that this plan of studies, as varied as extended, was prepared.
Do you not see all it supposes--the comprehension of the authors,
schools, and men capable of applying the plan? And it did not
remain a mere project; it began to be executed. The University of
Paris proposed to establish a professorship of the Tartar
language. It was not done till a later day, because the
university only acts with a view to science; but the church did
not delay, prompted by a more noble motive. At Rome it taught the
oriental languages in its colleges; at Paris, the monks of St.
Père de-Chartres, at the annual expense of one thousand francs,
opened, for the space of three years, a school for young men from
the East, who returned to their country carrying with them the
acquirements of the West and the eternal truths of religion.
[Footnote 261]
[Footnote 261: Cartulary of St. Père de Chartres.]
{616}
The councils (that of Vienna in 1311) decreed that the oriental
languages. should be taught at Paris, Salamanca, Bologna, Oxford,
and all the great universities. The church wishes to diffuse
knowledge in order to evangelize the world; it arms men with
science that they may be more powerful, and it pushes them
forward in the career of learning, that, at the end, they may
find God.
VII.
Ardor For Learning.
And the church has always found disciples eager to listen to its
instructions. The very barbarians, it has been remarked, were not
averse to study; they had, on the contrary, that innate taste for
letters which distinguishes the Germanic race. The Franks were
easily instructed; they mingled among the Gauls of the South in
the course of rhetoric and poetry, (at Bordeaux in the fifth and
sixth centuries;) St. Medard, Bede, and Mici counted them by
thousands in their schools. When the twelfth century opened more
numerous schools, an immense crowd hastened to them. It was an
invasion of recruits, who wished to learn the use of the arms of
knowledge, in England, Germany, and Italy; at Milan there were
eighty masters who were laymen; France above all, displayed its
characteristic ardor. At Paris, colleges were founded one after
another; two at the end of the twelfth century, fifteen in the
thirteenth and fourteenth; one half of Paris was transformed into
schools. That of the Canons of Notre Dame extended from the
church to the Petit-Pont; then it passed over the left bank and
ascended the mountain [Footnote 262] --the mountain that has
preserved the name of _Quartier Latin_--the true realm of
science imagined by the poets, where lived, in close proximity,
turbulent bands of students from every land, in groups, according
to their nations and languages.
[Footnote 262: Vict. le Clerc, _Histoire de la Litterature
au treizième siècle_.]
Foreigners [Footnote 263] proclaimed Paris the centre of
knowledge, and, in a right and elevated sense, the leader of
Europe. There was then some merit in the pursuit of knowledge.
The name of one of the streets of Paris, the Rue du Fouare,
so-called from the straw and hay upon which they seated
themselves, bears witness to the ardor of these students of the
dark ages, less anxious for their ease than to obtain knowledge.
They rewarded their own masters, and valued no expense to obtain
those most renowned; they sent to all parts of Europe for them,
and gave them a position often ten times more valuable than that
of the professors of our time. [Footnote 264]
[Footnote 263: John of Salisbury, Dante, Brunetto Latini,
etc.]
[Footnote 264: Le Play, _Réforme sociale_, (47,) and
Mateucci, _Les Universites d'Italie, (Revue des Cours
scientifiques_, 1867.)]
It was difficult for many to contribute their share in all this
expense, in addition to the cost of living in a large city; but
in the hope of acquiring the knowledge, the poorer subjected
themselves to the most painful sacrifices. The romance of _Gil
Blas_ depicts the young men of the University of Salamanca as
valets and students. What existed in Spain in the eighteenth
century was the condition of many students of the middle ages.
Yes, they reduced themselves to servitude to obtain degrees, and
made themselves valets to gain their daily bread--a noble
servitude for which they did not blush, which put the body in
subjection, and left the mind free, showing the superiority of
mind over matter; it was a voluntary humiliation, which, for a
time, put the indigent scholar beneath the rich, but aided him to
attain in the world the place due to intelligence and knowledge,
to rise to the level of the most powerful, and often to the most
eminent dignities of the church and state--to the councils of
kings and the purple of cardinals.
