the

clergy only just tolerate them, and would suppress them altogether if

they could, feeling that they are the survivals of another and a

much less orthodox age. They consent to say mass once a year in these

chapels, as the saints to whom they are dedicated have too great a

hold in the country to be dislodged, but they say nothing about them

in the parish church. The clergy let the people visit these little

sanctuaries of the antique rite, to seek in them the cure for certain

complaints, and to worship there after their own way; they pretend to

be blind to all this. Where, then, it may be asked, lies concealed the

treasure of all these old stories? Why, in the memory of the people?

Go from chapel to chapel, get the good people who attend them into

conversation, and if they think they can trust you they will tell you

with a mixture of seriousness and pleasantry wonderful stories, from

which comparative mythology and history will one day reap a rich

harvest.[1]

These stories had from the first a very great influence upon my

imagination. The chapels which I have spoken of are always solitary,

and stand by themselves amid the desolate moors or barren rocks. The

wind whistling amid the heather and the stunted vegetation thrilled me

with terror, and I often used to take to my heels, thinking that the

spirits of the past were pursuing me. At other times I would look

through the half ruined door of the chapel at the stained glass or the

statuettes of painted wood which stood on the altar. These plunged

me in endless reveries. The strange and terrible physiognomy of these

saints, more Druid than Christian, savage and vindictive, pursued me

like a nightmare. Saints though they were, they were none the less

subject to very strange weaknesses. Gregory, of Tours, has told us

the story of a certain Winnoch, who passed through Tours on his way

to Jerusalem, his only covering being some sheep skins with their

wool taken off. He seemed so pious that they kept him there and made

a priest of him. He made wild herbs his sole food, and raised the

wine flagon to his lips in such a way that it seemed as if he scarcely

moistened his lips. But as the liberality of the devout provided him

with large quantities of it he got into the habit of drinking, and

was several times observed to be overcome by his potations. The devil

gained such a hold over him that, armed with knives, sticks, stones,

and whatever else he could get hold of, he ran after the people in the

streets. It was found necessary to chain him up in his cell. None the

less was he a saint. St. Cadoc, St. Iltud, St. Conery, St. Renan (or

Ronan), appeared to me as giants. In after years, when I had come to

know India, I saw that my saints were true _Richis_, and that through

them I had became familiarised with the most primitive features of our

Aryan world, with the idea of solitary masters of nature, asserting

their power over it by asceticism and the force of the will.

The last of the saints whom I have mentioned naturally attracted my

attention more than any of the others, as his name was the same as

that by which I was known.[2] There is not a more original figure

among all the saints of Brittany. The story of his life has been

told to me two or three times, and each time with more extraordinary

details. He lived in Cornwall, near the little town which bears his

name (St. Renan). He was more a spirit of the earth than a saint, and

his power over the elements was illimitable. He was of a violent and

rather erratic temperament, and there was no telling beforehand as to

what he would do. He was much respected, but his stubborn resolve to

take in all things his own course caused him to be regarded with no

little fear, and when he was found one day lying dead on the floor of

his hut there was a feeling of consternation in the country. The first

person who, when looking in at the window as he went by, saw him

in this position, took to his heels. He had been so self-willed and

peculiar in his lifetime that no one ventured to guess as to how he

might wish to have his body disposed of. It was feared that if his

wishes were incorrectly interpreted, he would punish them by sending

the plague, or having the town swallowed up by an earthquake, or by

converting the country around into a marsh. Nor would it be wise

to take his body to the parish church, as he had sometimes shown an

aversion to it.

He might, perhaps, create a scandal. All the principal inhabitants

were assembled in the cell, with his stark black corpse in their

midst, when one of them made the following sensible suggestion: "We

never could understand him when he was alive; it was easier to trace

the flight of the swallow than to guess at his thoughts. Now that he

is dead, let him still follow his own fancy. We will cut down a few

trees, make a waggon of them and harness four oxen to it. Then he can

let them take him to the place where he wishes to be buried." This was

done, and the body of the saint deposited on the vehicle. The oxen,

guided by the invisible hand of Ronan, went in a straight line into

the thick of the forest, the trees bent or broke beneath their steps

with an awful crackling sound. The waggon stopped in the centre of the

forest, just where the largest of the oaks reared their head. The hint

was taken and the saint was buried there and a church erected to his

memory.

Tales of this kind inspired me early in life with a love of mythology.

The simplicity of spirit with which they were accepted carried one

back to the early ages of the world. Take for instance the way in

which, as I was taught to believe, my father was cured of fever when

a child. Before daybreak he was taken to the chapel of the saint who

exercised the healing power. A blacksmith arrived at the same time

with his forge, nails, and tongs. He lighted his fire, made his tongs

red hot, and held them before the face of the saint, threatening to

shoe him as he would a horse unless he cured the child of his

fever. The threat took immediate effect, and my father was cured.

Wood-carving has long been in great favour in Brittany. The statues of

these saints are extraordinarily life-like, and in the eyes of people

of vivid imagination they may well seem to be actually alive. I

remember in particular one good man, who was not more daft than the

rest, who always made off to the churches in the evening when he got

the chance. The next morning, he was invariably found in the building,

half dead with fatigue. He had spent the whole night in detaching the

figures of Christ from the crosses and drawing the arrows out of the

bodies of St. Sebastian.

My mother, who was a Gascon on one side (her father was a native of

Bordeaux), told these anecdotes with much wit and tact, passing

deftly between what was real and what was fanciful, so as to leave

the impression that these things were only true from an ideal point

of view. She clung to these fables as a Breton; as a Gascon she

was inclined to laugh at them, and this was the secret of the

sprightliness and gaiety of her life. This state of things has been

the means of giving me what little talent I may have for historical

studies. I have derived from it a kind of habit of looking below the

surface and hearing sounds which other ears do not catch. The essence

of criticism is to be able to realise conditions different from those

under which we are now living. I have been in actual contact with

the primitive ages. The most remote past was still in existence

in Brittany up to 1830. The world of the fourteenth and fifteenth

centuries passed daily before the eyes of those who lived in the

towns. The epoch of the Welsh emigration (the fifth and the sixth

centuries) was plainly visible in the country to the practised eye.

Paganism was still to be detected beneath a layer, often so thin as

to be transparent, of Christianity, and with the former were mixed

up traces of a still more ancient world which I afterwards came

upon again among the Laplanders. When visiting in 1870, with Prince

Napoleon, the huts of a Laplander encampment near Tromsoe, I felt some

of my earliest recollections live again in the features of several

women and children and in certain customs and traits of character. It

occurred to me that in ancient times there might have been admixtures

between the lost branches of the Celtic race and races like the

Laplanders which covered the soil upon their arrival. My ethnical

position would in this case be: "A Celt crossed with Gascon with a

slight infusion of Laplander blood." Such a condition of things

ought, if I am not mistaken, according to the theories of the

anthropologists, to represent the maximum of idiocy and imbecility;

but the decrees of anthropology are only relative: what it treats as

stupidity among the ancient races of men is often neither more nor

less than an extraordinary force of enthusiasm and intuition.

[Footnote 1: A conscientious and painstaking student, M. Luzel, will,

I hope, be the Pausanias of these little local chapels, and will

commit to writing the whole of this magnificent legend, which is upon

the point of being lost.]

[Footnote 2: The ancient form of the word is Ronan, which is still to

be found in the names of places, _Loc Ronan_, the well of St. Ronan

(Wales).]

MY UNCLE PIERRE.

Everything, therefore, predisposed me towards romanticism, not in

form, for I was not long in understanding that this is a mistake, that

though there may be two modes of feeling and thinking there can be

but one form of expressing these feelings and thoughts--but towards

romanticism of the mind and imagination, towards the pure ideal. I

was an offshoot from the old idealist race of the most genuine growth.

There is in the district of Goëlo or of Avangour, on the Trieux, a

place called the Lédano, because it is there that the Trieux opens out

and forms a lagoon before running into the sea. Upon the shore of the

Lédano there is a large farm called Keranbélec or Meskanbélec. This

was the head quarters of the Renans, who came there from Cardigan

about the year 480, under the leadership of Fragan. They led there for

thirteen hundred years an obscure existence, storing up sensations and

thoughts the capital of which has devolved upon me I can feel that

I think for them and that they live again in me. Not one of them

attempted to hoard, and the consequence was that they all remained

poor. My absolute inability to be resentful or to appear so is

inherited from them. The only two kinds of occupation which they knew

anything of were to till the land or to steer a boat on the estuaries

and archipelagos of rocks which the Trieux forms at its mouth. A short

time previous to the Revolution, three of them rigged out a bark, and

settled at Lézardrieux. They lived together on the bark, which was for

the best part of her time laid up in a creek of the Lédano, and

they sailed her when the fit took them. They could not be classed

as bourgeois, for they were not jealous of the nobles: they were

well-to-do sailors, independent of every one. My grandfather, one of

the three, took another step towards town life; he came to live at

Tréguier. When the Revolution broke out, he showed himself to be a

sincere but honourable patriot. He had some little money, but, unlike

all others in the same position as himself, he would not buy any of

the national property, holding that this property had been ill-gotten.

He did not think it honourable to make large profits without labour.

The events of 1814-15 drove him half mad.

Hegel had not as yet discovered that might implies right, and in any

event he would have found it difficult to believe that France had been

victorious at Waterloo. The privilege of these charming theories, of

which by the way I have had rather too much, were reserved for me. On

the evening of March 19th, 1815, he came to see my mother and told

her to get up early the next morning and look at the tower. And surely

enough he and several other patriots had during the night, upon the

refusal of the clerk to give them the keys, clambered up the outside

of the steeple at the risk of breaking their necks a dozen times over

and hoisted the national flag. A few months later, when the opposite

cause was triumphant, he literally lost his senses. He would go about

in the street with an enormous tricolour cockade, exclaiming: "I

should like to see any one come and take this away from me," and as he

was a general favourite people used to answer: "Why, no one, Captain."

My father shared the same sentiments. Taken by the English while

serving under Admiral Villaret-Joyeuse, he passed several years on the

pontoons. His great delight was to go each year, when the conscription

was drawn, and humiliate the recruits by relating his experiences as

a volunteer. Regarding with contempt those who were drawing lots, he

would add: "We used not to act in this way," and he would shrug his

shoulders over the degeneracy of the age.

It is from what I have seen of these excellent sailors, and from what

I have read and heard about the peasants of Lithuania, and even of

Poland, that I have derived my ideas as to the innate goodness of our

races when they are organised after the type of the primitive clan. It

is impossible to give an idea of how much goodness and even politeness

and gentle manners there is in these ancient Celts. I saw the last

traces of it some thirty years ago in the beautiful little island of

Bréhat, with its patriarchal ways which carried one back to the time

of the Pheacians. The unselfishness and the practical incapacity of

these good people were beyond conception. One proof of their nobility

was that whenever they attempted to engage in any commercial business

they were defrauded. Never in the world's history did people ruin

themselves with a lighter or more careless heart, keeping up a running

fire of paradox and quips. Never in the world were the laws of common

sense and sound economy more joyously trodden under foot. I asked my

mother, towards the close of her life, whether it was really the case

that all the members of our family whom she had known were upon as bad

terms with fortune as those whom I could remember.

"All as poor as Job," she answered me. "How could it be different?

None of them were born rich, and none of them pillaged their

neighbours. In those days the only rich people were the clergy and the

nobles. There is, however, one exception, I mean A----, who became a

millionaire. Oh! he is a very respectable person, very nearly a member

of parliament, and quite likely to become one."

"How did A---- contrive to make such a large fortune while all his

neighbours remained poor?"

"I cannot tell you that.... There are some people who are born to be

rich, while there are others who never would be so. The former have

claws, and do not scruple to help themselves first. That is just what

we have never been able to do. When it comes to taking the best piece

out of the dish which is handed round our natural politeness stands

in our way. None of your ancestors could make money. They took nothing

from the general mass, and would not impoverish their neighbours. Your

grandfather would not buy any of the national property, as others did.

Your father was like all other sailors, and the proof that he was born

to be a sailor and to fight was that he had no head for business. When

you were born we were in such a bad way that I took you on my knees

and cried bitterly. You see that sailors are not like the rest of the

world. I have known many who entered upon a term of service with

a good round sum of money in their possession. They would heat

the silver pieces in a frying-pan and throw them into the street,

splitting their sides with laughter at the crowd which scrambled for

them. This was meant to show that it was not for mercenary motives

that they were ready to risk their lives, and that honour and duty

cannot be posted in a ledger. And then there was your poor uncle

Peter. I cannot tell you what trouble he used to give me."

"Tell me about him," I said, "for somehow or other I like him very

much."

"You saw him once; he met us near the bridge, and he lifted his hat to

you, but you were too much respected in the neighbourhood for him to

venture to speak to you, though I did not like to tell you so. He was

one of the best-natured creatures in existence, but he could never be

got to apply himself to work. He was always lounging about, passing

the best part of the day and night in taverns. He was honest and

good-hearted withal, but there was no getting him to follow any

trade. You have no idea how agreeable he was until the life he led

had exhausted him. He was a universal favourite, and with his

inexhaustible stock of tales, proverbs, and funny stories, he was

welcome everywhere. He was very well read, too, and by no means devoid

of learning. He was the oracle of the taverns, and was the life and

soul of any party at which he might be present. He effected a regular

literary revolution. Heretofore the only books which people cared for

were the _Quatre Fils d'Aymon_ and _Renaud de Montauban_. All these

ancient characters were familiar to us, and each of us had his or her

favourite hero, but Peter taught us more modern tales which he took

from books, but which he remodelled to suit the local taste.

"We had at that time a pretty good library. When the mission fathers

came to Tréguier, during the reign of Charles X., the preacher

delivered such an eloquent sermon against dangerous books that we all

of us burnt any such volumes as we had. The missionary had told us

that it was better to burn too many than too few, and that, for the

matter of that, all books might under certain conditions be dangerous.

I did like the rest of the people, but your father put several upon

the top of the large wardrobe, saying that they were too handsome

to be burnt; they were _Don Quixotte, Gil Bias_, and the _Diable

Boiteux_. Peter found them there, and would read them to the common

people and to the men employed in the port. And so the whole of our

library disappeared. In this way he spent the modest little fortune

which he possessed, and became a regular vagabond, though in spite of

this he remained kind and generous, incapable of harming a worm."

"But," I rejoined, "why did not his friends send him to sea? that

would have made him more regular in his ways."

"That could never have been, for he was so popular that all his

friends would have run after him and fetched him back. You have no

idea how full of fun he was. Poor Peter! with all his faults I could

not help liking him, for he was charming at times. He could set you

off into a fit of laughter with a word. He had a knack of his own for

springing a joke upon you in the most unexpected way. I shall never

forget the evening when they came to tell me that he had been found

dead on the road to Langoat. I went and had him properly laid out. He

was buried, and the priest spoke in consoling terms about the death

of these poor waifs whose heart is not always so far from God as some

people may imagine."

Poor Uncle Pierre! I have often thought of him. This tardy esteem will

be his sole recompense. The metaphysical paradise would be no place

for him. His lively imagination, his high spirits, and his keen sense

of enjoyment constituted him for a distinct individualism in his

own sphere. My father's character was just the opposite, for he was

inclined to be sentimental and melancholy. It was when he was advanced

in years and upon his return from a long voyage that he gave me birth.

In the early dawn of my existence I felt, the cold sea mist, shivered

under the cutting morning blast and passed my bitter and gloomy watch

on the quarter-deck.

GOOD MASTER SYSTÈME.

PART I.

I was related on my maternal grandmother's side to a much more prim

class of people. My grandmother was a very good specimen of the

middle-classes of former days. She had been excessively pretty. I can

remember her towards the close of her life, and she was always dressed

in the fashion which prevailed at the time of her being left a widow.

She was very particular about her class, never altered her head-dress,

and would not allow herself to be addressed except as "Mademoiselle."

The ladies of noble birth had a great respect for her. When they met

my sister Henrietta they used to kiss her and say, "My dear, your

grandmother was a very respectable person, we were very fond of her.

Try to be like her." And as it happened my sister did like her very

much and took her as a pattern, but my mother, always laughing and

full of wit, differed from her very much. Mother and daughter were in

all respects a marked contrast.

The worthy burghers of Lannion and their families were models of

simplicity, honour, and respectability. Several of my aunts never

married, but they were very light-spirited and cheerful, thanks to the

innocence of their hearts. Families dwelt together in unity, animated

by the same simple faith. My aunts' sole amusement on Sundays after

mass was to send a feather up into the air, each blowing at it in turn

to prevent it from falling to the ground. This afforded them

amusement enough to last until the following Sunday. The piety of my

grandmother, her urbanity, her regard for the established order

of things are graven in my heart as the best pictures of that

old-fashioned society based upon God and the king--two props for which

it may not be easy to find substitutes.

When the Revolution broke out my grandmother was horror-struck, and

she took the lead with so many other pious persons in hiding

the priests who had refused to take the oath of fidelity to the

Constitution. Mass was celebrated in her drawing-room, and as the

ladies of the nobility had emigrated she thought it her duty to

take their place. Most of my uncles, on the other hand were ardent

patriots. When any public misfortune occurred, such, for instance, as

the treason of Dumouriez, my uncles allowed their beards to grow and

went about with long faces, flowing cravats, and untidy garments. My

grandmother would at these times indulge in delicate but rather

risky satire. "My dear Tanneguy, what is the matter with you? Has any

trouble befallen us? Has anything happened to Cousin Amélie? Is my

Aunt Augustine's asthma worse?"--"No, cousin, the Republic is in

danger."--"Oh, is that all, my dear Tanneguy? I am so glad to hear you

say so. You quite relieve me." Thus she sported for two years with

the guillotine, and it is a wonder that she escaped it. A lady named

Taupin, pious like herself, was associated with her in these good

works. The priests were sheltered by turns in her house and in that

of Madame Taupin. My uncle Y----, a very sturdy Revolutionist, but a

good-hearted man at bottom, often said to her: "My cousin, if it came

to my knowledge that there were priests or aristocrats concealed in

your house, I should be obliged to denounce you." She always used to

reply that her only acquaintances were true friends of the Republic

and no mistake about it.

So it was that Madame Taupin was the one to be guillotined. My mother

never related this incident to me without being very deeply moved. She

showed me when I was a child the spot where the tragedy was enacted.

Upon the day of the execution, my grandmother went, with all her

family, out of Lannion, so as not to participate in the crime which

was about to be committed. She went before daybreak to a chapel,

situated rather more than a mile from the town in a retired spot and

dedicated to St. Roch. Several pious persons had arranged to meet

there, and a signal was to let them know just when the knife was

about to drop so that they might all be in prayer when the soul of the

martyr was, brought by the angels before the throne of the Most High.

All this bound people together more closely than we can form any idea

of. My grandmother loved the priests and believed in their courage and

devotion to duty. She was destined to meet with a very cool reception

from one of them. When during the Consulate religious worship was

re-established, the priest whom she had sheltered at the risk of her

life was appointed incumbent of a parish near Lannion. She took my

mother, then quite a child, with her, and they walked the five miles

under a scorching sun. The thought of meeting again one whom she

had seen keeping the night watch at her house under such tragical

circumstances made her heart beat fast. The priest, whether from

sacerdotal pride or from a feeling of duty, behaved in a very strange

manner. He scarcely seemed to recognise her, never asked her to be

seated, and dismissed her with a few short remarks. Not a word of

thanks or an allusion to the past. He did not even offer her a glass

of water. My grandmother could scarcely keep from fainting; and she

returned to Lannion in tears, whether because she reproached herself

for some feminine error of the heart or because she was hurt by so

much pride. My mother never knew whether in after years she looked

back to this incident with the more of injured pride or of admiration.

Perhaps, she came at last to recognise the infinite wisdom of the

priest, who seemed to say to her, "Woman, what have I to do with

thee?" and who would not admit that he had any reason to be grateful

to her. It is difficult for women to comprehend this abstract feeling.

Their work, whatever it may be, has always a personal object in view,

and it would be hard to make them believe it natural that people

should fight shoulder to shoulder without knowing and liking one

another.

My mother, with her frank, cheerful, and inquisitive ways, was rather

partial to the Revolution than the reverse. Unknown to my grandmother

she used to go and hear the patriotic songs. The _Chant du Départ_

made a great impression upon her, and when she repeated the stirring

line put in the mouth of the mothers,

"De nos yeux maternels ne craignez point de larmes,"

her voice was always broken. These stirring and terrible scenes had

imprinted themselves for ever upon her mind. When she began to go back

over these recollections, indissolubly bound up with the days of

her girlhood, when she remembered how enthusiasm and wild delight

alternated with scenes of terror, her whole life seemed to rise up

before her I learnt from her to be so proud of the Revolution that I

have liked it since, in spite of my reason and of all that I have said

against it. I do not withdraw anything that I have already said; but

when I see the inveterate persistency of foreign writers to try and

prove that the French Revolution was one long story of folly and

shame, and that it is but an unimportant factor in the world's

history, I begin to think that it is perhaps the greatest of all our

achievements, inasmuch as other people are so jealous of it.

GOOD MASTER SYSTÈME.

PART II.

Among those whom I have to thank for being more a son of the

Revolution than of the Crusaders was a singular character who was long

a puzzle to us. He was an elderly man, whose mode of life, ideas, and

habits were in striking contrast with those of the country at large.

I used to see him every day, with his threadbare cloak, going to buy

a pennyworth of milk which the girl who sold it poured into the tin

he brought with him. He was poor without being literally in want. He

never spoke to any one, but he had a very gentle look about the eyes,

and those who had happened to be brought into contact with him spoke

in very eulogistic terms of his amiability and good sense. I never

knew his name, and I do not believe that any one else did. He did not

belong to our part of the country, and he had no relations. He was

allowed to go his own way, and his singular mode of life excited no

other feeling than one of surprise; but it had not always been so.

He had passed through many vicissitudes. At one time he had been in

communication with the people of the place and had imparted some

of his ideas to them; but no one understood what he meant. The word

_system_ which he used several times tickled their fancy, and this

nickname was at once applied to him. If he had gone on imparting his

ideas he would have got himself into trouble, and the children would

have pelted him. Like a wise man he kept his tongue between his teeth,

and no one attempted to molest him. He came out every day to make

his modest purchases, and of an evening he would take a walk in some

unfrequented spot. He was of a serious but not melancholy cast of

countenance, and with more of an amiable than morose expression. Later

in life when I read Colerus's _Life of Spinoza_, I at once saw that

as a child I had had before my eyes the very image of the holy man of

Amsterdam. He was left to follow his own courses, and was even treated

with respect. His resigned and affable airs seemed like a glimpse from

another world. People did not understand him, but they felt that he

possessed higher qualities to which they paid implicit homage.

He never went to church, and avoided any occasion of having to

make external display of religious belief. The clergy were very

unfavourable to him and though they did not denounce him from the

pulpit, as he had never given any cause for scandal, his name was

always mentioned with repugnance. A peculiar incident occurred to fan

this animosity into a flame, and to involve the aged recluse in an

atmosphere of ghostly terror. He possessed a very large library,

consisting of works belonging to the eighteenth century. All those

philosophical treatises which have exercised a wider influence than

Luther and Calvin were to be found in it, and the old bookworm knew

them by heart, and eked out a living by lending them to some of

his neighbours. The clergy looked upon this as the abomination of

desolation, and strictly forbade their flocks to borrow these books.

System's lodging was looked upon as a receptacle for every kind of

impiety.

I, as a matter of course, looked upon him and his books in the

same light, and it was only when my ideas upon philosophy were well

consolidated that I came to understand that I had been fortunate

enough during my youth to contemplate a truly wise man. I had no

difficulty in reconstructing his ideas by piecing together a few words

which at the time had appeared to me unintelligible, but which I had

remembered. God, in his eyes, was the order of nature, from which all

things proceed, and he would not brook contradiction upon this point.

He loved humanity as representing reason, and he hated superstition as

the negation of reason. Although he had not the poetic afflatus which

the nineteenth century has given to these great truths, System, I feel

sure, had very high and far-reaching views. He was quite in the right.

So far from failing to appreciate the greatness of God, he looked with

contempt upon those who believed that they could move Him. Lost in

profound tranquillity and unaffected humility, he saw that human error

was more to be pitied than hated. It was evident that he despised his

age. The revival of superstition, which, he thought, had been buried

by Voltaire and Rousseau, seemed to him a sign of utter imbecility in

the rising generation.

He was found dead one morning in his humble room, with his books and

papers littered all about him. This was soon after the Revolution of

1830, and the mayor had him decently interred at night. The clergy

purchased the whole of his library at a nominal price and made away

with it. No papers were found which served to elucidate the mystery

which had always surrounded him, but in the corner of one drawer

was found a packet containing some faded flowers tied up with a

tricoloured ribbon. At first this was supposed to be some love-token,

and several people built upon this foundation a romantic biography

of the deceased recluse, but the tricolour ribbon tended to discredit

this version. My mother never believed that it was the correct one.

Although she had an instinctive feeling of respect for System, she

always said to me: "I am sure that he was one of the Terrorists. I

sometimes fancy that I remember seeing him in 1793. Besides, he has

all the ways and ideas of M----, who terrorised Lannion and kept the

guillotine in constant play there during the time that Robespierre

had the upper hand." Fifteen or twenty years ago, I read the following

paragraph in a newspaper:

"There died yesterday, almost suddenly, in an unfrequented street

of the Faubourg St. Jacques, an old man whose way of living was a

constant source of gossip in the neighbourhood. He was respected in

the parish as a model of charity and kindness, but he was careful

to avoid any allusion to his past. A few works, such as Volney's

_Catechism_, and odd volumes of Rousseau, were scattered about the

table. All his property consisted of a trunk, which, when opened by

the Commissary of Police, was found to contain only a few clothes and

a faded bouquet carefully wrapped up in a piece of paper on which was

written: 'Bouquet which I wore at the festival of the Supreme Being,

20 Prairial, year II.'"

This explained the whole thing to me. I remembered how the few

disciples of the Jacobite School whom I had known were ardently

attached to the recollections of 1793-94 and incapable of dwelling

upon anything else. The twelvemonths' dream was so vivid that those

who had experienced it could not come back to real life. They were

ever haunted by the same sinister fancy; they had a _delirium tremens_

of blood. They were uncompromising in their belief, and the world at

large, which no longer pitched its note to their cry, seemed idle and

empty in their eyes. Left standing alone like the survivors of a world

of giants, loaded with the opprobrium of the human race, they could

hold no sort of communion with the living. I could quite understand

the effect which Lakanal must have produced when he returned from

America in 1833 and appeared among his colleagues of the _Academic

des Sciences Morales et Politiques_ like a phantom. I could understand

Daunou looking upon M. Cousin and M. Guizot as dangerous Jesuits. By

a not uncommon contrast these survivors of the fierce struggles and

combats of the Revolution had become as gentle as lambs. Man, to be

kind, need not necessarily have a logical basis for his kindness. The

most cruel of the Inquisitors of the middle ages, Conrad of Marburg

for instance, were the kindest of men. This we see in _Torquemada_,

where the genius of Victor Hugo shows us how a man may send his

fellows to the stake out of charity and sentimentalism.

LITTLE NOÉMI.

PART I.

Although the religious and too premature sacerdotal education which I

had received prevented me from being on any intimate terms with young

people of the other sex, I had several little girl-friends one of

whom more particularly has left a profound impression upon me. From an

early age I preferred the society of girls to boys, and the latter

did not like me, as I was too effeminate for them. We could not play

together, as they called me "Mademoiselle," and teased me in a variety

of ways. On the other hand, I got on very well with girls of my own

age, and they found me very sensible and steady. I was about twelve or

thirteen, and I could not account for the preference. The vague idea

which attracted me to them was, I think, that men are at liberty to do

many things which women cannot, and the latter consequently had, in

my eyes, the charm of being weak and beautiful creatures, subject in

their daily life to rules of conduct which they did not attempt to

override. All those whom I had known were the pattern of modesty.

The first feeling which stirred in me was one of pity, so to speak,

coupled with the idea of assisting them in their becoming resignation,

of liking them for their reserve, and making it easier for them. I

quite felt my own intellectual superiority; but even at that early

age, I felt that the woman who is very beautiful or very good, solves

completely the problem of which we, with all our hard-headedness, make

such a hash. We are mere children or pedants compared to her. I as yet

understood this only vaguely, though I saw clearly enough that beauty

is so great a gift that talent, genius, and even virtue are nothing

when weighed in the balance with it; so that the woman who is really

beautiful has the right to hold herself superior to everybody and

everything, inasmuch as she combines not in a creation outside of

herself, but in her very person, as in a Myrrhine vase, all the

qualities which genius painfully endeavours to reproduce.

Among these, my companions, there was, as I have said, one to whom

I was particularly attached Her name was Noémi, and she was quite a

model of good conduct and grace. Her eyes had a languid look which

denoted at once good-nature and quickness; her hair was beautifully

fair. She was about two years my senior, and she treated me partly as

an elder sister, partly with the confidential affection of one child

for another. We got on very well together, and while our friends were

constantly falling out, we were always of one mind. I tried to make

these quarrels up, but she never thought that I should be successful,

and would tell me that it was hopeless to try and make everybody

agree. These attempts at mediation, which gave us an imperceptible

superiority over the other children, formed a very pleasing tie

between us. Even now I cannot hear "_Nous n'irons plus an bois_," or

"_Il pleut, il pleut, bergère_" without my heart beating rather more

quickly than is its wont. There can be no doubt that but for the fatal

vice which held me fast, I should have been in love with Noémi two or

three years later; but I was a slave to reasoning, and my whole time

was devoted to religious dialectics. The flow of abstractions which

rushed to the head made me giddy, and caused me to be absent-minded

and oblivious of all else.

This budding affection was, moreover, turned from its course by

a peculiar defect which, has more than once been injurious to my

prospects in life. This is my indecision of character, which often

leads me into positions from which I have great difficulty in

extricating myself. This defect was further complicated in this

particular case by a good quality which has led me into as many

difficulties as the most serious of defects. There was among these

children a little girl though much less pretty than Noémi, who, gentle

and amiable as she was, did not get nearly so much notice taken of

her. She was even fonder of making me her companion than Noémi, of

whom she was rather jealous. I have never been able to do a thing

which would give pain to any one. I had a vague sort of idea that a

woman who was not very pretty must be unhappy and feel the inward pang

of having missed her fate. I was oftener, therefore, with her than

with Noémi, because I saw that she was melancholy. So I allowed my

first love to go off at a tangent, just as, later in life, I did in

politics, and in a very bungling sort of way. Once or twice I noticed

Noémi laughing to herself at my simple folly. She was always nice with

me, but at times her manner was slightly sarcastic, and this tinge of

irony, which she made no attempt to conceal, only rendered her more

charming in my eyes.

The struggles amid which I grew to manhood nearly effaced her from my

memory. In after years I often fancied that I could see her again, and

one day I asked my mother what had become of her. "She is dead," my

mother replied, "and of a broken heart. She had no fortune of her

own. When she lost her father and mother, her aunt--a very respectable

woman who kept the equally respectable Hotel ----, took her to live

there. She did the best she could. Even as a child, when you knew

her, she was charming, but at two-and-twenty she was marvellously

beautiful. Her hair--which she tried in vain to keep out of sight

under a heavy cap--came down over her neck in wavy tresses like

handfuls of ripe wheat. She did all that she could to conceal her

beauty. Her beautiful figure was disguised by a cape, and her long

white hands were always covered with mittens. But it was all of no

use. Groups of young men would assemble in church to see her at her

devotions. She was too beautiful for our country, and she was as good

as she was beautiful." My mother's story touched me very much. I have

thought of her much more frequently since, and when it pleased God to

give me a daughter I named her Noémi.

LITTLE NOÉMI.

PART II.

The world in its progress cares little more how many it crushes than

the car of the idol of Juggernaut. The whole of the ancient society

which I have endeavoured to portray has disappeared. Bréhat has passed

out of existence. I revisited it six years ago and should not have

known it again. Some genius in the capital of the department has

discovered that certain ancient usages of the island are not in

keeping with some article of the code, and a peaceable and well-to-do

population has been reduced to revolt and beggary. These islands and

coasts which were formerly such a good nursery for the navy are so no

longer. The railways and the steamers have been the ruin of them. And

like old Breton bards, to what a case they have been brought! I found

several of them a few years ago among the Bas-Bretons who came to eke

out a miserable existence at St. Malo. One of them, who was employed

in sweeping the streets, came to see me. He explained to me in

Breton--for he could not speak a word of French--his ideas as to the

decadence of all poetry and the inferiority of the new schools. He was

attached to the old style--the narrative ballad--and he began to sing

to me the one which he deemed the prettiest of them. The subject of

it was the death of Louis XVI. He burst into tears, and when he got to

Santerre's beating of the drums he could not continue. Rising proudly

to his feet, he said: "If the king could have spoken, the spectators

would have rallied to him." Poor dear man!

With all these instances before me the case of the wealthy M.A.,

seemed to me all the more singular. When I asked my mother to explain

it to me, she always evaded an answer and spoke vaguely of adventures

on the coast of Madagascar. Upon one occasion, I pressed her more

closely and asked her how it was that the coasting trade, at which no

one had ever made money, could have made a millionaire of him. "How

obstinate you are, Ernest," she replied. "I have often told you not

to ask me that! Z---- is the only person in our circle who has any

pretensions to polish; he is in a good position; he is rich and

respected; there is no need to ask him how he made his money." "Tell

me all the same." "Well if you must know, and as people cannot get

rich without soiling their fingers more or less, he was in the slave

trade."

A noble people, fit only to serve nobles, and in harmony of ideas with

them, is in our day at the very antipodes of sound political economy,

and is bound to die of starvation. Persons of delicate ideas, who

are hampered by honourable scruples of one kind and another, stand no

chance with the matter-of-fact competitors who are the men not to let

slip any advantage in the battle of life. I soon found this out when

I began to know something of the planet in which we live, and hence

there arose within me a struggle or rather a dualism which has been

the secret of all my opinions. I did not in any way lose my fondness

for the ideal; it still is and always will be implanted in me as

strongly as ever. The most trifling act of goodness, the least spark

of talent, are in my eyes infinitely superior to all riches and

worldly achievements. But as I had a well-balanced mind I saw that the

ideal and reality have nothing in common; that the world is, at all

events for the time, given over to what is commonplace and paltry;

that the cause which generous souls will embrace is sure to be the

losing one; and that what men of refined intellect hold to be true

in literature and poetry is always wrong in the dull world of

accomplished facts. The events which followed the Revolution of

1848 confirmed all their ideas. It turned out that the most alluring

dreams, when carried into the domain of facts, were mischievous to

the last degree, and that the affairs of the world were never so well

managed as when the idealists had no part or lot in them. From that

time I accustomed myself to follow a very singular course: that is to

shape my practical judgments in direct opposition to my theoretical

judgments, and to regard as possible that which was in contradiction

with my desires. A somewhat lengthy experience had shown me that

the cause I sympathised with always failed and that the one which I

decried was certain to be triumphant. The lamer a political solution

was, the brighter appeared to me its prospect of being accepted In the

world of realities.

In fine, I only care for characters of an absolute idealism: martyrs,

heroes, utopists, friends of the impossible. They are the only persons

in whom I interest myself; they are, if I may be permitted to say so,

my specialty. But I see what those whose imagination runs away with

them fail to see, viz., that these flights of fancy are no longer of

any use and that for a long time to come the heroic follies which were

deified in the past will fall flat. The enthusiasm of 1792 was a great

and noble outburst, but it was one of those things which will not

recur. Jacobinism, as M. Thiers has clearly shown, was the salvation

of France; now it would be her ruin. The events of 1870 have by no

means cured me of my pessimism. They taught me the high value of

evil, and that the cynical disavowal of all sentiment, generosity

and chivalry gives pleasure to the world at large and is invariably

successful. Egotism is the exact opposite of what I had been

accustomed to regard as noble and good. We see that in this world

egotism alone commands success. England has until within the last

few years been the first nation in the world because she was the most

selfish. Germany has acquired the hegemony of the world by repudiating

without scruple the principles of political morality which she once so

eloquently preached.

This is the explanation of the anomaly that having on several

occasions been called upon to give practical advice in regard to

the affairs of my country, this advice has always been in direct

contradiction with my artistic views. In so doing, I have been

actuated by conscientious motives. I have endeavoured to evade the

ordinary cause of my errors; I have taken the counterpart of my

instincts and been on guard against my idealism. I am always afraid

that my mode of thought will lead me wrong and blind me to one side of

the question. This is how it is that, much as I love what is good,

I am perhaps over indulgent for those who have taken another view of

life, and that, while always being full of work, I ask myself very

often whether the idlers are not right after all.

So far as regards enthusiasm, I have got as much of it as any one;

but I believe that the reality will have none of it, and that with the

reign of men of business, manufacturers, the working class (which is

the most selfish of all), Jews, English of the old school and Germans

of the new school, has been ushered in a materialist age in which it

will be as difficult to bring about the triumph of a generous idea as

to produce the silvery note of the great bell of Notre Dame with one

cast in lead or tin. It is strange, moreover, that while not pleasing

one side I have not deceived the other. The bourgeois have not been

the least grateful to me for my concessions; they have read me better

than I can read-myself, and they have seen that I was but a poor sort

of Conservative, and that without the most remote intention of acting

in bad faith, I should have played them false twenty times over out of

affection for the ideal, my ancient mistress. They felt that the hard

things which I said to her were only superficial, and that I should be

unable to resist the first smile which she might bestow upon me.

We must create the heavenly kingdom, that is the ideal one, within

ourselves. The time is past for the creation of miniature worlds,

refined Thélèmes, based upon mutual affection and esteem; but life,

well understood and well lived, in a small circle of persons who can

appreciate one another, brings its own reward. Communion of spirit is

the greatest and the only reality. This is why my thoughts revert so

willingly to those worthy priests who were my first masters, to the

honest sailors who lived only to do their duty, to little Noémi who

died because she was too beautiful, to my grandfather who would not

buy the national property, and to good Master Système, who was

happy inasmuch as he had his hour of illusion. Happiness consists in

devotion to a dream or to a duty; self-sacrifice is the surest means

of securing repose. One of the early Buddhas who preceded Sakya-Mouni

obtained the _nirvana_ in a singular way. He saw one day a falcon

chasing a little bird. "I beseech thee," he said to the bird of prey,

"leave this little creature in peace; I will give thee its weight from

my own flesh." A small pair of scales descended from the heavens, and

the transaction was carried out. The little bird settled itself upon

one side of the scales, and the saint placed in the other platter a

good slice of his flesh, but the beam did not move. Bit by bit the

whole of his body went into the scales, but still the scales were

motionless. Just as the last shred of the holy man's body touched the

scale the beam fell, the little bird flew away and the saint entered

into _nirvana_. The falcon, who had not, all said and done, made a bad

bargain, gorged itself on his flesh.

The little bird represents the unconsidered trifles of beauty and

innocence which our poor planet, worn out as it may be, will ever

contain. The falcon represents the far larger proportion of egotism

and gross appetites which make up the sum of humanity. The wise man

purchases the free enjoyment of what is good and noble by making over

his flesh to the greedy, who, while engrossed by this material feast,

leave him and the free objects of his fancy in peace. The scales

coming down from above represent fatality, which is not to be moved,

and which will not accept a partial sacrifice; but from which, by a

total abnegation of self, by casting it a prey, we can escape, as it

then has no further hold upon us. The falcon, for its part is content

when virtue, by the sacrifices which she makes, secures for it

greater advantages than it could obtain by the force of its own claws.

Desiring a profit from virtue, its interest is that virtue should

exist; and so the wise man, by the surrender of his material

privileges, attains his one aim, which is to secure free enjoyment of

the ideal.

THE PETTY SEMINARY OF SAINT NICHOLAS DU CHARDONNET.

PART I.

Many persons who allow that I have a perspicuous mind wonder how

I came during my boyhood and youth to put faith in creeds, the

impossibility of which has since been so clearly revealed to me.

Nothing, however, can be more simple, and it is very probable that if

an extraneous incident had not suddenly taken me from the honest but

narrow-minded associations amid which my youth was passed, I should

have preserved all my life long the faith which in the beginning

appeared to me as the absolute expression of the truth. I have said

how I was educated in a small school kept by some honest priests, who

taught me Latin after the old fashion (which was the right one), that

is to say to read out of trumpery primers, without method and almost

without grammar, as Erasmus and the humanists of the fifteenth and

sixteenth century, who are the best Latin scholars since the days of

old, used to learn it. These worthy priests were patterns of all that

is good. Devoid of anything like _pedagogy_, to use the modern phrase,

they followed the first rule of education, which is not to make too

easy the tasks which have for their aim the mastering of a difficulty.

Their main object was to make their pupils into honourable men. Their

lessons of goodness and morality, which impressed me as being the

literal embodiments of virtue and high feeling, were part and parcel

of the dogma which they taught. The historical education they had

given me consisted solely in reading Rollin. Of criticism, the natural

sciences, and philosophy I as yet knew nothing of course. Of all that

concerned the nineteenth century, and the new ideas as to history

and literature expounded by so many gifted thinkers, my teachers knew

nothing. It was impossible to imagine a more complete isolation from

the ambient air. A thorough-paced Legitimist would not even admit the

possibility of the Revolution or of Napoleon being mentioned except

with a shudder. My only knowledge of the Empire was derived from the

lodge-keeper of the school. He had in his room several popular prints.

"Look at Bonaparte," he said to me one day, pointing to one of these,

"he was a patriot, he was!" No allusion was ever made to contemporary

literature, and the literature of France terminated with Abbé Delille.

They had heard of Chateaubriand, but, with a truer instinct than that

of the would-be Neo-Catholics, whose heads are crammed with all

sorts of delusions, they mistrusted him. A Tertullian enlivening his

Apologeticum with _Atala_ and _René_ was not calculated to command

their confidence. Lamartine perplexed them more sorely still;

they guessed that his religious faith was not built on very strong

foundations, and they foresaw his subsequent falling away. This gift

of observation did credit to their orthodox sagacity, but the result

was that the horizon of their pupils was a very narrow one. Rollin's

_Traité des Études_ is a work full of large-minded views compared to

the circle of pious mediocrity within which they felt it their duty to

confine themselves.