{617}
And what ardent scholars! It was the age of the schoolmen.
Scholastic learning, afterward so disdained by forgetfulness or
ignorance, was the animated, living, and natural form which gave
expression to the passionate love of those young men for study.
Those descendants of the Franks rushed forward with the same
eagerness as to battle to share in the close reasoning, the logic
that contended so fiercely, that made every effort and climbed
tooth and nail to obtain a position strongly contested. What
valiant armies! what soldiers in "these tournaments that are like
combats!" [Footnote 265] But what captains also! what leaders!
what masters! St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Bonaventura, Albertus
Magnus--at once theologians, philosophers, moralists,
politicians, writers on political economy, and savants! What a
trio in one century and at the same period!
[Footnote 265: Bonald.]
But do you know what took place in the thirteenth century at the
course of Albertus Magnus? Not hundreds but thousands of pupils
hastened to his lessons. [Footnote 266]
[Footnote 266: It was the same throughout the middle ages. At
Bologna there were, in the thirteenth century, ten thousand
pupils at the law school; in the eleventh century, they came
from every land to attend the instructions of Abelard; he
counted several thousand auditors, and among them twenty
cardinals and fifty bishops. We could multiply these examples
indefinitely.]
It was not ardor that animated them, but enthusiasm; an apartment
was not required to contain them, but a square! No enclosure
would have sufficed for such a multitude. A great commotion
forced the master to leave his chair--a commotion such as is
rarely seen in our days, in which the crowd cried to their
teacher, "Away from here!" "_Exi! Foras!_"--a respectful
uprising in which the master is proud to obey; he descends from
his chair into the midst of the crowd, which is roaring like the
sea, and is borne away by a thousand arms to a large square,
where, on an elevation of stone, he can overlook the countless
human heads which extend back to the houses and fill up the
openings of the streets, but which are now motionless, attentive,
and mute before the sound of a single voice that enchains them. O
barbarous generation! O age of darkness in which a master
required the open air of heaven and the paved square for a
classroom! Compare the literary dilettantism of a few hundred
young men enclosed within the walls of an amphitheatre of a
hundred feet, with the ardent thirst of this crowd, which
required not a jar, but a whole river, to satisfy its thirst for
knowledge, and which has left a proof of its eager desire in the
capital and in the language, the name of the square into which so
many students crowded to hear their master--the Place Maubert,
Magni Alberti--the Square of the great Albert!
We see how erroneous is the opinion that attributes to the epoch
between the middle of the fifteenth and the middle of the
seventeenth centuries the revival of letters and the arts.
Letters were not revived; they still existed and enlightened the
world. "The great agitation of the Reformation is often
represented as having contributed to literary and scientific
development," says M. A. Maury, a writer not suspected of
partiality to the middle ages. "This is not absolutely true.
{618}
The contests to which it gave rise retarded for a time the
diffusion of knowledge; many monasteries, libraries, and schools
were suppressed, which had been, up to that time, the _great
sources of light_." Christian historians were the first to
become suspicious of error and to point it out. Hurter, the great
German historian, says: "Only superficial minds that disdain the
study of documents and are blinded by the pretended superiority
of our epoch, or by systematic hatred, dare accuse the church of
having favored ignorance." [Footnote 267] All truly learned men
soon became of the same mind. One of them, who has made the
middle ages his study for twenty years, cannot restrain his
indignation: "Our historians, even those who are considered the
best, dwelling on the grossest conjectures and influenced by
obsolete prejudices, without thinking of verifying, still less of
rectifying, old assertions, have summed up the whole history of
the first part of the middle ages in these two words,
_ignorance and superstition_; but it is to themselves," he
adds severely, "and not to the ages they have misunderstood and
calumniated, that these two words should be applied." [Footnote
268] "The idea of progress is not a pagan idea," says Ozanam.
[Footnote 269]
[Footnote 267: _History of Innocent III_., book xxi.]
[Footnote 268: Daremberg, _Cours of 1867_; and to the
support of his opinions he brings Guizot, Dom Pitra, Ozanam,
Heeren, etc.]