Thus the education which I received in the years following the

Revolution of 1830 was the same as that which was imparted by the

strictest of religious sects two centuries ago. It was none the worse

for that, being the same forcible mode of teaching, distinctively

religious, but not in the least Jesuitical, under which the youth of

ancient France had studied, and which gave so serious and so Christian

a turn to the mind. Educated by teachers who had inherited the

qualities of Port Royal, minus their heresy, but minus also their

power over the pen, I may claim forgiveness for having, at the age of

twelve or fifteen, admitted the truth of Christianity like any pupil

of Nicole or M. Hermant. My state of mind was very much that of so

many clever men of the seventeenth century, who put religion beyond

the reach of doubt, though this did not prevent them having very clear

ideas upon all other topics. I afterwards learnt facts which caused me

to abandon my Christian beliefs, but they must be profoundly ignorant

of history and of human intelligence who do not understand how strong

a hold the simple and honest discipline of the priests took upon the

more gifted of their students. The basis of this primitive form

of education was the strictest morality, which they inculcated as

inseparable from religious practice, and they made us regard the

possession of life as implying duties towards truth. The very

effort to shake off opinions, in some respects unreasonable, had its

advantages. Because a Paris flibbertigibbet disposes with a joke of

creeds, from which Pascal, with all his reasoning powers, could not

shake himself free, it must not be concluded that the Gavroche is

superior to Pascal. I confess that I at times feel humiliated to think

that it cost me five or six years of arduous research, and the study

of Hebrew, the Semitic languages, Gesenius, and Ewald to arrive at

the result which this urchin achieves in a twinkling. These pilings

of Pelion upon Ossa seem to me, when looked at in this light, a mere

waste of time. But Père Hardouin observed that he had not got up at

four o'clock every morning for forty years to think as all the world

thought. So I am loth to admit that I have been at so much pains to

fight a mere _chimaera bombinans_. No, I cannot think that my labours

have been all in vain, nor that victory is to be won in theology as

cheaply as the scoffers would have us believe. There are, in reality,

but few people who have a right not to believe in Christianity. If

the great mass of people only knew how strong is the net woven by the

theologians, how difficult it is to break the threads of it, how much

erudition has been spent upon it, and what a power of criticism is

required to unravel it all.... I have noticed that some men of talent

who have set themselves too late in life the task have been taken in

the toils and have not been able to extricate themselves.

My tutors taught me something which was infinitely more valuable than

criticism or philosophic wisdom; they taught me to love truth, to

respect reason, and to see the serious side of life. This is the only

part in me which has never changed. I left their care with my moral

sense so well prepared to stand any test, that this precious jewel

passed uninjured through the crucible of Parisian frivolity. I was so

well prepared for the good and for the true that I could not possibly

have followed a career which was not devoted to the things of the

mind. My teachers rendered me so unfit for any secular work that I was

perforce embarked upon a spiritual career. The intellectual life

was the only noble one in my eyes; and mercenary cares seemed to me

servile and unworthy.

I have never departed from the sound and wholesome programme which my

masters sketched out for me. I no longer believe Christianity to be

the supernatural summary of all that man can know; but I still believe

that life is the most frivolous of things, unless it is regarded as

one great and constant duty. Oh! my beloved old teachers, now nearly

all with the departed, whose image often rises before me in my

dreams, not as a reproach but as a grateful memory, I have not been so

unfaithful to you as you believe! Yes, I have said that your history

was very short measure, that your critique had no existence, and

that your natural philosophy fell far short of that which leads us to

accept as a fundamental dogma: "There is no special supernatural;"

but in the main I am still your disciple. Life is only of value by

devotion to what is true and good. Your conception of what is good was

too narrow; your view of truth too material and too concrete, but

you were, upon the whole, in the right, and I thank you for having

inculcated in me like a second nature the principle, fatal to worldly

success but prolific of happiness, that the aim of a life worth living

should be ideal and unselfish.

Most of my fellow-students were brawny and high-spirited young

peasants from the neighbourhood of Tréguier, and, like most

individuals occupying an inferior place in the scale of civilization,

they were inclined to air an exaggerated regard for bodily strength,

and to show a certain amount of contempt for women and for anything

which they considered effeminate. Most of them were preparing for the

priesthood. My experiences of that time put me in a very good position

for understanding the historical phenomena, which occur when a

vigorous barbarism first comes into contact with civilization. I can

quite easily understand the intellectual condition of the Germans at

the Carlovingian epoch, the psychological and literary condition of

a Saxo Grammaticus and a Hrabanus Maurus. Latin had a very singular

effect upon their rugged natures, and they were like mastodons going

in for a degree. They took everything as serious as the Laplanders

do when you give them the Bible to read. We exchanged with regard to

Sallust and Livy, impressions which must have resembled those of the

disciples of St. Gall or St. Colomb when they were learning Latin. We

decided that Caesar was not a great man because he was not virtuous,

our philosophy of history was as artless and childlike as might have

been that of the Heruli.

The morals of all these young people, left entirely to themselves and

with no one to look after them, were irreproachable. There were very

few boarders at the Tréguier College just then. Most of the students

who did not belong to the town boarded in private houses, and their

parents used to bring them in on market day their provisions for

the week. I remember one of these houses, close to our own, in which

several of my fellow-students lodged. The mistress of it, who was an

indefatigable housewife, died, and her husband, who at the best of

times was no genius, drowned what little he had in the cider-cup every

evening. A little servant-maid, who was wonderfully intelligent, took

the whole burden upon her shoulders. The young students determined to

help her, and so the house went on despite the old tippler. I always

heard my comrades speak very highly of this little servant, who was

a model of virtue and who was gifted, moreover, with a very pleasing

face.

The fact is that, according to my experience, all the allegations

against the morality of the clergy are devoid of foundation. I passed

thirteen years of my life under the charge of priests, and I never saw

anything approaching to a scandal; all the priests I have known have

been good men. Confession may possibly be productive of evil in

some countries, but I never saw anything of the sort during my

ecclesiastical experience. The old-fashioned book which I used for

making my examinations of conscience was innocence itself. There was

only one sin which excited my curiosity and made me feel uneasy. I

was afraid that I might have been guilty of it unawares. I mustered

up courage enough, one day, to ask my confessor what was meant by the

phrase: "To be guilty of simony in the collation of benefices." The

good priest reassured me and told me that I could not have committed

that sin.

Persuaded by my teachers of two absolute truths, the first, that no

one who has any respect for himself can engage in any work that is not

ideal--and that all the rest is secondary, of no importance, not to

say shameful, _ignominia seculi_--and the second, that Christianity

embodies everything which is ideal, I could not do otherwise than

regard myself as destined for the priesthood. This thought was not the

result of reflection, impulse, or reasoning. It came so to speak, of

itself. The possibility of a lay career never so much as occurred

to me. Having adopted with the utmost seriousness and docility the

principles of my teachers, and having brought myself to consider all

commercial and mercenary pursuits as inferior and degrading, and only

fit for those who had failed in their studies, it was only natural

that I should wish to be what they were. They were my patterns in

life, and my sole ambition was to be like them, professor at the

College of Tréguier, poor, exempt from all material cares, esteemed

and respected like them.

Not but what the instincts which in after years led me away from these

paths of peace already existed within me; but they were dormant. From

the accident of my birth I was torn by conflicting forces. There was

some Basque and Bordeaux blood in my mother's family, and unknown

to me the Gascon half of myself played all sorts of tricks with the

Breton half. Even my family was divided, my father, my grandfather,

and my uncles being, as I have already said, the reverse of clerical,

while my maternal grandmother was the centre of a society which knew

no distinction between royalism and religion. I recently found among

some old papers a letter from my grandmother addressed to an estimable

maiden lady named Guyon, who used to spoil me very much when I was a

child, and who was then suffering from a dreadful cancer.

TRÉGUIER, _March_ 19, 1831.

"Though two months have elapsed since Natalie informed me of your

departure for Tréglamus, this is the first time I have had a few

moments to myself to write and tell you, my dear friend, how deeply

I sympathise with you in your sad position. Your sufferings go to my

heart, and nothing but the most urgent necessity has prevented me from

writing to you before. The death of a nephew, the eldest son of my

defunct sister, plunged us into great sorrow. A few days later, poor

little Ernest, son of my eldest daughter, and a brother of Henriette,

the boy whom, you were so fond of and who has not forgotten you, fell

ill. For forty days he was hanging between life and death, and we have

now reached the fifty-fifth day of his illness and still he does not

make much progress towards his recovery. He is pretty well in the day

time, but his nights are very bad. From ten in the evening to five

or six in the morning, he is feverish and half-delirious. I have said

enough to excuse myself in the eyes of one who is so kind-hearted and

who will forgive me. How I wish I was by your side to repay you the

attention you bestowed on me with so much zeal and benevolence. My

great grief is to be unable to help you.

"_March 20th_.

"I was sent for to the bedside of my dear little grandson, and I was

obliged to break off my conversation with you, which I now resume, my

dear friend, to exhort you to put all your trust in God. It is He who

afflicts us, but He consoles us with the hope of a reward far beyond

what we suffer. Let us be of good cheer; our pains and our sorrows do

not last long, and the reward is eternal.

"Dear Natalie tells me how patient and resigned you are amid the most

cruel sufferings. That is quite in keeping with your high feelings.

She says that never a complaint comes from you however keen your pain.

How pleasing you are in God's sight by your patience and resignation

to His heavenly will. He afflicts you, but those whom He loveth He

chasteneth. What joy can be compared to that which God's love gives?

I send you _L'Ame sur le Calvaire_, which will furnish you with much

consolation in the example of a God who suffered and died for us.

Madame D---- will be so kind, I am sure, as to read you a chapter

of it every day, if you cannot read yourself. Give her my kindest

regards, and beg her to write and tell me how you are going on, and

how she is herself. If you will not think me troublesome I will write

to you more frequently. Good-bye, my dear friend. May God pour upon

you His grace and blessing. Be patient and of good cheer.

"Your ever devoted friend,

"WIDOW...."

"In taking the Communion to-day my prayers were specially for you. My

daughter, Henriette, and Ernest, who has passed a much better night,

beg to be remembered, as also does Clara. We often talk of you. Let

me know how you are, I beg of you. When you have read _L'Ame sur

le Calvaire_ you can send it back to me, and I will let you have

_L'Esprit Consolateur_."

The letter and the books were never sent, for my mother, who was to

have forwarded them, learnt that Mademoiselle Guyon had died. Some of

the consolatory remarks which the letter contains may seem very trite,

but are there any better ones to offer a person afflicted with cancer?

They are, at all events, as good as laudanum. As a matter of fact the

Revolution had left no impress upon the people among whom I lived. The

religious ideas of the people were not touched; the congregations

came together again, and the nuns of the old orders, converted into

schoolmistresses, imparted to women the same education as before. Thus

my sister's first mistress was an old Ursuline nun, who was very fond

of her, and who made her learn by heart the psalms which are chanted

in church. After a year or two the worthy old lady had reached the end

of her tether, and was conscientious enough to come and tell my mother

so. She said, "I have nothing more to teach her; she knows all that

I know better than I do myself." The Catholic faith revived in these

remote districts, with all its respectable gravity and, fortunately

for it, disencumbered of the worldly and temporal bonds which the

ancient _régime_ had forged for it.

This complexity of origin is, I believe, to a great extent the cause

of my seeming inconsistency. I am double, as it were, and one half

of me laughs while the other weeps. This is the explanation of my

cheerfulness. As I am two spirits in one body, one of them has always

cause to be content. While upon the one hand I was only anxious to be

a village priest or tutor in a seminary. I was all the time dreaming

the strangest dreams. During divine service I used to fall into long

reveries; my eyes wandered to the ceiling of the chapel, upon which

I read all sorts of strange things. My thoughts wandered to the great

men whom we read of in history. I was playing one day, when six years

old, with one of my cousins and other friends, and we amused ourselves

by selecting our future professions. "And what will you be?" my

cousin asked me. "I shall make books." "You mean that you will be a

bookseller." "Oh, no," I replied, "I mean to make books--to

compose them." These dawning dispositions needed time and favourable

circumstances to be developed, and what was so completely lacking in

all my surroundings was ability. My worthy tutors were not endowed

with any seductive qualities. With their unswerving moral solidity,

they were the very contrary of the southerners--of the Neapolitan, for

instance, who is all glitter and clatter. Ideas did not ring within

their minds with the sonorous clash of crossing swords. Their head was

like what a Chinese cap without bells would be; you might shake it,

but it would not jingle. That which constitutes the essence of talent,

the desire to show off one's thoughts to the best advantage, would

have seemed to them sheer frivolity, like women's love of dress, which

they denounced as a positive sin. This excessive abnegation of self,

this too ready disposition to repulse what the world at large likes by

an _Abrenuntio tibi, Satana_, is fatal to literature. It will be said,

perhaps, that literature necessarily implies more or less of sin. If

the Gascon tendency to elude many difficulties with a joke, which I

derived from my mother, had always been dormant in me, my spiritual

welfare would perhaps have been assured. In any event, if I had

remained in Brittany I should never have known anything of the vanity

which the public has liked and encouraged--that of attaining a certain

amount of art in the arrangement of words and ideas. Had I lived in

Brittany I should have written like Rollin. When I came to Paris I had

no sooner given people a taste of what few qualities I possessed than

they took a liking for them, and so--to my disadvantage it may be--I

was tempted to go on.

I will at some future time describe how it came to pass that special

circumstances brought about this change, which I underwent without

being at heart in the least inconsistent with my past. I had

formed such a serious idea of religious belief and duty that it was

impossible for me, when once my faith faded, to wear the mask which

sits so lightly upon many others. But the impress remained, and though

I was not a priest by profession I was so in disposition. All my

failings sprung from that. My first masters taught me to despise

laymen, and inculcated the idea that the man who has not a mission in

life is the scum of the earth. Thus it is that I have had a strong and

unfair bias against the commercial classes. Upon the other hand, I am

very fond of the people, and especially of the poor. I am the only man

of my time who has understood the characters of Jesus and of Francis

of Assisi. There was a danger of my thus becoming a democrat like

Lamennais. But Lamennais merely exchanged one creed for another,

and it was not until the close of his life that he acquired the cool

temper necessary to the critic, whereas the same process which

weaned me from Christianity made me impervious to any other practical

enthusiasm. It was the very philosophy of knowledge which, in my

revolt against scholasticism, underwent such a profound modification.

A more serious drawback is that, having never indulged in gaiety while

young, and yet having a good deal of irony and cheerfulness in my

temperament, I have been compelled, at an age when we see how vain

and empty it all is, to be very lenient as regards foibles which I had

never indulged in myself, so much so that many persons who have not

perhaps been as steady as I was have been shocked at my easy-going

indifference. This holds especially true of politics. This is a matter

upon which I feel easier in my mind than upon any other, and yet a

great many people look upon me as being very lax. I cannot get out

of my head the idea that perhaps the libertine is right after all and

practises the true philosophy of life. This has led me to express too

much admiration for such men as Sainte-Beuve and Théophile Gautier.

Their affectation of immorality prevented me from seeing how

incoherent their philosophy was. The fear of appearing pharisaical,

the idea, evangelical in itself, that he who is immaculate has the

right to be indulgent, and the dread of misleading, if by chance all

the doctrines emitted by the professors of philosophy were wrong, made

my system of morality appear rather shaky. It is, in reality, as solid

as the rock. These little liberties which I allow myself are by way

of a recompense for my strict adherence to the general code. So in

politics I indulge in reactionary remarks so that I may not have the

appearance of a Liberal understrapper. I don't want people to take me

for being more of a dupe than I am in reality; I would not upon any

account trade upon my opinions, and what I especially dread is to

appear in my own eyes to be passing bad money. Jesus has influenced

me more in this respect than people may think, for He loved to show up

and deride hypocrisy, and in His parable of the Prodigal Son He places

morality upon its true footing--kindness of heart--while seeming to

upset it altogether.

To the same cause may be attributed another of my defects, a tendency

to waver which has almost neutralized my power of giving verbal

expression to my thoughts in many matters. The priest carries his

sacred character into every relation of life, and there is a good deal

of what is conventional about what he says. In this respect, I have

remained a priest, and this is all the more absurd because I do

not derive any benefit either for myself or for my opinions. In my

writings, I have been outspoken to a degree. Not only have I never

said anything which I do not think, but, what is much less frequent

and far more difficult, I have said all I think. But in talking and

in letter-writing, I am at times singularly weak. I do not attach any

importance to this, and, with the exception of the select few between

whom and myself there is a bond of intellectual brotherhood, I say to

people just what I think is likely to please them. In the society of

fashionable people I am utterly lost. I get into a muddle and flounder

about, losing the thread of my ideas in some tissue of absurdity. With

an inveterate habit of being over polite, as priests generally are, I

am too anxious to detect what the person I am talking with would

like said to him. My attention, when I am conversing with any one,

is engrossed in trying to guess at his ideas, and, from excess of

deference, to anticipate him in the expression of them. This is based

upon the supposition that very few men are so far unconcerned as to

their own ideas as not to be annoyed when one differs from them. I

only express myself freely with people whose opinions I know to sit

lightly upon them, and who look down upon everything with good-natured

contempt. My correspondence will be a disgrace to me if it should be

published after my death. It is a perfect torture for me to write a

letter. I can understand a person airing his talents before ten as

before ten thousand persons, but before one! Before beginning to

write, I hesitate and reflect, and make out a rough copy of what I

shall say; very often I go to sleep over it. A person need only look

at these letters with their heavy wording and abrupt sentences to see

that they were composed in a state of torpor which borders on sleep.

Reading over what I have written, I see that it is poor stuff, and

that I have said many things which I cannot vouch for. In despair, I

fasten down the envelope, with the feeling that I have posted a letter

which is beneath criticism.

In short, all my defects are those of the young ecclesiastical student

of Tréguier. I was born to be a priest, as others are born to be

soldiers and lawyers. The very fact of my being successful in my

studies was a proof of it. What was the good of learning Latin so

thoroughly if it was not for the Church? A peasant, noticing all my

dictionaries upon one occasion, observed: "These, I suppose, are the

books which people study when they are preparing for the priesthood."

As a matter of fact, all those who studied at school at all were in

training for the ecclesiastical profession. The priestly order stood

on a par with the nobility: "When you meet a noble," I have heard it

observed, "you salute him, because he represents the king; when you

meet a priest, you salute him because he represents God." To make a

priest was regarded as the greatest of good works; and the elderly

spinsters who had a little money thought that they could not find

a better use for it than in paying the college fees of a poor but

hard-working young peasant. When he came to be a priest, he became

their own child, their glory, and their honour. They followed him

in his career, and watched over his conduct with jealous care. As a

natural consequence of my assiduity in study I was destined for the

priesthood. Moreover, I was of sedentary habits and too weak of

muscle to distinguish myself in athletic sports. I had an uncle of a

Voltairian turn of mind, who did not at all approve of this. He was

a watchmaker, and had reckoned upon me to take on his business. My

successes were as gall and wormwood to him, for he quite saw that all

this store of Latin was dead against him, and that it would convert

me into a pillar of the Church which he disliked. He never lost an

opportunity of airing before me his favourite phrase, "a donkey loaded

with Latin." Afterwards, when my writings were published, he had his

triumph. I sometimes reproach myself for having contributed to the

triumph of M. Homais over his priest. But it cannot be helped, for

M. Homais is right. But for M. Homais we should all be burnt at the

stake. But as I have said, when one has been at great pains to learn

the truth, it is irritating to have to allow that the frivolous, who

could never be induced to read a line of St. Augustine or St. Thomas

Aquinas, are the true sages. It is hard to think that Gavroche and M.

Homais attain without an effort the alpine heights of philosophy.

My young compatriot and friend, M. Quellien, a Breton poet full of

raciness and originality, the only man of the present day whom I have

known to possess the faculty of creating myths, has described this

phase of my destiny in a very ingenious style. He says that my soul

will dwell, in the shape of a white sea-bird, around the ruined church

of St. Michel, an old building struck by lightning which stands above

Tréguier. The bird will fly all night with plaintive cries around the

barricaded door and windows, seeking to enter the sanctuary, but not

knowing that there is a secret door. And so through all eternity

my unhappy spirit will moan, ceaselessly upon this hill. "It is

the spirit of a priest who wants to say mass," one peasant will

observe.--"He will never find a boy to serve it for him," will rejoin

another. And that is what I really am--an incomplete priest.

Quellien has very clearly discerned what will always be lacking in

my church--the chorister boy. My life is like a mass which has some

fatality hanging over it, a never-ending _Introibo ad altare Dei_ with

no one to respond: _Ad Deum qui loetificat juventutem meam_. There is

no one to serve my mass for me. In default of any one else I respond

for myself, but it is not the same thing.

Thus everything seemed to make for my having a modest ecclesiastical

career in Brittany. I should have made a very good priest, indulgent,

fatherly, charitable, and of blameless morals. I should have been as

a priest what I am as a father, very much loved by my flock, and as

easy-going as possible in the exercise of my authority. What are now

defects would have been good qualities. Some of the errors which

I profess would have been just the thing for a man who identifies

himself with the spirit of his calling. I should have got rid of some

excrescences which, being only a layman, I have not taken the trouble

to remove, easy as it would have been for me to do so. My career would

have been as follows: at two-and-twenty professor at the College of

Tréguier, and at about fifty canon, or perhaps grand vicar at St.

Brieuc, very conscientious, very generally respected, a kind-hearted

and gentle confessor. Little inclined to new dogmas, I should have

been bold enough to say with many good ecclesiastics after the Vatican

Council: _Posui custodiam ori meo._ My antipathy for the Jesuits

would have shown itself by never alluding to them, and a fund of mild

Gallicanism would have been veiled beneath the semblance of a profound

knowledge of canon law.

An extraneous incident altered the whole current of my life. From the

most obscure of little towns in the most remote of provinces I

was thrust without preparation into the vortex of all that is most

sprightly and alert in Parisian society. The world stood revealed to

me, and my self became a double one. The Gascon got the better of the

Breton; there was no more _custodia oris mei_, and I put aside the

padlock which I should otherwise have set upon my mouth. In so far as

regards my inner self I remained the same. But what a change in the

outward show! Hitherto I had lived in a hypogeum, lighted by smoky

lamps; now I was going to see the sun and the light of day.

THE PETTY SEMINARY OF SAINT NICHOLAS DU CHARDONNET.

PART II.

About the month of April, 1838, M. de Talleyrand, feeling his end draw

near, thought it necessary to act a last lie in accordance with human

prejudices, and he resolved to be reconciled, in appearance, to

a Church whose truth, once acknowledged by him, convicted him of

sacrilege and of dishonour. This ticklish job could best be performed,

not by a staid priest of the old Gallican school, who might have

insisted upon a categorical retractation of errors, upon his making

amends and upon his doing penance; not by a young Ultramontane of the

new school, against whom M. de Talleyrand would at once have been very

prejudiced, but by a priest who was a man of the world, well-read,

very little of a philosopher, and nothing of a theologian, and upon

those terms with the ancient classes which alone give the Gospel

occasional access to circles for which it is not suited. Abbé

Dupanloup, already well known for his success at the Catechism of the

Assumption among a public which set more store by elegant phrases

than doctrine, was just the man to play an innocent part in the comedy

which simple souls would regard as an edifying act of grace. His

intimacy with the Duchesse de Dino, and especially with her daughter,

whose religious education he had conducted, the favour in which he was

held by M. de Quélen (Archbishop of Paris), and the patronage which

from the outset of his career had been accorded him by the Faubourg

St. Germain, all concurred to fit him for a work which required more

worldly tact than theology, and in which both earth and heaven were to

be fooled.

It is said that M. de Talleyrand, remarking a certain hesitation on

the part of the priest who was about to convert him, ejaculated: "This

young man does not know his business." If he really did make this

remark, he was very much mistaken. Never was a priest better up in his

calling than this young man. The aged statesman, resolved not to erase

his past until the very last hour, met all the entreaties made to him

with a sullen "not yet." The _Sto ad ostium etpulso_ had to be brought

into play with great tact. A fainting-fit, or a sudden acceleration

in the progress of the death-agony would be fatal, and too much

importunity might bring out a "No" which would upset the plans so

skilfully laid. Upon the morning of May 17th, which was the day of

his death, nothing was yet signed. Catholics, as is well known, attach

very great importance to the moment of death. If future rewards and

punishments have any real existence, it is evident that they must be

proportioned to a whole life of virtue or of vice. But the Catholic

does not look at it in this light, and an edifying death-bed makes up

for all other things. Salvation is left to the chances of the eleventh

hour. Time pressed, and it was resolved to play a bold game. M.

Dupanloup was waiting in the next room, and he sent the winsome

daughter of the Duchesse de Dino, of whom Talleyrand was always so

fond, to ask if he might come in. The answer, for a wonder, was in the

affirmative, and the priest spent several minutes with him,

bringing out from the sick-room a paper signed "Charles Maurice de

Talleyrand-Périgord, Prince de Bénévent."

There was joy--if not in heaven, at all events in the Catholic world

of the Faubourgs St. Germain and St. Honoré. The credit of this

victory was ascribed, in the main, to the female grace which had

succeeded in getting round the aged prince, and inducing him to

retract the whole of his revolutionary past, but some of it went to

the youthful ecclesiastic who had displayed so much tact in bringing

to a satisfactory conclusion a project in which it was so easy to

fail. M. Dupanloup was from that day one of the first of French

priests. Position, honours, and money were pressed upon him by the

wealthy and influential classes in Paris. The money he accepted, but

do not for a moment suppose that it was for himself, as there never

was any one so unselfish as M. Dupanloup. The quotation from the Bible

which was oftenest upon his lips, and which was doubly a favourite

one with him because it was truly Scriptural and happened to terminate

like a Latin verse was: _Da mihi animas; cetera tolle tibi_. He had

at that time in his mind the general outlines of a grand propaganda by

means of classical and religious education, and he threw himself

into it with all the passionate ardour which he displayed in the

undertakings upon which he embarked.

The seminary Saint Nicholas du Chardonnet, situated by the side of

the church of that name, between the Rue Saint Victor and the Rue de

Pontoise, had since the Revolution been the petty seminary for the

diocese of Paris. This was not its primitive destination. In the great

movement of religious reform which occurred during the first half of

the seventeenth century, and to which the names of Vincent de Paul,

Olier, Bérulle, and Father Eudes are attached, the church of Saint

Nicholas du Chardonnet filled, though in a humbler measure, the same

part as Saint Sulpice. The parish of Saint Nicholas, which derived its

name from a field of thistles well known to students at the University

of Paris in the middle ages, was then the centre of a very wealthy

neighbourhood, the principal residents belonging to the magistracy.

As Olier founded the St. Sulpice Seminary, so Adrien de Bourdoise,

founded the company of Saint Nicholas du Chardonnet, and made this

establishment a nursery for young priests which lasted until the

Revolution. It had not, however, like the Saint Sulpice establishment,

a number of branch houses in other parts of France. Moreover, the

association was not revived after the Revolution like that of Saint

Sulpice, and their building in the Rue Saint Victor was untenanted. At

the time of the Concordat it was given to the diocese of Paris, to be

used as a petty seminary. Up to 1837, this establishment did not make

any sort of a name for itself. The brilliant Renaissance of learned

and worldly clericalism dates from the decade of 1830-40. During the

first third of the century, Saint Nicholas was an obscure religious

establishment, the number of students being below the requirements of

the diocese, and the level of study a very low one. Abbé Frère, the

head of the seminary, though a profound theologian and well versed in

the mysticism of the Christian faith, was not in the least suited to

rouse and stimulate lads who were engaged in literary study. Saint

Nicholas, under his headship, was a thoroughly ecclesiastical

establishment, its comparatively few students having a clerical career

in view, and the secular side of education was passed over entirely.

M. de Quélen was very well inspired when he entrusted the management

of this college to M. Dupanloup. The archbishop was not the man to

approve of the strict clericalism of Abbé Frère. He liked _piety_,

but worldly and well-bred piety, without any scholastic barbarisms or

mystic jargon, piety as a complement of the well-bred ideal which,

to tell the truth, was his main faith. If Hugues or Richard de Saint

Victor had risen up before him in the shape of pedants or boors he

would have set little store by them. He was very much attached to M.

Dupanloup, who was at that time Legitimist and Ultramontane. It was

only the exaggerations of a later day which so changed the parts that

he came to be looked upon as a Gallican and an Orleanist. M. de

Quélen treated him as a spiritual son, sharing his dislikes and his

prejudices. He doubtless knew the secret of his birth. The families

which had looked after the young priest, had made him a man of

breeding, and admitted him into their exclusive coterie, were those

with which the archbishop was intimate, and which formed in his eyes

the limits of the universe. I remember seeing M. de Quélen, and he was

quite the type of the ideal bishop under the old _régime_. I remember

his feminine beauty, his perfect figure, and the easy grace of all his

movements. His mind had received no other cultivation than that of a

well-educated man of the world. Religion in his eyes was inseparable

from good breeding and the modicum of common sense which a classical

education is apt to give.

This was about the level of M. Dupanloup's intellect. He had neither

the brilliant imagination which will give a lasting value to certain

of Lacordaire's and Montalembert's works, nor the profound passion

of Lamennais. In the case of the archbishop and M. Dupanloup, good

breeding and polish were the main thing, and the approval of those who

stood high in the world was the touchstone of merit. They knew nothing

of theology, which they had studied but little, and for which they

thought it enough to express platonic reverence. Their faith was

very keen and sincere, but it was a faith which took everything for

granted, and which did not busy itself with the dogmas which must be

accepted. They knew that scholasticism would not go down with the

only public for which they cared--the worldly and somewhat frivolous

congregations which sit beneath the preachers at St. Roch or St.

Thomas Aquinas.

Such were the views entertained by M. de Quélen when he made over to

M. Dupanloup the austere and little known establishment of Abbé Frère

and Adrien de Bourdoise. The petty seminary of Paris had hitherto, by

virtue of the Concordat, been merely a training school for the clergy

of Paris, quite sufficient for its purpose, but strictly confined

to the object prescribed by the law. The new superior chosen by the

archbishop had far higher aims. He set to work to re-construct the

whole fabric, from the buildings themselves, of which only the old

walls were left standing, to the course of teaching, which he re-cast

entirely. There were two essential points which he kept before him.

In the first place he saw that a petty seminary which was altogether

ecclesiastical could not answer in Paris, and would never suffice to

recruit a sufficient number of priests for the diocese. He accordingly

utilised the information which reached him, especially from the west

of France and from his native Savoy, to bring to the college any

youths of promise whom he might hear of. Secondly, he determined that

the college should become a model place of education instead of being

a strict seminary with all the asceticism of a place in which the

clerical element was unalloyed. He hoped to let the same course of

education serve for the young men studying for the priesthood, and

for the sons of the highest families in France. His success in the

Rue Saint Florentin (this was where Talleyrand died) had made him

a favourite with the Legitimists, and he had several useful friends

among the Orleanists. Well posted in all the fashionable changes, and

neglecting no opportunity for pushing himself, he was always quick to

adapt himself to the spirit of the time. His theory of what the world

should be was a very aristocratic one, but he maintained that there

were three orders of aristocracy: the nobility, the clergy, and

literature. What he wished to insure was a liberal education, which

would be equally suitable for the clergy and for the youths of the

Faubourg Saint Germain, based upon Christian piety and classical

literature. The study of science was almost entirely excluded, and he

himself had not even a smattering of it.

Thus the old house in the Rue Saint Victor was for many years the

rendezvous of youths bearing the most famous of French names, and

it was considered a very great favour for a young man to obtain

admission. The large sums which many rich people paid to secure

admission for their sons served to provide a free education for young

men without fortune who had shown signs of talent. This testified to

the unbounded faith of M. Dupanloup in classical learning. He looked

upon these classical studies as part and parcel of religion. He held

that youths destined for holy orders and those who were in afterlife

to occupy the highest social positions should both receive the same

education. Virgil, he thought should be as much a part of a priest's

intellectual training as the Bible. He hoped that the _élite_ of his

theological students would, by their association upon equal terms with

young men of good family, acquire more polish and a higher social tone

than can be obtained in seminaries peopled by peasants' sons. He was

wonderfully successful in this respect. The college, though consisting

of two elements, apparently incongruous, was remarkable for its unity.

The knowledge that talent overrode all other considerations prevented

anything like jealousy, and by the end of a week the poorest youth

from the provinces, awkward and simple as he might be, was envied by

the young millionaire--who, little as he might know it, was paying for

his schooling--if he had turned out some good Latin verses, or written

a clever exercise.

In the year 1838, I was fortunate enough to win all the prizes in my

class at the Tréguier College. The _palmares_ happened to be seen by

one of the enlightened men whom M. Dupanloup employed to recruit his

youthful army. My fate was settled in a twinkling, and "Have him sent

for" was the order of the impulsive Superior. I was fifteen and a half

years old, and we had no time to reflect. I was spending the holidays

with a friend in a village near Tréguier, and in the afternoon of the

4th of September I was sent for in haste. I remember my returning home

as well as if it was only yesterday. We had a league to travel through

the country. The vesper bell with its soft cadence echoing from

steeple to steeple awoke a sensation of gentle melancholy, the image

of the life which I was about to abandon for ever. The next day I

started for Paris; upon the 7th I beheld sights which were as novel

for me as if I had been suddenly landed in France from Tahiti or

Timbuctoo.

THE PETTY SEMINARY OF SAINT NICHOLAS DU CHARDONNET.

PART III.

No Buddhist Lama or Mussulman Fakir, suddenly translated from Asia to

the Boulevards of Paris, could have been more taken aback than I was

upon being suddenly landed in a place so different from that in which

moved my old Breton priests, who, with their venerable heads all wood

or granite, remind one of the Osirian colossi which in after life

so struck my fancy when I saw them in Egypt, grandiose in their long

lines of immemorial calm. My coming to Paris marked the passage

from one religion to another. There was as much difference between

Christianity as I left it in Brittany and that which I found current

in Paris, as there is between a piece of old cloth, as stiff as a

board, and a bit of fine cambric. It was not the same religion. My old

priests, with their heavy old-fashioned copes, had always seemed to

me like the magi, from whose lips came the eternal truths, whereas

the new religion to which I was introduced was all print and calico, a

piety decked out with ribbons and scented with musk, a devotion which

found expression in tapers and small flower-pots, a young lady's

theology without stay or style, as composite as the polychrome

frontispiece of one of Lebel's prayer-books.

This was the gravest crisis in my life. The young Breton does not bear

transplanting. The keen moral repulsion which I felt, superadded to

a complete change in my habits and mode of life, brought on a very

severe attack of home-sickness. The confinement to the college was

intolerable. The remembrance of the free and happy life which I had

hitherto led with my mother went to my very heart. I was not the only

sufferer. M. Dupanloup had not calculated all the consequences of

his policy. Imperious as a military commander, he did not take into

account the deaths and casualties which occurred among his young

recruits. We confided our sorrows to one another. My most intimate

friend, a young man from Coutances, if I remember right, who had been,

transported like myself from a happy home, brooded in solitary grief

over the change and died. The natives of Savoy were even less easily

acclimatised. One of them, who was rather my senior, confessed to me

that every evening he calculated the distance from his dormitory on

the third floor to the pavement in the street below. I fell ill, and

to all appearances was not likely to recover. The melancholy to which

Bretons are so subject took hold of me. The memories of the last notes

of the vesper bell which I had heard pealing over our dear hills, and

of the last sunset upon our peaceful plains, pricked me like pointed

darts.

According to every rule of medicine I ought to have died; and it is

perhaps a pity that I did not. Two friends whom I brought with me from

Brittany, in the following year gave this clear proof of fidelity.

They could not accustom themselves to this new world, and they left

it. I sometimes think that the Breton part of me did die; the

Gascon, unfortunately, found sufficient reason for living! The latter

discovered, too, that this new world was a very curious one, and was

well worth clinging to. It was to him who had put me to this severe

test that I owed my escape from death. I am indebted to M. Dupanloup

for two things: for having brought me to Paris, and for having saved

me from dying when I got there. He naturally did not concern himself

much about me at first. The most eagerly sought after priest in Paris,

with an establishment of two hundred students to superintend or rather

to found, could not be expected to take any deep personal interest in

an obscure youth. A peculiar incident formed a bond between us. The

real cause of my suffering was the ever-present souvenir of my mother.

Having always lived alone with her, I could not tear myself away from

the recollection of the peaceful, happy life which I had led year

after year. I had been happy, and I had been poor with her. A

thousand details of this very poverty, which absence made all the more

touching, searched out my very heart. At night I was always thinking

of her, and I could get no sleep. My only consolation was to write her

letters full of tender feeling and moist with tears. Our letters,

as is the usage in religious establishments, were read by one of the

masters. He was so struck by the tone of deep affection which pervaded

my boyish utterances that he showed one of them to M. Dupanloup, who

was very much surprised when he read it.

The noblest trait in M. Dupanloup's character was his affection for

his mother. Though his birth was, in one way, the greatest trouble of

his life, he worshipped his mother. She lived with him, and though

we never saw her, we knew that he always spent so much time with her

every day. He often said that a man's worth is to be measured by the

respect he pays to his mother. He gave us excellent advice upon

this head which I never failed to follow, as, for instance, never to

address her in the second person singular, or to end a letter without

using the word _respect_. This created a connecting link between us.

My letter was shown to him on a Friday, upon which evening the reports

for the week were always read out before him. I had not, upon that

occasion, done very well with my composition, being only fifth or

sixth. "Ah!" he said, "if the subject had been that of a letter which

I read this morning, Ernest Renan would have been first." From that

time forth he noticed me. He recognised the fact of my existence, and

I regarded him, as we all did, as a principle of life, a sort of god.

One worship took the place of another, and the sentiment inspired by

my early teachers gradually died out.

Only those who knew Saint Nicholas du Chardonnet during the brilliant

period from 1838 to 1844 can form an adequate idea of the intense

life which prevailed there.[1] And this life had only one source, one

principle: M. Dupanloup himself. The whole work fell on his shoulders.

Regulations, usage administration, the spiritual and temporal

government of the college, were all centred in him. The college was

full of defects, but he made up for them all. As a writer and an

orator he was only second-rate, but as an educator of youth he had no

equal. The old rules of Saint Nicholas du Chardonnet provided, as

in all other seminaries, that half an hour should be devoted every

evening to what was known as spiritual reading. Before M. Dupanloup's

time, the readings were from some ascetic book such as the _Lives of

the Fathers in the Desert_, but he took this half hour for himself,

and every evening he put himself into direct communication with all

his pupils by the medium of a familiar conversation, which was so

natural and unrestrained that it might often have borne comparison

with the homilies of John Chrysostom in the Palaea of Antioch. Any

incident in the inner life of the college, any occurrence directly

concerning himself or one of the pupils furnished the theme for a

brief and lively soliloquy. The reading of the reports on Friday was

still more dramatic and personal, and we all anticipated that day with

a mixture of hope and apprehension. The observations with which he

interlarded the reading of the notes were charged with life and death.

There was no mode of punishment in force; the reading of the notes and

the reflections which he made upon them being the sole means which he

employed to keep us all on the _qui vive_. This system, doubtless, had

its drawbacks. Worshipped by his pupils, M. Dupanloup was not always

liked by his fellow-workers. I have been told that it was the same

in his diocese, and that he was always a greater favourite with his

laymen than with his priests. There can be no doubt that he put every

one about him into the background. But his very violence made us like

him, for we felt that all his thoughts were concentrated on us. He was

without an equal in the art of rousing his pupils to exertion, and

of getting the maximum amount of work out of each. Each pupil had a

distinct existence in his mind, and for each one of them he was an

ever-present stimulus to work. He set great store by talent, and

treated it as the groundwork of faith. He often said that a man's

worth must be measured by his faculty for admiration. His own

admiration was not always very enlightened or scientific, but it was

prompted by a generous spirit, and a heart really glowing with the

love of the beautiful. He was the Villemain of the Catholic school,

and M. Villemain was the friend whom he loved and appreciated the most

among laymen. Every time he had seen him, he related the conversation

which they had together in terms of the warmest sympathy.

The defects of his own mind were reflected in the education which he

imparted. He was not sufficiently rational or scientific. It might

have been thought that his two hundred pupils were all destined to be

poets, writers, and orators. He set little value on learning without

talent. This was made very clear at the entrance of the Nicolaites

to St. Sulpice, where talent was held of no account, and where

scholasticism and erudition alone were prized. When it came to a

question of doing an exercise of logic or philosophy in barbarous

Latin, the students of St. Nicholas, who had been fed upon more

delicate literature, could not stomach such coarse food. They were

not, therefore, much liked at St. Sulpice, to which M. Dupanloup,

was never appointed, as he was considered to be too little of a

theologian. When an ex-student of St. Nicholas ventured to speak of

his former school, the old tutors would remark: "Oh, yes! in the time

of M. Bourdoise," as much as to say that the seventeenth century was

the period during which this establishment achieved its celebrity.

Whatever its shortcomings in some respects, the education given at St.

Nicholas was of a very high literary standard. Clerical education has

this superiority over a university education, that it is absolutely

independent in everything which does not relate to religion.

Literature is discussed under all its aspects, and the yoke of

classical dogma sits much more lightly. This is how it was that

Lamartine, whose education and training were altogether clerical,

was far more intelligent than any university man; and when this is

followed by philosophical emancipation, the result is a very frank and

unbiased mind. I completed my classical education without having read

Voltaire, but I knew the _Soirées de St. Pétersbourg_ by heart, and

its style, the defects of which I did not discover until much later,

had a very stimulating effect upon me.