[Footnote 269: _Histoire de la Civilisation an cinquième
siècle_, chap. iv.]
The doctrine of progress is as old as the gospel; and the author
of _Les Etudes sur les Barbares et le Moyen Age_ confirms
this: "The people of the middle ages felt the necessity of
knowledge; they studied and labored conscientiously and
energetically, and marked each age by important developments."
The more carefully we examine those ages, the better shall we
understand the extent of knowledge in the church. The most
eminent men of those times--who does not know them?--are bishops,
monks, and popes: Gerbert, St. Bernard, Innocent III., and St.
Thomas Aquinas, who can only be compared to Aristotle; the most
original writers--who does not forget it?--are priests:
Froissart, Petrarch, and later, Calderon, Lope de Vega, and Tirso
de Molina; the greatest poet of the middle ages, Dante, was he
not a theologian? Cimabue, who revived the art of painting, was
he not reared among the Dominicans of Florence? Was not the first
press in Paris set up at the Sorbonne? The best informed class of
men were so incontestably the clergy that the names of priest and
savant were confounded. The word _clergie_ in the middle
ages signified learned. [Footnote 270] The church takes the
highest rank in the world of science. It does not acquire
knowledge for itself alone, but to diffuse everywhere, that the
whole earth may be enlightened. Like the sun, it is a great
centre diffusing the light it derives from God--its eternal
source!
[Footnote 270: J. de Maistre, _Du Pape_, ii. 16.]
----------
{619}
From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.
The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.
Chapter XVII.
At the end of a dark passage through the house was the farmyard,
to which five or six well-worn steps descended. To the left were
the barn and the press; and to the right, the stables and the
dove-cote, the dark shape of the last standing sharply outlined
against the gray, misty sky. Opposite the door was the
wash-house.
Not a sound was heard. Hullin, after the wild and stormy day, was
impressed with the deep silence. He gazed at the tufts of straw
hanging between the rafters of the barn, the harrows, the
ploughs, the carts, half hidden in the gloom of the sheds, with
an indefinable feeling of calmness and satisfaction. Fowl were
roosting along the wall, and a cat fled by like a flash, and
disappeared in the cellar. Hullin seemed waking from a dream.
After a few moments of silent reverie, he turned slowly toward
the wash-house, the three windows of which shone through the
darkness. The kitchen of the farm-house was not large enough to
prepare food for three or four hundred men, and the work had been
carried thither.
Master Jean-Claude heard the childish voice of Louise giving
orders in a tone so resolute that it astonished him.
"Come, come, Katel, hurry. It is nearly time for supper, and the
poor fellows must be hungry. Just to think--fighting since seven
this morning, and not eating a morsel! Here, Lessele, move
yourself. Salt! pepper!"
Jean-Claude's heart beat at that voice. He could not avoid
peering through the glass before entering. The kitchen was large
but low, and with white-washed walls. A huge fire of beech-logs
crackled and blazed upon the hearth, in the midst of which
appeared the black sides of an immense pot. The chimney, high and
narrow, was scarcely large enough to carry off the billows of
smoke that arose. Near the fire was the graceful figure of
Louise, lit up by the brightest tints that flashed from the
hearth, bustling, active, coming, going, tasting sauces, trying
the meat, approving, and criticising.
The two daughters of the Anabaptist, one tall, dried up, and
pale, with large, flat feet, cased in great shoes, hair bound
with black ribbons into a little knot, and a long gown of blue
stuff hanging down to her heels; the other, chubby, and waddling
along much like a goose, formed a strange contrast with her.
The good Anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room upon a
wooden chair, with feet crossed, cotton cap pulled well down upon
his head, and hands plunged into the depths of the pockets of his
blouse, gazed on all that passed with an air of wonderment, and
from time to time ejaculated sententiously:
"Lessele, Katel, do as you are told, my children. Let this be for
your instruction; you have yet seen nothing of the world. Walk
quicker."