The discussions on romanticism, then so fierce in the world outside,

found their way into the college and all our talk was of Lamartine and

Victor Hugo. The superior joined in with them, and for nearly a year

they were the sole topic of our spiritual readings. M. Dupanloup did

not go all the way with the champions of romanticism, but he was much

more with them than against them. Thus it was that I came to know of

the struggles of the day. Later still, the _solvuntur objecta_ of the

theologians enabled me to attain liberty of thought. The thorough

good faith of the ancient ecclesiastical teaching consisted in not

dissimulating the force of any objection, and as the answers were

generally very weak, a clever person could work out the truth for

himself.

I learnt much, too, from the course of lectures on history. Abbé

Richard[2] gave these lectures in the spirit of the modern school

and with marked ability. For some reason or other his lectures were

interrupted, and his place was taken by a tutor, who with many other

engagements on hand, merely read to us some old notes, interspersed

with extracts from modern books. Among these modern volumes, which

often formed a striking contrast with the jog-trot old notes, there

was one which produced a very singular effect upon me. Whenever he

began to read from it I was incapable of taking a single note, my

whole being seeming to thrill with intoxicating harmony. The book was

Michelet's _Histoire de France_, the passages which so affected me

being in the fifth and sixth volumes. Thus the modern age penetrated

into me as through all the fissures of a cracked cement. I had come to

Paris with a complete moral training, but ignorant to the last degree.

I had everything to learn. It was a great surprise for me when I

found that there was such a person as a serious and learned layman.

I discovered that antiquity and the Church are not everything in this

world, and especially that contemporary literature was well worthy of

attention. I ceased to look upon the death of Louis XIV. as marking

the end of the world. I became imbued with ideas and sentiments which

had no expression in antiquity or in the seventeenth century.

So the germ which was in me began to sprout. Distasteful as it was

in many respects to my nature, this education had the effect of a

chemical reagent, and stirred all the life and activity that was in

me. For the essential thing in education is not the doctrine taught,

but the arousing of the faculties. In proportion as the foundations of

my religious faith had been shaken by finding the same names applied

to things so different, so did my mind greedily swallow the new

beverage prepared for it. The world broke in upon me. Despite its

claim to be a refuge to which the stir of the outside world never

penetrated, St. Nicholas was at this period the most brilliant and

worldly house in Paris. The atmosphere of Paris--minus, let me

add, its corruptions--penetrated by door and window; Paris with its

pettiness and its grandeur, its revolutionary force and its lapses

into flabby indifference. My old Brittany priests knew much more Latin

and mathematics than my new masters; but they lived in the catacombs,

bereft of light and air. Here, the atmosphere of the age had free

course. In our walks to Gentilly of an evening we engaged in endless

discussions. I could never sleep of a night after that; my head was

full of Hugo and Lamartine. I understood what glory was after having

vaguely expected to find it in the roof of the chapel at Tréguier. In

the course of a short time a very great revelation was borne in upon

me. The words talent, brilliancy, and reputation, conveyed a meaning

to me. The modest, ideal which my earliest teachers had inculcated

faded away; I had embarked upon a sea agitated by all the storms and

currents of the age. These currents and gales were bound to drive my

vessel towards a coast whither my former friends would tremble to see

me land.

My performances in class were very irregular. Upon one occasion I

wrote an _Alexander_, which must be in the prize exercise book,

and which I would reprint if I had it by me. But purely rhetorical

compositions were very distasteful to me; I could never make a decent

speech. Upon one prize-day we got up a representation of the Council

of Clermont, and the various speeches suitable to the occasion were

allotted by competition. I was a miserable failure as Peter the Hermit

and Urban II.; my Godefroy de Bouillon was pronounced to be utterly

devoid of military ardour. A warlike song in Sapphic and Adonic

stanzas created a more favourable impression. My refrain _Sternite

Turcas_, a short and sharp solution of the Eastern Question, was

selected for recital in public. I was too staid for these childish

proceedings. We were often set to write a Middle Age tale, terminating

with some striking miracle, and I was far too fond of selecting the

cure of lepers. I often thought of my early studies in mathematics,

in which I was pretty well advanced, and I spoke of it to my fellow

students, who were much amused at the idea, for mathematics stood very

low in their estimation, compared to the literary studies which

they looked upon as the highest expression of human intelligence.

My reasoning powers only revealed themselves later, while studying

philosophy at Issy. The first time that my fellow pupils heard me

argue in Latin they were surprised. They saw at once that I was of a

different race from themselves, and that I should still be marching

forward when they had reached the bounds set for them. But in rhetoric

I did not stand so well. I looked upon it as a pure waste of time and

ingenuity to write when one has no thoughts of one's own to express.

The groundwork of ideas upon which education at St. Nicholas was based

was shallow, but it was brilliant upon the surface, and the elevation

of feeling which pervaded the whole system was another notable

feature. I have said that no kind of punishment was administered; or,

to speak more accurately, there was only one, expulsion. Except in

cases where some grave offence had been committed, there was nothing

degrading in being dismissed. No particular reason was alleged, the

superior saying to the student who was sent away: "You are a very

worthy young man, but your intelligence is not of the turn we require.

Let us part friends. Is there any service I can do you?" The favour

of being allowed to share in an education considered to be so

exceptionally good was thought so much of that we dreaded an

announcement of this kind like a sentence of death. This is one of

the secrets of the superiority of ecclesiastical over state colleges;

their _régime_ is much more liberal, for none of the students are

there by right, and coercion must inevitably lead to separation.

There is something cold and hard about the schools and colleges of

the state, while the fact of a student having secured by a competitive

examination an inalienable right to his place in them, is an

infallible source of weakness. For my own part I have never been

able to understand how the master of a normal school, for instance,

manages, inasmuch as he is unable to say, without further explanation,

to the pupils who are unsuited for their vocation: "You have not the

bent of intelligence for our calling, but I have no doubt that you are

a very good lad, and that you will get on better elsewhere. Good-bye."

Even the most trifling punishment implies a servile principle of

obedience from fear. So far as I am myself concerned, I do not think

that at any period of my life I have been obedient. I have, I know,

been docile and submissive, but it has been to a spiritual principle,

not to a material force wielding the dread of punishment. My

mother never ordered me to do a thing. The relations between my

ecclesiastical teachers and myself were entirely free and spontaneous.

Whoever has had experience of this _rationabile obsequium_ cannot put

up with any other. An order is a humiliation whosoever has to obey is

a _capitis minor_ sullied on the very threshold of the higher life.

Ecclesiastical obedience has nothing lowering about it; for it is

voluntary, and those who do not get on together can separate. In one

of my Utopian dreams of an aristocratic society, I have provided that

there should only be one penalty, death; or rather, that all serious

offences should be visited by a reprimand from the recognised

authorities which no man of honour would survive. I should never have

done to be a soldier, for I should either have deserted or committed

suicide. I am afraid that the new military institutions which do

not leave a place for any exceptions or equivalents will have a very

lowering moral effect. To compel every one to obey is fatal to genius

and talent. The man who has passed years in the carriage of arms after

the German fashion is dead to all delicate work whether of the hand or

brain. Thus it is that Germany would be devoid of all talent since she

has been engrossed in military pursuits, but for the Jews, to whom she

is so ungrateful.

The generation which was from fifteen to twenty years of age, at the

brilliant but fleeting epoch of which I am speaking, is now between

fifty-five and sixty. It will be asked whether this generation has

realised the unbounded hopes which the ardent spirit of our great

preceptor had conceived. The answer must unquestionably be in the

negative, for if these hopes had been fulfilled the face of the world

would have been completely changed. M. Dupanloup was too little in

love with his age, and too uncompromising to its spirit, to mould men

in accordance with the temper of the time. When I recall one of these

spiritual readings during which the master poured out the treasures of

his intelligence, the class-room with its serried benches upon which

clustered two hundred lads hushed in attentive respect, and when I set

myself to inquire whither have fled the two hundred souls, so closely

bound together by the ascendency of one man, I count more than one

case of waste and eccentricity; as might be expected, I can count

archbishops, bishops, and other dignitaries of the Church, all to a

certain extent enlightened and moderate in their views. I come upon

diplomatists, councillors of state, and others, whose honourable

careers would in some instances have been more brilliant if Marshal

MacMahon's dismissal of his ministry on the 16th of May, 1877, had

been a success. But, strange to say, I see among those who sat beside

a future prelate a young man destined to sharpen his knife so well

that he will drive it home to his archbishop's heart.... I think I

can remember Verger, and I may say of him as Sachetti said of the

beatified Florentine: _Fu mia vicina, andava come le altre._ The

education given us had its dangers; it had a tendency to produce over

excitement, and to turn the balance of the mind, as it did in Verger's

case.

A still more striking instance of the saying that "the spirit bloweth

where it listeth," was that of H. de ----. When I first entered at

Saint-Nicholas he was the object of my special admiration. He was a

youth of exceptional talent, and he was a long way ahead of all his

comrades in rhetoric. His staid and elevated piety sprung from a

nature endowed with the loftiest aspirations. He quite came up to

our idea of perfection, and according to the custom of ecclesiastical

colleges, in which the senior pupils share the duties of the masters,

the most important of these functions were confided to him. His piety

was equally great for several years at the seminary of St. Sulpice. He

would remain for hours in the chapel, especially on holy days, bathed

in tears. I well remember one summer evening at Gentilly--which was

the country-house of the Petty Seminary of Saint-Nicholas--how we

clustered round some of the senior students and one of the masters

noted for his Christian piety, listening intently to what they told

us. The conversation had taken a very serious turn, the question under

discussion being the ever-enduring problem upon which all Christianity

rests--the question of divine election--the doubt in which each

individual soul must stand until the last hour, whether he will be

saved. The good priest dwelt specially upon this, telling us that no

one can be sure, however great may be the favours which Heaven has

showered upon him, that he will not fall away at the last. "I think,"

he said, "that I have known one case of predestination." There was a

hush, and after a pause he added, "I mean H. de ----; if any one is

sure of being saved it is he. And yet who can tell that H. de ---- is

not a reprobate?" I saw H. de ---- again many years afterwards. He

had in the interval studied the Bible very deeply. I could not tell

whether he was entirely estranged from Christianity, but he no longer

wore the priestly garb, and was very bitter against clericalism. When

I met him later still I found that he had become a convert to extreme

democratic ideas, and with the passionate exaltation which was the

principal trait in his character, he was bent upon inaugurating the

reign of justice. His head was full of America, and I think that he

must be there now. A few years ago one of our old comrades told me

that he had read a name not unlike his among the list of men shot for

participation in the Communist insurrection of 1871. I think that he

was mistaken, but there can be no doubt that the career of poor H. de

---- was shipwrecked by some great storm. His many high qualities were

neutralised by his passionate temper. He was by far the most gifted of

my fellow pupils at Saint-Nicholas. But he had not the good sense

to keep cool in politics. A man who behaved as he did might get shot

twenty times. Idealists like us must be very careful how we play

with those tools. We are very likely to leave our heads or our

wing-feathers behind us. The temptation for a priest who has thrown up

the Church to become a democrat is very strong, beyond doubt, for

by so doing he regains colleagues and friends, and in reality merely

exchanges one sect for another. Such was the fate of Lamennais. One

of the wisest acts of Abbé Loyson has been the resistance of this

temptation and his refusal to accept the advances which the extreme

party always makes to those who have broken away from official ties.

For three years I was subjected to this profound influence, which

brought about a complete transformation in my being. M. Dupanloup

had literally transfigured me. The poor little country lad struggling

vainly to emerge from his shell, had been developed into a young man

of ready and quick intelligence. There was, I know, one thing wanting

in my education, and until that void was filled up I was very cramped

in my powers. The one thing lacking was positive science, the idea

of a critical search after truth. This superficial humanism kept my

reasoning powers fallow for three years, while at the same time it

wore away the early candour of my faith. My Christianity was being

worn away, though there was nothing as yet in my mind which could be

styled doubt. I went every year, during the holidays, into Brittany.

Notwithstanding more than one painful struggle, I soon became my old

self again just as my early masters had fashioned me.

In accordance with the general rule I went, after completing my

rhetoric at Saint-Nicholas du Chardonnet, to Issy, the country

branch of the St. Sulpice seminary. Thus I left M. Dupanloup for an

establishment in which the discipline was diametrically opposed to

that of Saint-Nicholas. The first thing which I was taught at St.

Sulpice was to regard as childish nonsense the very things which M.

Dupanloup had told me to prize the most. What, I was taught, could

be simpler? If Christianity is a revealed truth, should not the chief

occupation of the Christian be the study of that revelation, in other

words of theology? Theology and the study of the Bible absorbed my

whole time, and furnished me with the true reasons for believing in

Christianity and for not adhering to it. For four years a terrible

struggle went on within me, until at last the phrase, which I had long

put away from me as a temptation of the devil, "It is not true," would

not be denied. In describing this inward combat and the Seminary of

St. Sulpice itself, which is further removed from the present age than

if encircled by thousands of leagues of solitude, I will endeavour

also to show how I arose from the direct study of Christianity,

undertaken in the most serious spirit, without sufficient faith to be

a sincere priest, and yet with too much respect for it to permit of my

trifling with faiths so worthy of that respect.

[Footnote 1: A very graphic description of it has been given by

M. Adolphe Morillon in his _Souvenirs de Saint-Nicolas_. Paris.

Licoffre.]

[Footnote 2: See the excellent memoir by M. Fonlon (now Archbishop of

Besançon) upon Abbé Richard.]

THE ISSY SEMINARY.

PART I.

The Petty Seminary of Saint-Nicholas du Chardonnet had no

philosophical course, philosophy being, in accordance with the

division of ecclesiastical studies, reserved for the great seminary.

After having finished my classical education in the establishment so

ably directed by M. Dupanloup, I was, with the students in my class,

passed into the great seminary, which is set apart for an exclusively

ecclesiastical course of teaching. The grand seminary for the diocese

of Paris is St. Sulpice, which consists of two houses, one in

Paris and the other at Issy, where the students devote two years to

philosophy. These two seminaries form, in reality, one. The one is the

outcome of the other, and they are both conjoined at certain times;

the congregation from which the masters are selected is the same. St.

Sulpice exercised so great an influence over me, and so definitely

decided the whole course of my life, that I must perforce sketch its

history, and explain its principles and tendencies, so as to show how

they have continued to be the mainspring of all my intellectual and

moral development.

St. Sulpice owes its origin to one whose name has not attained any

great celebrity, for celebrity rarely seeks out those who make a

point of avoiding notoriety, and whose predominant characteristic is

modesty. Jean-Jacques Olier, member of a family which supplied the

state with many trusty servitors, was the contemporary of, and a

fellow-worker with, Vincent de Paul, Bérulle, Adrien de Bourdoise,

Père Eudes, and Charles de Gondren, founders of congregations for the

reform of ecclesiastical education, who played a prominent part in the

preparatory reforms of the seventeenth century. During the reign of

Henri IV. and in the early years of the reign of Louis XIII.,

the morality of the clergy was at the lowest possible point. The

fanaticism of the League, far from serving to make their morality more

rigorous, had just the contrary effect. Priests thought that because

they shouldered musket and carbine in the good cause they were at

liberty to do as they liked. The racy humour which prevailed during

the reign of Henri IV. was anything but favourable to mysticism. There

was a good side to the outspoken Rabelaisian gaiety which was not

deemed, in that day, incompatible with the priestly calling. In many

ways we prefer the bright and witty piety of Pierre Camus, a friend of

François de Sales, to the rigid and affected attitude which the French

clergy has since assumed, and which has converted them into a sort of

black army, holding aloof from the rest of the world and at war with

it. But there can be no doubt that about the year 1640 the education

of the clergy was not in keeping with the spirit of regularity and

moderation which was becoming more and more the law of the age. From

the most opposite directions came a cry for reform. François de Sales

admitted that he had not been successful in this attempt, and he told

Bourdoise that "after having laboured during seventeen years to train

only three such priests as I wanted to assist me in re-forming

the clergy of my diocese, I have only succeeded in forming one

and-a-half." Following upon him came the men of grave and reasonable

piety whom I named above. By means of congregations of a fresh type,

distinct from the old monkish rules and in some points copied from

the Jesuits, they created the seminary, that is to say the well-walled

nursery in which young clerks could be trained and formed. The

transformation was far extending. The schools of these powerful

teachers of the spiritual life turned out a body of men representing

the best disciplined, the most orderly, the most national, and it

maybe added, the most highly educated clergy ever seen--a clergy which

illustrated the second half of the seventeenth century and the whole

of the eighteenth, and the last of whose representatives have only

disappeared within the last forty years. Concurrently with these

exertions of orthodox piety arose Port-Royal, which was far superior

to St. Sulpice, to St. Lazare, to the Christian doctrine, and even

to the Oratoire, as regarded consistency in reasoning and talent in

writing, but which lacked the most essential of Catholic virtues,

docility. Port-Royal, like Protestantism, passed through every phase

of misfortune. It was distasteful to the majority, and was always in

opposition. When you have excited the antipathy of your country you

are too often led to take a dislike to your country. The persecuted

one is doubly to be pitied, for, in addition to the suffering which he

endures, persecution affects him morally; it rarely fails to warp the

mind and to shrink the heart.

Olier occupies a place apart in this group of Catholic reformers. His

mysticism is of a kind peculiar to himself. His _Cathéchisme chrétien

pour la Vie intérieure_, which is scarcely ever read outside

St. Sulpice, is a most remarkable book, full of poesy and sombre

philosophy, wavering from first to last between Louis de Léon and

Spinoza. Olier's ideal of the Christian life is what he calls "the

state of death."

"What is the state of death?--It is a state during which the heart

cannot be moved to its depths, and though the world displays to it its

beauties, its honours, and its riches, the effect is the same as if it

offered them to a corpse, which remains motionless, and devoid of all

desire, insensible to all that goes on.... The corpse may be agitated

outwardly, and have some movement of the body; but this agitation

is all on the surface; it does not come from the inner man, which is

without life, vigour, or strength. Thus a soul which is dead within

may easily be attached by external things and be disturbed outwardly;

but in its inner self it remains dead and motionless to whatever may

happen."

Nor is this all. Olier imagines as far superior to the state of death

the state of burial.

"Death retains the appearance of the world and of the flesh; the dead

man seems to be still a part of Adam. He is now and again moved; he

continues to afford the world some pleasure. But the buried body is

forgotten, and no longer ranks with men. He is noisome and horrible;

he is bereft of all that pleases the eye; he is trodden under foot in

a cemetery without compunction, so convinced is every one that he is

nothing, and that he is rooted from among the number of men."

The sombre fancies of Calvin are as Pelagian optimism compared to

the horrible nightmares which original sin evokes in the brain of the

pious recluse.

"Could you add anything to drive more closely home the conception as

to how the flesh is only sin? It is so completely sin that it is all

intent and motion towards sin, and even to every kind of sin; so much

so, that if the Holy Ghost did not restrain our souls and succour us

with His grace, it would be carried away by all the inclinations of

the flesh, all of which tend to sin.

"What is then the flesh?--It is the effect of sin; it is the principle

of sin.

"If that is so, how comes it that you did not fall away every hour

into sin?--It is the mercy of God which keeps us from it.... I am,

therefore, indebted to God if I do not commit every kind of

sin?--Yes ... this is the general feeling of the saints, because the flesh

is drawn down towards sin by such a heavy weight that God alone can

prevent it from falling.

"But will you kindly tell me something more about this?--All I can

tell you is that there is no conceivable kind of sin, no imperfection,

disorder, error, or unruliness of which the flesh is not full, just

as there is no levity, folly, or stupidity of which the flesh is not

capable at any moment.

"What, I should be mad, and comport myself like a madman in the

highways and byways, but for the help of God?--That is a small matter,

and a question of common decency; but you must know that without

the grace of God and the virtue of His Spirit, there is no impurity,

meanness, infamy, drunkenness, blasphemy, or other kind of sin to

which man would not give himself over.

"The flesh is very corrupt then?--You see that it is.

"I cannot wonder therefore that you tell us we must hate our flesh and

hold our own bodies in horror; and that man, in his present condition,

is fated to be accursed, vilified and persecuted.--No, I can no longer

feel surprise at this. In truth, there is no form of misfortune and

suffering but which he may expect his flesh to bring down upon him.

You are right; all the hatred, malediction, and persecution which

beset the demon must also beset the flesh and all its motions.

"There is, then, no extremity of insult too great to be put up with

and to be looked upon as deserved?--No.

"Contempt, insult, and calumny should not then disturb our peace of

mind?--No. We should behave like the saint of former days, who was led

to the scaffold for a crime which he had not committed, and from which

he would not attempt to exculpate himself, as he said to himself that

he should have been guilty of this crime and of many far worse but for

the preventing grace of God.

"Men, angels, and God Himself ought, therefore to persecute us without

ceasing? Yes, so it ought to be.

"What! do you mean to say that sinners ought to be poor and bereft of

everything, like the demons?--Yes, and more than that. Sinners ought

to be placed under an interdict in regard to all their corporal and

spiritual faculties, and bereft of all the gifts of God."

A hero of Christian humility, Olier was acting as he thought for the

best in making a mock of human nature and dragging it through the

mire. He had visions, and was favoured with inner revelations of which

the autographic account, written for his director, is still at St.

Sulpice. He stops short in his writing to make such reflections as

these: "My courage is at times utterly cast down when I see what

impertinences I have been writing. They must, I think, be a great

waste of time for my good director, whom I am afraid of amusing. I

pity him for having to spend his time in reading them, and it seems

to me that he ought to stop my writing this intolerable frivolity and

impertinence."

But Olier, like nearly all the mystics, was not merely a strange

dreamer, but a powerful organizer. Entering very young into holy

orders, he was appointed, through the influence of his family, priest

of the parish of St. Sulpice, which was then attached to the Abbey of

Saint-Germain des Près. His tender and susceptible piety took umbrage

at many things which had hitherto been looked upon as harmless--for

instance, at a tavern situated in the charnel-house of the church and

frequented by the choristers. His ideal was a clergy after his own

image--pious, zealous, and attached to their duties. Many other

saintly personages were labouring towards the same end, but Olier set

to work in very original fashion. Adrien de Bourdoise alone took the

same view as he did of ecclesiastical reform. What was truly novel in

the idea of these two founders was to try and effect the improvement

of the secular clergy by means of institutions for priests mixing

with the world and combining the cure of souls with the training of

students for the Church.

Olier and Bourdoise accordingly, while carrying on the work of reform,

and becoming heads of religious congregations, remained parish priests

of St. Sulpice and Saint-Nicholas du Chardonnet. The seminary had its

origin in the assembling together of the priests into communities, and

these communities became schools of clericalism, homes in which

young men destined for the Church were piously trained for it.

What facilitated the creation of these establishments and made them

innocuous to the state was that they had no resident tutors. All the

theological tutors were at the Sorbonne, and the young men from St.

Sulpice and St. Nicholas, who were studying theology, went there for

their lectures. Thus the system of teaching remained national and

common to all. The seclusion of the seminary only applied to the

moral discipline and religious duties. This was the equivalent of the

practice now prevalent among the boarding-schools which send their

pupils to the Lycée. There was only one course of theology in Paris,

and that was the official one at the Faculty. The work in the interior

of the seminary was confined to repetitions and lectures. It is true

that this rule soon became obsolete. I have heard it said by old

students of St. Sulpice that towards the end of last century they went

very little to the Sorbonne, that the general opinion was that there

was little to be learnt there, and that the private lessons in

the seminary quite took the place of the official lecture. This

organisation was very similar, as may be seen, to that which now

obtains in the Normal School and regulates its relations with the

Sorbonne. Subsequent to the Concordat the whole of the education of

the seminaries was given within the walls. Napoleon did not think it

worth while to revive the monopoly of the Theological Faculty. This

could only have been effected by obtaining from the Court of Rome a

canonical institution, and this the Imperial Government did not care

to have. M. Emery, moreover, took good care never to suggest such a

step. He had anything but a favourable recollection of the old system,

and very much preferred keeping his young men under his own control.

The lectures _intra muros_ thus became the regular course of teaching.

Nevertheless, as change is a thing unknown at St. Sulpice, the old

names remain what they were. The seminary has no professors; all the

members of the congregation have the uniform title of director.

The company founded by Olier retained until the Revolution its repute

for modesty and practical virtue. Its achievements in theology were

somewhat insignificant, as it had not the lofty independence of

Port-Royal. It went too far into Molinism, and did not avoid the

paltry meanness which is, so to speak, the outcome of the rigid

ideas of the orthodox and a set-off against his good qualities. The

ill-humour of Saint Simon against these pious priests is, however,

carried too far. They were, in the great ecclesiastical army, the

noncommissioned officers and drill-sergeants, and it would have been

absurd to expect from them the high breeding of general officers. The

company exercised through its numerous provincial houses a decisive

influence upon the education of the French clergy, while in Canada

it acquired a sort of religious suzerainty which harmonised very well

with the English rule--so well-disposed towards ancient rights and

custom, and which has lasted down to our own day.

The Revolution did not have any effect upon St. Sulpice. A man of cool

and resolute character, such as the company always numbered among its

members, reconstructed it upon the very same basis. M. Emery, a

very learned and moderately Gallican priest, so completely gained

Napoleon's confidence that be obtained from him the necessary

authorisations. He would have been very much surprised if he had been

told that the fact of making such a demand was a base concession to

the civil power, and a sort of impiety. Thus things recurred to their

old groove as they were before the Revolution, the door moved on its

old hinges, and as from Olier to the Revolution there had not been

any change, the seventeenth century had still a resting-place in one

corner of Paris.

St. Sulpice continued amid surroundings so different, to be what it

had always been before--moderate and respectful towards the civil

power, and to hold aloof from politics.[1] With its legal status

thoroughly assured, thanks to the judicious measures taken by M.

Emery, St. Sulpice was blind to all that went on in the world outside.

After the Revolution of 1830, there was some little stir in the

college. The echo of the heated discussions of the day sometimes

pierced its walls, and the speeches of M. Mauguin--I am sure I don't

know why--were special favourites with the junior students. One of

them took an opportunity of reading to the superior, M. Duclaux, an

extract from a debate which had struck him as being more violent than

usual. The old priest, wrapped up in his own reflections, had scarcely

listened. When the student had finished, he awoke from his lethargy,

and shaking him by the hand, observed: "It is very clear, my lad, that

these men do not say their orisons." The remark has often recalled

itself to me of late in connection with certain speeches. What a light

is let in upon many points by the fact that M. Clémenceau does not

probably say his orisons!

These imperturbable old men were very indifferent to what went on

in the world, which to their mind was a barrel-organ continually

repeating the same tune. Upon one occasion there was a good deal of

commotion upon the Place St. Sulpice, and one of the professors, whose

feelings were not so well under control as those of his colleagues,

wanted them all "to go to the chapel and die in a body." "I don't

see the use of that," was the reply of one of his colleagues, and the

professors continued their constitutional walk under the colonnade of

the courtyard.

Amid the religious difficulties of the time, the priests of St.

Sulpice preserved an equally neutral and sagacious attitude, the only

occasions upon which they betrayed anything like warmth of feeling

being when the episcopal authority was threatened. They soon found out

the spitefulness of M. de Lamennais, and would have nothing to do with

him. The theological romanticism of Lacordaire and of Montalembert was

not much more appreciated by them, the dogmatic ignorance and the very

weak reasoning powers of this school indisposing them against it. They

were fully alive to the danger of Catholic journalism. Ultramontanism

they at first looked upon as merely a convenient method of appealing

to a distant and often ill-informed authority from one nearer at hand,

and less easy to inveigle. The older members, who had gone

through their studies at the Sorbonne before the Revolution, were

uncompromising partisans of the four propositions of 1682. Bossuet

was their oracle on every point. One of the most respected of the

directors, M. Boyer, had, while at Rome, a long argument with Pope

Gregory XVI. upon the Gallican propositions. He asserted that the Pope

could not answer his arguments. He detracted, it is true, from the

significance of his success by admitting that no one in Rome took him

_au sérieux_, and the residents in the Vatican made sport of him as

being "an antediluvian." It is a pity-that they did not pay more heed

to what he said. A complete change took place about 1840. The older

members whose training dated from before the Revolution were dead,

and the younger ones nearly all rallied to the doctrine of papal

infallibility; but there was, despite of that, a great gulf between

these Ultramontanes of the eleventh hour and the impetuous deriders

of Scholasticism and the Gallican Church who were enrolled under the

banner of Lamennais. St. Sulpice never went so far as they did in

trampling recognised rules under foot.

It cannot be denied that mingled with all this there was a certain

amount of antipathy against talent, and of resentment at interference

with the routine of the schoolmen disturbed in their old-fashioned

doctrines by troublesome innovators. But there was at the same time

a good deal of practical tact in the rules followed by these prudent

directors. They saw the danger of being more royalist than the king,

and they knew how easy was the transition from one extreme to the

other. Men less exempt than they were, from anything like vanity,

would have exulted when Lamennais, the master of these brilliant

paradoxes, who had represented them as being guilty of heresy and

lukewarmness for the Holy See, himself became a heretic, and accused

the Church of Rome of being the tomb of human souls and the mother of

error. Age must not attempt to ape the ways of youth under penalty of

being treated with disrespect.

It is on account of this frankness that St. Sulpice represents all

that is most upright in religion. No attenuation of the dogmas of

Scripture was allowed at St. Sulpice; the fathers, the councils, and

the doctors were looked upon as the sources of Christianity. Proof

of the divinity of Christ was not sought in Mohammed or the battle of

Marengo. These theological buffooneries, which by force of impudence

and eloquence extorted admiration in Notre-Dame, had no such effect

upon these serious-minded Christians. They never thought that the

dogma had any need to be toned down, veiled, or dressed up to suit

the taste of modern France. They showed themselves deficient in the

critical faculty in supposing that the Catholicism of the theologians

was the self-same religion of Jesus and the prophets; but they did not

invent for the use of the worldly, a Christianity revised and adapted

to their ideas. This is why the serious study--may I even add, the

reform--of Christianity is more likely to proceed from St. Sulpice

than from the teachings of M. Lacordaire or M. Gratry, and _a

fortiori_, from that of M. Dupanloup, in which all its doctrines are

toned down, contorted, and blunted; in which Christianity is never

represented as it was conceived by the Council of Trent or the Vatican

Council, but as a thing without frame or bone, and with all its

essence taken from it. The conversions which are made by preaching of

this kind do no good either to religion or to the mind. Conversions of

this kind do not make Christians, but they warp the mind and unfit men

for public business. There is nothing so mischievous as the vague; it

is even worse than what is false. "Truth," as Bacon has well observed,

"is derived from error rather than from confusion."

Thus, amid the pretentious pathos which in our day has found its way

into the Christian Apologia, has been preserved a school of solid

doctrine, averse to all show and repugnant to success. Modesty has

ever been the special attribute of the Company of St. Sulpice; this is

why it has never attached any importance to literature, excluding it

almost entirely. The rule of the St. Sulpice Company is to publish

everything anonymously, and to write in the most unpretending

and retiring style possible. They see clearly the vanity, and the

drawbacks of talent, and they will have none of it. The word which

best characterises them is mediocrity, but then their mediocrity

is systematic and self-planned. Michelet has described the alliance

between the Jesuits and the Sulpicians as "a marriage between death

and vacuum." This is no doubt true, but Michelet failed to see that

in this case the vacuum is loved for its own sake. There is something

touching about a vacuum created by men who will not think for fear of

thinking ill. Literary error is in their eyes the most dangerous of

errors, and it is just on this account that they excel in the true

style of writing. St. Sulpice is now the only place where, as

formerly at Port-Royal, the style of writing possesses that absolute

forgetfulness of form which is the proof of sincerity. It never

occurred to the masters that among their pupils must be a writer or an

orator. The principle which they insisted upon the most earnestly was

never to make any reference to self, and if one had anything to say,

to say it plainly and in undertones. It was all very well for you, my

worthy masters, with that total ignorance of the world which does

you so much honour, to take this view; but if you knew how little

encouragement the world gives to modesty, you would see how difficult

it is for literature to act up to your principles. What would modesty

have done for M. de Chateaubriand? You were right to be severe upon

the stagey ways of a theology reduced so low as to bid for applause

by resorting to worldly tactics. But what does one ever hear of your

theology? It has only one defect, but that is a serious one; it is

dead. Your literary principles were like the rhetoric of Chrysippus,

of which Cicero said that it was excellent for teaching the way of

silence. Whoever speaks or writes for the public ear or eye must

inevitably be bent upon succeeding. The great thing is not to make

any sacrifice in order to attain that success, and this is what your

serious, upright and honest teaching inculcated to perfection.

In this way St. Sulpice with its contempt for literature is perforce

a capital school for style, the fundamental rule of which is to

have solely in view the thought which it is wished to inculcate, and

therefore to have a thought in the mind. This was far more valuable

than the rhetoric of M. Dupanloup, and the teaching of the new

Catholic school. At St. Sulpice, the main substance of a matter

excluded all other considerations. Theology was of prime importance

there, and if the way in which the studies were shaped was somewhat

deficient in vigour, this was because the general tendency of

Catholicism, especially in France, is not in the direction of very

high and sustained efforts. St. Sulpice has, however, in our time

turned out a theologian like M. Carrière, whose vast labours are in

many respects remarkable for their depth; men of erudition like M.

Gosselin and M. Faillon, whose conscientious researches are of great

value, and philologists like M. Garnier, and especially M. Le Hir, the

only eminent masters in the field of ecclesiastical critique whom the

Catholic school in France has turned out.

But it is not to results such as these that the teachers of St.

Sulpice attach the highest value. St. Sulpice is, above all, a school

of virtue. It is chiefly in respect to virtue that St. Sulpice is

a remnant of the past, a fossil two hundred years old. Many of my

opinions surprise the outside world, because they have not seen what

I have. At Sulpice I have seen, allied as I admit, with very narrow

views, the perfection of goodness, politeness, modesty, and sacrifice

of self. There is enough virtue in St. Sulpice to govern the

whole world, and this fact has made me very discriminating in my

appreciation of what I have seen elsewhere. I have never met but one

man in the present age who can bear comparison with the Sulpicians,

that is M. Damiron, and those who knew him, know what the Sulpicians

were. A future generation will never be able to realise what treasures

to be expended in improving the welfare of mankind, are stored up in

these ancient schools of silence, gravity and respect.

Such was the establishment in which I spent four years at the most

critical period of my life. I was quite in my element there. While

the majority of my fellow-students, weakened by the somewhat insipid

classical teaching of M. Dupanloup, could not fairly settle down to

the divinity of the schools, I at once took a liking for its bitter

flavour; I became as fond of it as a monkey is of nuts. The grave

and kindly priests, with their strong convictions and good desires

reminded me of my early teachers in Lower Brittany. Saint-Nicholas du

Chardonnet and its superficial rhetoric I came to look upon as a mere

digression of very doubtful utility. I came to realities from words,

and I set seriously to study and analyse in its smallest details the

Christian Faith which I more than ever regarded as the centre of all

truth.

[Footnote 1: I am speaking of the years from 1842 to 1845. I believe

that it is the same still.]

THE ISSY SEMINARY.

PART II.

As I have already explained, the two years of philosophy which serve

as an introduction to the study of theology are spent, not in Paris,

but at the country house of Issy, situated in the village of that name

outside Paris, just beyond the last houses of Vaugirard. The seminary

is a very long building at one end of a large park, and the only

remarkable feature about it is the central pavilion, which is so

delicate and elegant in style that it will at once take the eye of a

connoisseur. This pavilion was the suburban residence of Marguerite

de Valois, the first wife of Henri IV., between the year 1606 and her

death in 1615. This clever but not very strait-laced princess (upon

whom, however, we need not be harder than was he who had the best

right to be so) gathered around her the clever men of the day, and

the _Petit Olympe d'Issy,_ by Michel Bouteroue,[1] gives a good

description of this bright and witty court. The verses are as follows:

Je veux d'un excellent ouvrage,

Dedans un portrait racourcy,

Représenter le païsage

Du petit Olympe d'Issy,

Pourven que la grande princesse,

La perle et fleur de l'univers,

A qui cest ouvrage s'addresse,

Veuille favoriser mes vers.

Que l'ancienne poésie

Ne vante plus en ses écrits

Les lauriers du Daphné d'Asie

Et les beaux jardins de Cypris,

Les promenoirs et le bocage

Du Tempé frais et ombragé,

Qui parut lors qu'un marescage

En la mer se fut deschargé.

Qa'on ne vante plus la Touraine

Pour son air doux et gracieux,

Ny Chenonceaus, qui d'une reyne

Fut le jardin délicieux,

Ny le Tivoly magnifique

Où, d'un artifice nouveau,

Se faict une douce musique

Des accords du vent et de l'eau.

Issy, de beauté les surpasse

En beaux jardins et prés herbus,

Dignes d'estre au lieu de Parnasse

Le séjour des soeurs de Phébus.

Mainte belle source ondoyante,

Découlant de cent lieux divers,

Maintient sa terre verdoyante

Et ses arbrisseaux toujours verds.

* * * * *

Un vivier est à l'advenüe

Près la porte de ce verger,

Qui, par une sente cognüe,

En l'estang se va descharger;

Comme on voit les grandes rivières

Se perdre au giron de la mer,

Ainsi ces sources fontenières

En l'estang se vont renfermer.

* * * * *

Une autre mare plus petite,

Si l'on retourne vers le mont,

Par l'ombre de son boys invite

De passer sur un petit pont,

Pour aller au lieu de delices,

Au plus doux séjour du plaisir,

Des mignardises, des blandices,

Du doux repos et du loysir.

After the death of Queen Marguerite, the house was sold and it

belonged in turn to several Parisian families which occupied it until

1655. Olier turned it to more pious uses than it had known before,

by inhabiting it during the last few years of his life. M. de

Bretonvilliers, his successor, gave it to the Company of St. Sulpice

as a branch for the Paris house. The little pavilion of Queen

Marguerite was not in any way changed, except that the paintings

on the walls were slightly modified. The Venuses were changed into

Virgins, and the Cupids into angels, while the emblematic paintings

with Spanish mottoes in the interstices were left untouched, as they

did not shock the proprieties. A very fine room, the walls of which

were covered with paintings of a secular character, was whitewashed

about half a century ago, but they would perhaps be found uninjured if

this was washed off. The park to which Bouteroue refers in his poem

is unchanged; except that several statues of holy persons have been

placed in it. An arbour with an inscription and two busts marks the

spot where Bossuet and Fénelon, M. Tronson and M. de Noailles had

long conferences upon the subject of Quietism, and agreed upon the

thirty-four articles of the spiritual life, styled the Issy Articles.

Further on, at the end of an avenue of high trees, near the little

cemetery of the Company, is a reproduction of the inside of the Santa

Casa of Loretta, which is a favourite spot with the residents in the

seminary, and which is decorated with the emblematic paintings of

which they are so fond. I can still see the mystical rose, the tower

of ivory, and the gate of gold, before which I have passed many a long

morning in a state betwixt sleep and waking. _Hortus conclusus, fons

signatus_, very plainly represented by means of what may be

described as mural miniatures, excited my curiosity very much, but my

imagination was too chaste to carry my thoughts beyond the limits

of pious wonder. I am afraid that this beautiful park has been sadly

injured by the war and the Communist insurrection of 1870--71. It was

for me, after the cathedral of Tréguier, the first cradle of thought.

I used to pass whole hours under the shade of its trees, seated on a

stone bench with a book in my hand. It was there that I acquired

not only a good deal of rheumatism, but a great liking for our damp

autumnal nature in the north of France. If, later in life, I have been

charmed by Mount Hermon, and the sunheated slopes of the Anti-Lebanon,

it is due to the polarisation which is the law of love and which leads

us to seek out our opposites. My first ideal is a cool Jansenist bower

of the seventeenth century, in October, with the keen impression of

the air and the searching odour of the dying leaves. I can never

see an old-fashioned French house in the Seine-et-Oise or the

Seine-et-Marne, with its trim fenced gardens, without calling up to

my mind the austere books which were in bygone days read beneath the

shade of their walks. Deep should be our pity for those who have never

been moved to these melancholy thoughts, and who have not realised how

many sighs have been heaved ere joy came into our heart.

The mutual footing upon which masters and students at St. Sulpice

stand is a very tolerant one. There is not beyond doubt a single

establishment in the world where the student has more liberty. At St.

Sulpice in Paris, a student might pass his three years without having

any close communication with a single one of the superiors. It is

assumed that the _régime_ of the establishment will be self-acting.

The superiors lead just the same life as the students, and intervene

as little as possible. A student who is anxious to work has the

greatest of facilities for doing so. On the other hand, those who

are inclined to be idle have no compulsion to work put upon them;

and there are very many in this case. The examinations are very

insignificant in scope; there is not the least attempt at competition,

and if there was it would be discouraged, though when we remember that

the age of the students averages between eighteen and twenty, this is

carrying the doctrine of non-intervention too far. It is beyond

doubt very prejudicial to learning. But after all said and done, this

unqualified respect for liberty and the treating as grown-up men of

the lads who are already in spirit set apart for the priesthood,

are the only proper rules to follow in the delicate task of training

youths for what is in the eye of the Christian the most exalted of

callings. I am myself of opinion that the same rule might be applied

with advantage to the department of Public Instruction, and that the

Normal School more especially might in some particulars take example

by it.

The superior at Issy, during my stay there, was M. Gosselin, one of

the most amiable and polite men I have ever known. He was a member of

one of those old bourgeois families which, without being affiliated

to the Jansenists, were not less deeply attached than the latter to

religion. His mother, to whom he bore a great likeness, was still

alive, and he was most devoted in his respectful regard for her. He

was very fond of recalling the first lessons in politeness which

she gave him somewhere about 1796. He had accustomed himself in his

childhood to adopt a usage which it was at that time dangerous to

repudiate, and to use the word citizen instead of monsieur. As soon as

mass began to be celebrated after the Revolution, his mother took him

with her to church. They were nearly the only persons in the church,

and his mother bade him go and offer to act as acolyte to the

priest. The boy went up timidly to the priest, and with a blush said,

"Citizen, will you allow me to serve mass for you?" "What are you

saying!" exclaimed his mother; "you should never use the word citizen

to a priest." His affability and kindness were beyond all praise. He

was very delicate, and only attained an advanced age by exercising the

strictest care over himself. His engaging features, wan and delicate,

his slender body, which did not half fill the folds of his cassock,

his exquisite cleanliness, the result of habits contracted in

childhood, his hollow temples, the outlines of which were so clearly

marked behind the loose silk skull-cap which he always wore, made up a

very taking picture.