{620}
"Yes, yes, you must move," added Louise. "What would become of us
if we meditated days and weeks about putting a little seasoning
in a sauce? You, Lessele, are the tallest; unhook that bundle of
onions from the ceiling."
And the tall girl obeyed.
Hullin was proud and happy as a prince.
"How she makes them mind!" he chuckled. "What a little dragoon
she is! a very puss-in-boots! Ha, ha, ha!"
And he waited full five minutes before entering."
Louise flung down the spoon she held, and rushed to him, crying:
"Father Jean-Claude! papa Jean-Claude! You are not hurt? you are
not wounded?"
Poor Hullin could not speak for a moment. He folded her tenderly
in his arms, and at length replied, in a voice whose tremor he
could not repress:
"No, Louise, no; I am well and happy."
" Sit down, Jean-Claude," said the Anabaptist, seeing how his
emotion affected him. "Here, take my chair."
Hullin seated himself, and Louise, placing her hands upon his
shoulders, burst into tears.
"What is the matter, my child?" asked the old man in wonder. "A
moment ago you were brave enough."
"Yes, I made believe, but I was very frightened. I thought--I
thought, 'Why does he not come?'"
Then a sudden whim seemed to enter her little head; she seized
her father's hand, and cried, laughing through her tears:
"Let us dance, papa Jean-Claude! Come, dance!"
And she pulled him around the room.
Hullin, smiling in spite of himself, turned to the Anabaptist,
who saw all that passed without a change in his grave visage, and
said:
"We are somewhat foolish, Louise and I; but don't let that
astonish you, Pelsly."
"It does not, Master Hullin. Did not King David dance when he had
smitten the Philistines hip and thigh?"
Jean-Claude, rather astounded at his resemblance to King David,
made no reply.
"Well, Louise," said he, "you were frightened during the battle,
were you?"
"Yes, at first; the cannon-shots and the din were fearful! But
afterward I only thought of you and mother Lefevre."
Then she took him by the hand, and, leading him to a regiment of
pots, kettles, and pans, ranged around the fire, enumerated her
forces with the air of a conqueror:
"Here is the beef; here is General Jean-Claude's supper; and here
is broth for the wounded. But that is not all. Here is our
bread," she added, showing him a long pile of loaves on the
table, and she was dragging him to the oven, when Catherine
Lefevre entered.
"It is time to set the table," cried the old woman. "Everybody is
waiting. Come, Katel, spread the cloth."
The stout girl departed, running; all followed to the great hall,
where Doctors Lorquin and Despois, Marc-Dives, and Materne and
his two sons, impatiently awaited the meal.
"How are the wounded, doctor?" cried Hullin.
"Rest easy, Master Jean-Claude; all are cared for. You have given
us a hard day's work; but the weather is favorable, and fever or
mortification need not be feared. Everything looks well."
{621}
Katel, Lessele, and Louise soon entered, bearing an enormous
soup-dish, and two magnificent rounds of beef, which they placed
upon the table. Sharp appetites left scant room for ceremony, and
soon the rattling of knives and opening of bottles alone were
heard. Without, the broad flames from the bivouac-fires flashed
on the window-panes, and showed the mountaineers doing full
justice to Louise's cheer.
At nine o'clock Marc-Dives started for Falkenstein with his
prisoners. At ten, all in the house, or around the fires, were
sleeping, and no sound broke the stillness save the passage of
the rounds and the challenge of the sentries.
So ended the first day in which the mountaineers proved that the
spirit of their fathers had not degenerated in them.
But other and not less stern trials were soon to follow those
already past; for throughout man's life one obstacle is overcome
only to make way for another. The world is like a stormy sea:
wave follows wave, from age to age, in a flow that eternity alone
may stay.
Chapter XVIII.