M. Gosselin was more remarkable for his erudition than his theology.

He was a safe critic within the limits of an orthodoxy which he never

thought of questioning, and he was placid to a degree. His _Histoire

Littéraire de Fénelon_ is a much esteemed work, and his treatise on

the power of the Pope over the sovereign in the Middle Ages[2] is

full of research. It was written at a time when the works of Voigt and

Hurter revealed to the Catholics the greatness of the Roman pontiffs

in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. This greatness was rather an

awkward obstacle for the Gallicans, as there could be no doubt that

the conduct of Gregory VII. and Innocent III. was not at all in

conformity with the maxims of 1682. M. Gosselin thought that by means

of a principle of public law, accepted in the Middle Ages, he had

solved all the difficulties which these imposing narratives place in

the way of theologians. M. Carrière was rather inclined to laugh at

his sanguine ideas, and compared his efforts to those of an old woman

who tries to thread her needle by holding it tight between the lamp

and her spectacles. At last the cotton passes so close to the eye of

the needle that she says "I have done it now!"--'Not so, though she

was scarcely a hairsbreadth off; but still she must begin again.

At my own inclination, and the advice of Abbé Tresvaux, a pious and

learned Breton priest who was vicar-general to M. de Quélen, I chose

M. Gosselin for my tutor, and I have retained a most affectionate

recollection of him. No one could have shown more benevolence,

cordiality and respect for a young man's conscience. He left me in

possession of unrestricted liberty. Recognising the honesty of my

character, the purity of my morals and the uprightness of my mind, it

never occurred to him for a moment that I could be led to feel doubt

upon subjects about which he himself had none. The great number of

young ecclesiastics who had passed through his hands had somewhat

weakened his powers of diagnosis. He classed his students wholesale,

and I will, as I proceed, explain how one who was not my tutor read

far more clearly into my conscience than he did, or than I did myself.

Two of the other tutors, M. Gottofrey, one of the professors of

philosophy, and M. Pinault, professor of mathematics and natural

philosophy, were in every respect a contrast to M. Gosselin. The first

named, a young priest of about seven and twenty, was, I believe, only

half a Frenchman by descent. He had the bright rosy complexion of

a young Englishwoman, with large eyes which had a melancholy candid

look. He was the most extraordinary instance which can be conceived of

suicide through mystical orthodoxy. He would certainly have made, if

he had cared to do so, an accomplished man of the world, and I have

never known any one who would have been a greater favourite with

women. He had within him an infinite capacity for loving. He felt that

he had been highly gifted in this way; and then he set to work, in

a sort of blind fury, to annihilate himself. It seemed as if he

discerned Satan in those graces which God had so liberally bestowed

upon him. He boiled with inward anger at the sight of his own

comeliness; he was like a shell within which a puny evil genius

was ever busy in crushing the inner pearl. In the heroic ages of

Christianity, he would have sought out the keen agony of martyrdom,

but failing that he paid such constant court to death that she, whom

alone he loved, embraced him at last. He went out to Canada, and the

cholera which raged at Montreal gave him an excellent opportunity for

attaining his end. He nursed the sick with eager joy and died.

I have always thought that there must have been a hidden romance

in the life of M. Gottofrey, and that he had undergone some

disappointment in love. He had perhaps expected too much from it, and

finding that it was not boundless, had broken it as he would an idol.

At all events he was not one of those who, knowing how to love have

not known how to die. At times I fancy that I can see him in heaven

amid the hosts of rosy-hued angels which Correggio loved to paint: at

others, I imagine that the woman whom he might have taught to love

him to distraction is scourging him through all eternity. Where he was

unjust was in making his reason, which was in nowise to blame, suffer

for the perturbation of his uneasy nature (or spirit). He practised

the studied absurdity of Tertullian and emulated the exaltation of

St. Paul. His lectures on philosophy were an absolute travesty, as his

contempt for philosophy was made apparent in every sentence; and

M. Gosselin, who set great value upon the divinity of the schools,

quietly endeavoured to counteract his teaching. But fanaticism does

not always prevent people from being clear-sighted. M. Gottofrey

noticed something peculiar about me, and he detected that which had

escaped the paternal optimism of M. Gosselin. He stirred my conscience

to its very depths, as I shall presently explain, and with an

unrelenting hand tore asunder all the bandages with which I had

disguised even from myself the wounds of a faith already severely

stricken.

M. Pinault was very much like M. Littré in respect to his concentrated

passion and the originality of his ways. If M. Littré had received a

Catholic education, he would have gone to the extreme of mysticism; if

M. Pinault had not received a Catholic education he would have been

a revolutionist and positivist. Men of their stamp always go to

one extreme or another. The very physiognomy of M. Pinault arrested

attention. Eaten up by rheumatism, he seemed to embody in his person

all the ways in which a body may be contorted from its proper shape.

Ugly as he was, there was a marked expression of vigour about his

face; but in direct contrast to M. Gosselin, he was deplorably lacking

in cleanliness. While he was lecturing he would use his old cloak and

the sleeves of his cassock as if it were a duster to wipe up anything;

and his skull-cap, lined with cotton wool to protect him from

neuralgia, formed a very ugly border round his head. With all that he

was full of passion and eloquence, somewhat sarcastic at times, but

witty and incisive. He had little literary culture, but he often came

out with some unexpected sally. You could feel that his was a

powerful individuality which faith kept under due control, but which

ecclesiastical discipline had not crushed. He was a saint, but had

very little of the priest and nothing of the Sulpician about him. He

did violence to the prime rule of the Company, which is to renounce

anything approaching talent and originality, and to be pliant to the

discipline which enjoys a general mediocrity.

M. Pinault had at first been professor of mathematics in the

university. In associating himself with studies which, in our

view, are incompatible with faith in the supernatural and fervent

catholicism, he did no more than M. Cauchy, who was at once a

mathematician of the first order and a more fervent believer than

many members of the Academy of Sciences who are noted for their piety.

Christianity is alleged to be a supernatural historical fact. The

historical sciences can be made to show--and to my mind, beyond the

possibility of contradiction--that it is not a supernatural fact, and

that there never has been such a thing as a supernatural fact. We do

not reject miracles upon the ground of _a priori_ reasoning, but upon

the ground of critical and historical reasoning, we have no difficulty

in proving that miracles do not happen in the nineteenth century, and

that the stones of miraculous events said to have taken place in our

day are based upon imposture and credulity. But the evidence in favour

of the so-called miracles of the last three centuries, or even of

those in the Middle Ages, is weaker still; and the same may be said

of those dating from a still earlier period, for the further back one

goes, the more difficult does it become to prove a supernatural fact.

In order thoroughly to understand this, you must have been accustomed

to textual criticism and the historical method, and this is just what

mathematics do not give. Even in our own day, we have seen an eminent

mathematician fall into blunders which the slightest knowledge of

historical science would have enabled him to avoid. M. Pinault's

religious belief was so keen that he was anxious to become a priest.

He was allowed to do very little in the way of theology, and he was

at first attached to the science courses which in the programme of

ecclesiastical studies are the necessary accompaniment of the two

years of philosophy. He would have been out of place at St. Sulpice

with his lack of theological knowledge and the ardent mysticism of his

imagination. But at Issy, where he associated with very young men who

had not studied the texts, he soon acquired considerable influence. He

was the leader of those who were full of ardent piety--the "mystics,"

as they are now called. All of them treated him as their director, and

they formed, as it were, a school apart, from which the profane were

excluded, and which had its own important secrets. A very powerful

auxiliary of this party was the lay doorkeeper of the college, Père

Hanique, as we called him. I always excite the wonder of the realists

when I tell them that I have seen with my own eyes, a type which,

owing to their scanty knowledge of human society, has never come

beneath their notice, viz., the sublime conception of a hall-porter

who has reached the most transcendent limits of speculation. Hanique

in his humble lodge was almost as great a man as M. Pinault. Those who

aimed at saintliness of life consulted him and looked up to him. His

simplicity of mind was contrasted with the savant's coldness of soul,

and he was adduced as an instance that the gifts of God are absolutely

free. All this created a deep division of feeling in the college. The

mystics worked themselves up to such a pitch of mental tension that

several of them died, but this only increased the frenzy of the

others. M. Gosselin had too much tact to offer them a direct

opposition, but for all that, there were two distinct parties in the

college, the mystics acting under the immediate guidance of M. Pinault

and Père Hanique, while the "good fellows" (as we modestly entitled

ourselves) were guided by the simple, upright, and good Christian

counsels of M. Gosselin. This division of opinion was scarcely

noticeable among the masters. Nevertheless, M. Gosselin, disliking

anything in the way of singularities or novelties, often looked

askance at certain eccentricities. During recreation time he made a

point of conversing in a gay and almost worldly tone, in contrast

to the fine frenzy which M. Pinault always imported into his

observations. He did not like Père Hanique and would not listen to

any praise of him, perhaps because he felt the impropriety of a

hall-porter being taken out of his place and set up as an authority

on theology. He condemned and prohibited the reading of several books

which were favourites with the mystical set, such as those of Marie

d'Agreda. There was something very singular about M. Pinault's

lectures, as he did not make any effort to conceal his contempt for

the sciences which he taught and for the human intelligence at large.

At times he would nearly go to sleep over his class, and altogether

gave his pupils anything but a stimulus to work; and yet with all that

he still had in him remnants of the scientific spirit which he had

failed to destroy. At times he had extraordinary flashes of genius,

and some of his lectures on natural history have been one of the bases

of my philosophical strain of thought. I am much indebted to him, but

the instinct for learning which is in me, and which will, I trust,

remain alive until the day of my death, would not admit of my

remaining long in his set. He liked me well enough, but made no effort

to attract me to him. His fiery spirit of apostleship could not brook

my easy-going ways, and my disinclination for research. Upon one

occasion he found me sitting in one of the walks, reading Clarke's

treatise upon the _Existence of God_. As usual, I was wrapped up in a

heavy coat. "Oh! the nice little fellow," he said, "how beautifully he

is wrapped up. Do not interfere with him. He will always be the same.

Fie will ever be studying, and when he should be attending to the

charge of souls he will be at it still. Well wrapped up in his cloak,

he will answer those who come to call him away: 'Leave me alone, can't

you?'" He saw that his remark had gone home. I was confused but not

converted, and as I made no reply, he pressed my hand and added, with

a slight touch of irony, "He will be a little Gosselin."

M. Pinault, there can be no question, was far above M. Gosselin in

respect to his natural force and the hardihood with which he took

up certain views. Like another Diogenes, he saw how hollow and

conventional were a host of things which my worthy director regarded

as articles of faith. But he did not shake me for a moment. I have

never ceased to put faith in the intelligence of man. M. Gosselin,

by his confidence in scholasticism, confirmed me in my rationalism,

though not to so great an extent as M. Manier, one of the professors

of philosophy. He was a man of unswerving honesty, whose opinions were

in harmony with those of the moderate universitarian school, at that

time so decried by the clergy. He had a great liking for the Scottish

philosophers, and gave me Thomas Reid to study. He steadied my

thoughts very much, and by the aid of his authority and that of M.

Gosselin, I was enabled to put away the exaggerations of M. Pinault;

my conscience was at rest, and I even got to think that the contempt

for scholasticism and reason, so stoutly professed by the mystics, was

not devoid of heresy, and of the worst of all heresies in the eyes of

the Company of St. Sulpice, viz., the _Fideism_ of M. de Lamennais.

Thus I gave myself over without scruple to my love for study, living

in complete solitude during' two whole years. I did not once come to

Paris, readily as leaves were granted. I never joined in any games,

passing the recreation hours on a seat in the grounds, and trying to

keep myself warm by wearing two or three overcoats. The heads of the

college, better advised than I was, told me how bad it was for a lad

of my age to take no exercise. I had scarcely done growing before I

began to stoop. But my passion for study was too strong for me, and

I gave way to it all the more readily because I believed it to be a

wholesome one. I was blind to all else, but how could I suppose that

the ardour for thought which I heard praised in Malebranche and so

many other saintly and illustrious men was blameworthy in me, and

was fated to bring about a result which I should have repudiated with

indignation if it had been foreshadowed to me.

The character of the philosophy taught in the seminary was the Latin

divinity of the schools--not in the outlandish and childish form which

it assumed in the thirteenth century, but in the mitigated Cartesian

form which was generally adopted for ecclesiastical education in the

eighteenth century, and set out in the three volumes known by the name

of _Philosophic de Lyon_. This name was given to it because the book

formed part of a complete course of ecclesiastical study, drawn up a

hundred years ago by order of M. de Montazet, the Jansenist Archbishop

of Lyons. The theological part of the work, tainted with heresy,

is now forgotten; but the philosophical part, imbued with a very

commendable spirit of rationalism, remained, as recently as 1840, the

basis of philosophical teaching in the seminaries, much to the disgust

of the neo-Catholic school, which regarded the book as dangerous and

absurd. It cannot be denied, however, that the problems were cleverly

put, and the whole of these syllogistical dialectics formed an

excellent course of training. I owe my lucidity of mind, more

especially what skill I possess in dividing my subject (which is

an art of capital importance, one of the conditions of the art of

writing), to my divinity training, and in particular to geometry,

which is the truest application of the syllogistical method. M. Manier

mixed up with these ancient propositions the psychological analysis

of the Scotch school. He had imbibed through his intimacy with Thomas

Reid a great aversion to metaphysics, and an unlimited faith in common

sense. _Posuit in visceribus hominis sapientiam_ was his favourite

motto, and it did not occur to him that if man, in his quest after the

true and the good, has only to explore the recesses of his own heart,

the _Catéchisme_ of M. Olier was a building without a foundation.

German philosophy was just beginning to be known, and what little I

had been able to pick up had a strangely fascinating effect upon me.

M. Manier impressed upon me that this philosophy shifted its ground

too much, and that it was necessary to wait until it had completed its

development before passing judgment upon it. "Scottish philosophy," he

said, "has a reassuring influence and makes for Christianity;" and

he depicted to me the worthy Thomas Reid in his double character of

philosopher and minister of the Gospel. Thus Reid was for some time my

ideal, and my aspiration was to lead the peaceful life of a laborious

priest, attached to his sacred office and dispensed from the ordinary

duties of his calling in order to follow out his studies. The

antagonism between philosophical pursuits of this kind and the

Christian faith had not as yet come in upon me with the irresistible

force and clearness which was soon to leave me no alternative between

the renunciation of Christianity and inconsistency of the most

unwarrantable kind.

The modern philosophical works, especially those of MM. Cousin and

Jouffroy, were rarely seen in the seminary, though they were the

constant subject of conversation on account of the discussion which

they had excited among the clergy. This was the year of M. Jouffroy's

death, and the pathetic despairing pages of his philosophy captivated

us. I myself knew them by heart. We followed with deep interest the

discussion raised by the publication of his posthumous works. In

reality, we only knew Cousin, Jouffroy, and Pierre Leroux by those

who had opposed them. The old-fashioned divinity of the schools is

so upright that no demonstration of a proposition is complete unless

followed by the formula, _Solvuntur objecta_. Herein are ingenuously

set forth the objections against the proposition which it is sought to

establish; and these objections are then solved, often in a way which

does not in the least diminish the force of the heterodox ideas which

are supposed to have been controverted. In this way the whole body of

modern ideas reached us beneath the cover of feeble refutations. We

gained, moreover, a great deal of information from each other. One of

our number, who had studied philosophy in the university, would recite

passages from M. Cousin to us; a second, who had studied history,

would familiarise us with Augustin Thierry; while a third came to us

from the school of Montalembert and Lacordaire. His lively imagination

made him a great favourite with us, but the _Philosophie de Lyon_ was

more than he could endure, and he left us.

M. Cousin fascinated us, but Pierre Leroux, with his tone of profound

conviction and his thorough appreciation of the great problems

awaiting solution, exercised a still more potent influence, and we did

not see the shortcomings of his studies and the sophistry of his mind.

My customary course of reading was Pascal, Malebranche, Euler, Locke,

Leibnitz, Descartes, Reid, and Dugald Stewart. In the way of religious

books, my preferences were for Bossuet's Sermons and the _Elevations

sur les Mysttres_. I was very familiar, too, with François de Sales,

both by continually hearing extracts from his works read in the

seminary, and especially through the charming work which Pierre le

Camus has written about him. With regard to the more mystical works,

such as St. Theresa, Marie d'Agreda, Ignatius de Loyola, and M. Olier,

I never read them. M. Gosselin, as I have said, dissuaded me from

doing so. The _Lives of the Saints_, written in an overwrought strain,

were also very distasteful to him, and Fénelon was his rule and his

limit. Many of the early saints excited his strongest prejudices

because of their disregard of cleanliness, their scant education, and

their lack of common sense.

My keen predilection for philosophy did not blind me as to the

inevitable nature of its results. I soon lost all confidence in the

abstract metaphysics which are put forward as being a science apart

from all others, and as being capable of solving alone the highest

problems of humanity. Positive science then appeared to me to be the

only source of truth. In after years I felt quite irritated at the

idea of Auguste Comte being dignified with the title of a great man

for having expressed in bad French what all scientific minds had

seen for the last two hundred years as clearly as he had done. The

scientific spirit was the fundamental principle in my disposition.

M. Pinault would have been the master for me if he had not in some

strange way striven to disguise and distort the best traits in his

talent. I understood him better than he would have wished, and,

in spite of himself. I had received a rather advanced education

in mathematics from my first teachers in Brittany. Mathematics and

physical induction have always been my strong point, the only stones

in the edifice which have never shifted their ground and which are

always serviceable. M. Pinault taught me enough of general natural

history and physiology to give me an insight into the laws

of existence. I realised the insufficiency of what is called

spiritualism; the Cartesian proofs of the existence of a soul distinct

from the body always struck me as being very inadequate, and thus I

became an idealist and not a spiritualist in the ordinary acceptation

of the term. An endless _fieri_, a ceaseless metamorphosis seemed to

me to be the law of the world. Nature presented herself to me as

a whole in which creation of itself has no place, and in which

therefore, everything undergoes transformation.[3] It will be asked

how it was that this fairly clear conception of a positive philosophy

did not eradicate my belief in scholasticism and Christianity. It was

because I was young and inconsistent, and because I had not acquired

the critical faculty. I was held back by the example of so many mighty

minds which had read so deeply in the book of nature, and yet had

remained Christians. I was more specially influenced by Malebranche,

who continued to recite his prayers throughout the whole of his

life, while holding, with regard to the general dispensation of the

universe, ideas differing but very little from those which I had

arrived at. The _Entretiens sur la Métaphysique_ and the _Méditations

chrétiennes_ were ever in my thoughts.

The fondness for erudition is innate in me, and M. Gosselin did much

to develop it. He had the kindness to choose me as his reader. At

seven o'clock every morning I went to read to him in his bedroom,

and he was in the habit of pacing up and down, sometimes stopping,

sometimes quickening his pace and interrupting me with some sensible

or caustic remark. In this way I read to him the long stories of

Father Maimbourg, a writer who is now forgotten, but who in his time

was appreciated by Voltaire, various publications by M. Benjamin

Guérard, whose learning was much appreciated by him, and a few works

by M. de Maistre, notably his _Lettre sur l'Inquisition espagnole_.

He did not much like this last-named treatise, and he would constantly

rub his hands and say, "How plain it is that M. de Maistre is no

theologian." All he cared for was theology, and he had a profound

contempt for literature. He rarely failed to stigmatise as futile

nonsense the highly-esteemed studies of the Nicolaites. For M.

Dupanloup, whose principal dogma was that there is no salvation

without a good literary education, he had little sympathy, and he

generally avoided mention of his name.

For myself, believing as I do that the best way to mould young men of

talent is never to speak to them about talent or style, but to

educate them and to stimulate their mental curiosity upon questions

of philosophy, religion, politics, science, and history--or, in other

words, to go to the substance of things instead of adopting a hollow

rhetorical teaching, I was quite satisfied at this new direction given

to my studies. I forgot the very existence of such a thing as modern

literature. The rumour that contemporary writers existed occasionally

reached us, but we were so accustomed to suppose that there had not

been any of talent since the death of Louis XIV., that we had an _a

priori_ contempt for all contemporary productions. _Le Téléinaque_ was

the only specimen of light literature which ever came into my hands,

and that was in an edition which did not contain the Eucharis episode,

so that it was not until later that I became acquainted with the few

delightful pages which record it. My only glimpse of antiquity was

through _Téléinaque_ and _Aristonoüs_, and I am very glad that such

is the case. It was thus that I learnt the art of depicting nature by

moral touches. Up to the year 1865 I had never formed any other idea

of the island of Chios except that embodied in the phrase of Fénelon:

"The island of Chios, happy as the country of Homer."

These words, so full of harmony and rhythm,[4] seemed to present

a perfect picture of the place, and though Homer was not born

there--nor, perhaps, anywhere--they gave me a better idea of the

beautiful (and now so hapless) isle of Greece than I could have

derived from a whole mass of material description.

I must not omit to mention another book, which together with

_Télémaque_, I for a long time regarded as the highest expression

of literature. M. Gosselin one day called me aside, and after much

beating about the bush, told me that he had thought of letting me read

a book which some people might regard as dangerous, and which, as a

matter of fact, might be in certain cases on account of the vivacity

with which the author expresses passion. He had, however, decided

that I might be trusted with this book, which was called the _Comte

de Valmont_. Many people will no doubt wonder what could have been

the book which my worthy director thought could only be read after

a special preparation as regards judgment and maturity. _Le Comte de

Valmont; ou, Les Egarements de la Raison,_ is a novel by Abbé Gérard,

in which, under the cover of a very innocent plot, the author refutes

the doctrines of the eighteenth century, and inculcates the principles

of an enlightened religion. Sainte-Beuve, who knew the _Comte de

Valmont_, as he knew everything, was consumed with laughter when I

told him this story. But for all that the _Comtede Valmont_ was a

rather dangerous book. The Christianity set forth in it is no more

than Deism, the religion of _Télémaque_, a sort of sentiment in the

abstract, without being any particular kind of religion.[5] Thus

everything tended to lull me into a state of fancied security.

I thought that by copying the politeness of M. Gosselin and the

moderation of M. Manier I was a Christian.

I cannot honestly say, moreover, that my faith in Christianity was

in reality diminished. My faith has been destroyed by historical

criticism, not by scholasticism nor by philosophy. The history of

philosophy and the sort of scepticism by which I had been caught

rather maintained me within the limits of Christianity than drove me

beyond them. I often repeated to myself the lines which I had read in

Brucker:--

"Percurri, fateor, sectas attentius omnes,

Plurima qusesivi, per singula quaque cucurri,

Nee quidquam invent melius quam credere Christo."

A certain amount of modesty kept me back. The capital question as to

the truth of the Christian dogmas and of the Bible never forced itself

upon me. I admitted the revelation in a general sense, like Leibnitz

and Malebranche. There can be no doubt that my _fieri_ philosophy

was the height of heterodoxy, but I did not stop to reason out the

consequences. However, all said and done, my masters were satisfied

with me. M. Pinault rarely interfered with me. More of a mystic than

a fanatic, he concerned himself but little with those who did not come

immediately in his way. The finishing stroke was given by M. Gottofrey

with a degree of boldness and precision which I did not thoroughly

appreciate until afterwards. In the twinkling of an eye, this truly

gifted man tore away the veils which the prudent M. Gosselin and

the honest M. Manier had adjusted around my conscience in order to

tranquillise it, and to lull it to sleep.

M. Gottofrey rarely spoke to me, but he followed me with the utmost

curiosity. My arguments in Latin, delivered with much firmness and

emphasis, caused him surprise and uneasiness. Sometimes, I was too

much in the right; at others I pointed out the weak points in the

reasons given me as valid. Upon one occasion, when my objections

had been urged with force, and when some of the listeners could not

repress a smile at the weakness of the replies, he broke off the

discussion. In the evening he called me on one side, and described

to me with much warmth how unchristian it was to place all faith in

reasoning, and how injurious an effect rationalism had upon faith. He

displayed a remarkable amount of animation, and reproached me with

my fondness for study. What was to be gained, he said, by further

research. Everything that was essential to be known had already been

discovered. It was not by knowledge that men's souls were saved. And

gradually working himself up, he exclaimed in passionate accents--"

You are not a Christian!"

I never felt such terror as that which this phrase, pronounced in

a very resonant tone, evoked within me. In leaving M. Gottofrey's

presence the words "You are not a Christian" sounded all night in my

ear like a clap of thunder. The next day I confided my troubles to M.

Gosselin, who kindly reassured me, and who could not or would not

see anything wrong. He made no effort, even, to conceal from me

how surprised and annoyed he was at this ill-timed attempt upon a

conscience for which he, more than any one else, was responsible. I am

sure that he looked upon the hasty action of M. Gottofrey as a piece

of impudence, the only result of which would be to disturb a dawning

vocation. M. Gosselin, like many directors, was of opinion that

religious doubts are of no gravity among young men when they are

disregarded, and that they disappear when the future career has

been finally entered upon. He enjoined me not to think of what had

occurred, and I even found him more kindly than ever before. He did

not in the least understand the nature of my mind, or in any degree

foresee its future logical evolutions. M. Gottofrey alone had a clear

perception of things. He was right a dozen times over, as I can now

very plainly see. It needed the transcendent lucidity of this martyr

and ascetic to discover that which had quite escaped those who

directed my conscience with so much uprightness and goodness.

I talked too with M. Manier, who strongly advised me not to let my

faith in Christianity be affected by objections of detail. With regard

to the question of entering holy orders, he was always very reserved.

He never said anything which was calculated either to induce me

or dissuade me. This was in his eyes more or less of a secondary

consideration. The essential point, as he thought, was the possession

of the true Christian spirit, inseparable from real philosophy. In his

eyes there was no difference between a priest, or professor of Scotch

philosophy, in the university. He often dwelt upon the honourable

nature of such a career, and more than once he spoke to me of the

École Normale. I did not speak of this overture to M. Gosselin, for

assuredly the very idea of leaving the seminary for the École Normale,

would have seemed to him perdition.

It was decided, therefore, that after my two years of philosophy

I should pass into the seminary of St. Sulpice to get through my

theological course. The flash which shot through the mind of M.

Gottofrey had no immediate consequence. But now at an interval of

eight and thirty years, I can see how clear a perception of the

reality he had. He alone possessed foresight, and I much regret now

that I did not follow his impulse. I should have quitted the seminary

without having studied Hebrew or theology. Physiology and the natural

sciences would have absorbed me, and I do not hesitate to express my

belief--so great was the ardour which these vital sciences excited in

me--that if I had cultivated them continuously I should have arrived

at several of the results achieved by Darwin, and partially foreseen

by myself. Instead of that I went to St. Sulpice and learnt German

and Hebrew, the consequence being that the whole course of my life

was different. I was led to the study of the historical

sciences--conjectural in their nature--which are no sooner made than

they are unmade, and which will be put on one side in a hundred years

time. For the day is not we may be sure, very far distant when man

will cease to attach much interest to his past. I am very much afraid

that our minute contributions to the Académie des Inscriptions

et Belles-Lettres, which are intended to assist to an accurate

comprehension of history, will crumble to dust before they have been

read. It is by chemistry at one end and by astronomy at the other, and

especially by general physiology, that we really grasp the secret of

existence of the world or of God, whichever it may be called. The one

thing which I regret is having selected for my study researches of a

nature which will never force themselves upon the world, or be more

than interesting dissertations upon a reality which has vanished

for ever. But as regards the exercise--and pleasure of thought is

concerned--I certainly chose the better part, for at St. Sulpice I was

brought face to face with the Bible, and the sources of Christianity,

and in the following chapter I will endeavour to describe how eagerly

I immersed myself in this study, and how, through a series of critical

deductions, which forced themselves upon my mind, the bases of

my existence, as I had hitherto understood it, were completely

overturned.

[Footnote 1: Paris, 1609-1612.]

[Footnote 2: First Edition, 1839; second and much enlarged edition,

1845.]

[Footnote 3: An essay which describes my philosophical ideas at this

epoch, entitled the "Origine du Langage," first published in the

_Liberté de penser_ (September and December, 1848), faithfully

portrays, as I then conceived it, the spectacle of living nature as

the result and evidence of a very ancient historical development.]

[Footnote 4: In the French the phrase is, "L'île de Chio, fortunée

patrie d'Homère."]

[Footnote 5: I went a short time ago to the National Library to

refresh my memory about the _Comte de Valmont_. Having my attention

called away, I asked M. Soury to look through the book for me, as

I was anxious to have his impression of it. He replied to me in the

following terms:

"I have been a long time in telling you what I think of the _Comte

de Valmont._ The fact is that it was only by an heroic effort that I

managed to finish it. Not but what this work is honestly conceived and

fairly well written. But the effect of reading through these thousands

of pages is so profoundly wearisome that one is scarcely in a position

to do justice to the work of Abbé Gérard. One cannot help being vexed

with him for being so unnecessarily tedious.

"As so often happens, the best part of this book are the notes, that

is to say, a mass of extracts and selections taken from the famous

writers of the last two centuries, notably from Rousseau. All the

'proofs' and apologetic arguments ruin the work unfortunately, the

eloquence and dialectics of Rousseau, Diderot, Helvetius, Holbach, and

even Voltaire, differing very much from those of Abbé Gérard. It is

the same with the libertines' reasons refuted by the father of the

Comte de Valmont. It must be a very dangerous thing to bring forward

mischievous doctrines with so much force. They have a savour which

renders the best things insipid, and it is with these good doctrines

that the six or seven volumes of the _Comte de Valmont_ are filled.

Abbé Gérard did not wish his work to be called a novel, and as a

matter of fact there is neither drama nor action in the interminable

letters of the Marquis, the Count and Emilie.

"Count de Valmont is one of those sceptics who are often met with in

the world. A man of weak mind, pretentious and foppish, incapable of

thinking and reflecting for himself, ignorant into the bargain, and

without any kind of knowledge upon any subject, he meets his hapless

father with all sorts of difficulties against morality, religion and

Christianity in particular, just as if he had a right to an opinion on

matters the study of which requires so much enlightenment and takes up

so much timed. The best thing the poor fellow can do is to reform

his ways, and he does not fail to neglect doing this at nearly every

volume.

"The seventh volume of the edition which I have before me is entitled,

_La Théorie du Bonheur; ou, L' Art de se rendre Heureux mis a la

Portée de tous les Hommes, faisant Suite ait 'Comte de Valmont_,'

Paris Bossange, 1801, eleventh edition. This is a different book,

whatever the publisher may say, and I confess that this secret of

happiness, brought within the reach of everybody, did not create a

very favourable impression upon me."]

THE ST. SULPICE SEMINARY.

PART I.

The house built by M. Olier in 1645 was not the large quadrangular

barrack-like building which now occupies one side of the square of St.

Sulpice. The old seminary of the seventeenth and eighteenth century

covered the whole area of what is now the square, and quite concealed

Servandoni's façade. The site of the present seminary was formerly

occupied by the gardens and by the college of bursars nicknamed

the Robertins. The original building disappeared at the time of the

Revolution. The chapel, the ceiling of which was regarded as Lebrun's

masterpiece, has been destroyed, and all that remains of the old house

is a picture by Lebrun representing the Pentecost in a style which

would excite the wonder of the author of the Acts of the Apostles. The

Virgin is the centre figure, and is receiving the whole of the pouring

out of the Holy Ghost, which from her spreads to the apostles. Saved

at the Revolution, and afterwards in the gallery of Cardinal Fesch,

this picture was bought back by the corporation of St. Sulpice, and is

now in the seminary chapel.

With the exception of the walls and the furniture, all is old at

St. Sulpice, and it is easy to believe that one is living in

the seventeenth century. Time and its ravages have effaced many

differences. St. Sulpice now embodies in itself many things which were

once far removed from one another, and those who wish to get the best

idea attainable in the present day, of what Port-Royal, the original

Sorbonne, and the institutions of the ancient French clergy generally

were like, must enter its portals. When I joined the St. Sulpice

seminary in 1843, there were still a few directors who had seen M.

Emery, but there were only two, if I remember right, whose memories

carried them back to a date earlier than the Revolution. M. Hugon had

acted as acolyte at the consecration of M. de Talleyrand in the chapel

of Issy in 1788. It seems that the attitude of the Abbé de Périgord

during the ceremony was very indecorous. M. Hugon related that he

accused himself, when at confession the following Saturday, "of

having formed hasty judgments as to the piety of a holy bishop." The

superior-general, M. Garnier, was more than eighty, and he was in

every respect an ecclesiastic of the old school. He had gone through

his studies at the Robertins College and afterwards at the Sorbonne,

from which he gave one the idea of just emerging, and when one heard

him talk of "Monsieur Bossuet" and "Monsieur Fénelon",[1] it seemed as

if one was face to face with an actual pupil of those great men.

There is nothing in common except the name and the dress between these

ecclesiastics that of the old _régime_ and those of the present day.

Compared to the young and exuberant members of the Issy school, M.

Garnier had the appearance almost of a layman, with a complete absence

of all external demonstrations and his staid and reasonable piety. In

the evening, some of the younger students went to keep him company in

his room for an hour. The conversation never took a mystical turn.

M. Garnier narrated his recollections, spoke of M. Emery, and

foreshadowed with melancholy, his approaching end. The contrast

between his quietude and the ardour of Penault and M. Gottofrey

was very striking. These aged priests were so honest, sensible and

upright, observing their rules, and defending their dogmas, just as

a faithful soldier holds the post which has been committed to his

keeping. The higher questions were altogether beyond them. The love of

order and devotion to duty were the guiding principles of their lives.

M. Garnier was a learned Orientalist, and better versed than any

living Frenchman in the Biblical exegesis as taught by the Catholics a

century ago. The modesty which characterised St. Sulpice deterred him

from publishing any of his works, and the outcome of his studies was

an immense manuscript representing a complete course of Holy Writ, in

accordance with the relatively moderate views which prevailed among

the Catholics and Protestants at the close of the eighteenth century.

It was very analogous in spirit to that of Rosenmüller, Hug and Jahn.

When I joined St. Sulpice, M. Garnier was too old to teach, and our

professors used, to read us extracts from his copy-books. They were

full of erudition, and testified to a very thorough knowledge of

language. Now and then we came upon some artless observation which

made us smile, such, for instance, as the way in which he got over

the difficulties relating to Sarah's adventure in Egypt. Sarah, as we

know, was close upon seventy when Pharaoh conceived so great a passion

for her, and M. Garnier got over this by observing that this was not

the only instance of the kind, and that "Mademoiselle de Lenclos" was

the cause of duels being fought, when over seventy. M. Garnier had

not made himself acquainted with the latest labours of the new German

school, and he remained in happy ignorance of the inroads which the

criticism of the nineteenth century had made upon the ancient system.

His best title to fame is that he moulded in M. Le Hir, a pupil who,

inheriting his own vast knowledge, added to it familiarity with modern

discoveries, and who, with a sincerity which proved the depth of his

faith, did not in the least conceal the depth to which the knife had

gone.

Overborne by the weight of years, and absorbed by the cares which the

general direction of the Company entailed, M. Garnier left the entire

superintendence of the Paris house to M. Carbon, the director.

M. Carbon was the embodiment of kindness, joviality and

straightforwardness. He was no theologian, and was so far from being a

man of superior mind, that at first one would be tempted to look upon

him as a very simple, not to say common, person. But as one came to

know him better, one was surprised to discover beneath this humble

exterior, one of the rarest things in the world, viz., unalloyed

cordiality, motherly condescension, and a charming openness of manner.

I have never met with any one so entirely free from personal vanity.

He was the first to laugh at himself, at his half intentional

blunders, and at the laughable situations into which his artlessness

would often land him. Like all the older directors, he had to say

the orison in his turn. He never gave it five minutes previous

consideration, and he sometimes got into such a comical state of

confusion with his improvised address, that we had to bite our tongues

to keep from laughing. He saw how amused we were, and it struck him

as being perfectly natural. It was he who, during the course of Holy

Writ, had to read M. Garnier's manuscript. He used to flounder about

purposely, in order to make us laugh, in the parts which had fallen

out of date. The most singular thing was that he was not very mystic.

I asked one of my fellow students what he thought was M. Carbon's

motive-idea in life, and his reply was, "the abstract of duty."

M. Carbon took a fancy to me from the first, and he saw that the

fundamental feature in my disposition was cheerfulness, and a

ready acquiescence in my lot. "I see that we shall get on very well

together," he said to me with a pleasant smile; and as a matter

of fact M. Carbon is one of those for whom I have felt the deepest

affection. Seeing that I was studious, full of application, and

conscientious in my work, he said to me after a very short time--"You

should be thinking of your society, that is your proper place." He

treated me almost as a colleague, so complete was his confidence in

me.

The other directors, who had to teach the various branches of

theology, were without exception the worthy continuators of a

respectable tradition. But as regards doctrine itself, the breach was

made. Ultramontanism and the love of the irrational had forced their

way into the citadel of moderate theology. The old school knew how

to rave soberly, and followed the rules of common sense even in the

absurd. This school only admitted the irrational and the miraculous up

to the limit strictly required by Holy Writ and the authority of the

Church. The new school revels in the miraculous, and seems to take

its pleasure in narrowing the ground upon which apologetics can be

defended. Upon the other hand, it would be unfair not to say that the

new school is in some respects more open and consistent, and that it

has derived, especially through its relations with Germany, elements

for discussion which have no place in the ancient treatises _De Loci's

Theologicis_. St. Sulpice has had but one representative in this

path so thickly sown with unexpected incidents and--it may perhaps

be added--with dangers; but he is unquestionably the most remarkable

member of the French clergy in the present day. I am speaking of M. Le

Hir, whom I knew very intimately, as will presently be seen. In order

to understand what follows, the reader must be very deeply versed in

the workings of the human mind, and above all in matters of faith.

M. Le Hir was in an equally eminent degree a savant and a saint. This

co-habitation in the same person, of two entities which are rarely

found together, took place in him without any kind of fraction, for

the saintly side of his character had the absolute mastery. There was

not one of the objections of rationalism which escaped his attention.

He did not make the slightest concession to any of them, for he never

felt the shadow of a doubt as to the truth of orthodoxy. This was due

rather to an act of the supreme will than to a result imposed upon

him. Holding entirely aloof from natural philosophy and the scientific

spirit, the first condition of which is to have no prior faith and to

reject that which does not come spontaneously, he remained in a state

of equilibrium which would have been fatal to convictions less urgent

than his. The supernatural did not excite any natural repugnance in

him. His scales were very nicely adjusted, but in one of them was a

weight of unknown quantity--an unshaken faith. Whatever might have

been placed in the other, would have seemed light; all the objections

in the world would not have moved it a hairsbreadth.

M. Le Hir's superiority was in a great measure due to his profound

knowledge of the German exegeses. Whatever he found in them compatible

with Catholic orthodoxy, he appropriated. In matters of critique,

incompatibilities were continually occurring, but in grammar, upon the

other hand, there was no difficulty in finding common ground. There

was no one like M. Le Hir in this respect. He had thoroughly mastered

the doctrine of Gesenius and Ewald, and criticised many points in

it with great learning. He interested himself in the Phoenician

inscriptions, and propounded a very ingenious theory which has since

been confirmed. His theology was borrowed almost entirely from the

German Catholic School, which was at once more advanced, and less

reasonable, than our ancient French scholasticism. M. Le Hir reminds

one in many respects of Dollinger, especially in regard to his

learning and his general scope of view; but his docility would have

preserved him from the dangers in which the Vatican Council involved

most of the learned members of the clergy. He died prematurely in 1870

upon the eve of the Council which he was just about to attend as a

theologian. I was intending to ask my colleagues in the Académie des

Inscriptions et Belles Lettres to make him an unattached member of our

body. I have no doubt that he would have rendered considerable service

to the Committee of Semitic Inscriptions.

M. Le Hir possessed, in addition to his immense learning, the talent

of writing with much force and accuracy. He might have been very witty

if he had been so minded. His undeviating mysticism resembled that of

M. Gottofrey; but he had much more rectitude of judgment. His aspect

was very singular, for he was like a child in figure, and very weakly

in appearance, but with that, eyes and a forehead indicating the

highest intelligence. In short, the only faculty lacking, was one

which would have caused him to abjure Catholicism, viz. the critical

one. Or I should rather say that he had the critical faculty very

highly developed in every point not touching religious belief; but

that possessed in his view such a co-efficient of certainty, that

nothing could counterbalance it. His piety was in truth, like the

mother o'pearl shells of François de Sales, "which live in the sea

without tasting a drop of salt water." The knowledge of error which

he possessed was entirely speculative: a water-tight compartment

prevented the least infiltration of modern ideas into the secret

sanctuary of his heart, within which burnt, by the side of the

petroleum, the small unquenchable light of a tender and sovereign

piety. As my mind was not provided with these water-tight

compartments, the encounter of these conflicting elements, which in

M. Le Hir produced profound inward peace, led in my case to strange

explosions.

[Footnote 1: I should like to make one observation in this connection.

People of the present day have got into the habit of putting

_Monseigneur_ before a proper name, and of saying _Monseigneur

Dupanloup_ or Monseigneur Affre. This is bad French; the word

"Monseigneur" should only be used in the vocative case or before an

official title. In speaking to M. Dupanloup or M. Affre, it would

be correct to say _Monseigneur_. In speaking of them, _Monsieur

Dupanloup, Monsieur Affre; Monsieur, or Monseigneur l'Évqêue

d'Orleans,_ Monsieur or Monseigneur l'Archévêque de Paris.]

THE ST. SULPICE SEMINARY.