During the entire battle, until nightfall, the people of
Grandfontaine saw the fool, Yegof, standing on the summit of
Little Donon, his crown upon his head, his sceptre waving in his
hand. There he stood, like a Merovingian king, issuing his orders
to his imaginary armies. What feelings shook him as he saw the
Germans beaten back, routed, no man may say. At the last echo of
the cannon he disappeared. Whither had he gone? This is what the
people of Tiefenbach say:
At the time of which I speak, two strange beings--sisters--lived
on the Bocksberg. One was called Little Kateline; the other Tall
Berbel. These two ragged creatures made their home in the cavern
of Luitprand, so named, as old chronicles aver, from the fact
that the King of the Germani, before descending into Alsace,
buried beneath its immense vault of red stone the barbarian
chiefs who had fallen at Blutfeld. The hot spring, which always
bubbles and streams from the middle of the cave, secured the
sisters from the fierce cold of mountain winters, and Daniel
Horn, of Tiefenbach, the wood-cutter, had the charity to close
the main entrance from without with great heaps of broom and
brushwood. At the side of the hot spring was another spring, cold
as ice and clear as crystal.
Kateline always drank at this spring, and was not more than four
feet in height; but what she lacked in length she made up in
rotund breadth; and her wondering look, round eyes, and enormous
throat, gave her the appearance of a meditative matronly hen.
Every Sunday she bore an osier basket to the village of
Tiefenbach, and the good people there filled it with cooked
potatoes, loaves of bread, and sometimes, on holidays, with cakes
and other remnants of their festivities. Then the poor creature
would make her way back to the cave, breathless, laughing,
chattering, rejoicing.
But Tall Berbel was ever careful not to drink at the cold spring.
She was bony, fleshless as a bat, and had lost an eye; her nose
was flat, her ears large, and her single orb sparkled like a
coal; she lived upon the fruits of her sister's sallies. She
never left Bocksberg. But in July, when the heat was greatest,
standing upon the height, she shook a withered thistle over the
grain of those who had not regularly filled Kateline's basket;
and fearful tempests, or hail, or swarms of rats or field-mice,
ruined the budding harvest. The spells of Berbel were feared like
pestilence; she was everywhere known as the _Wetterhexe_, or
storm-witch, while little Kateline was esteemed the good fairy of
Tiefenbach. In this way Berbel lived in idleness, and Kateline
begged food for both.
{622}
Unfortunately for the two sisters, Yegof had for some years
previously established his winter residence in the cavern of
Luitprand. Thence he departed in the spring, to visit his
numberless castles and to count his feudatories, as far as
Geierstein in the Hundsruck. Every year, toward the end of
November, after the first snows, he arrived with his raven--an
event which the storm-witch always bitterly bemoaned.
"Again thy plaints," he was wont to say, as he tranquilly
installed himself in the most comfortable spot the cave afforded;
"do you not both live upon my domains? I am very good to suffer
two _valkyrs_ [Footnote 271] useless in the Valhalla of my
fathers, to remain here."
[Footnote 271: Maidens of Odin, whom he sends to every
battlefield to decide who shall fall and who shall be
victorious. They also wait upon the heroes in Valhalla.]
Then would Berbel, aroused to fury, overwhelm him with reproach
and insult, and Kateline look offended; but he, careless of the
storm he raised, would only light his old boxwood pipe, and
relate his far-off wanderings among the souls of the German
warriors, who, for sixteen centuries, lay buried in the cavern,
calling them by name, and speaking to them as to men yet living.
You may imagine with what delight Berbel and Kateline looked
forward to the coming of the fool with his dismal tales.
But this year, Yegof had not come, and the sisters believed him
dead, and duly rejoiced over the prospect of seeing him no more.
Nevertheless, the Wetterhexe had observed the agitation in the
valleys, the crowds of men, musket on shoulder, leaving
Falkenstein and Donon. Surely, something strange had happened;
and the sorceress, calling to mind that the preceding year Yegof
had related to the spirits of his warriors how his countless
armies would soon invade the land, felt a vague uneasiness. She
would fain have learned the cause of the movement around her; but
Kateline having made her tour the Sunday before, would not again
budge from her home for an empire, and no one ever climbed to the
cavern.
In this frame of mind Berbel came and went, wandered restlessly
about the cave, growing hourly more uneasy and irritable. But
during Saturday she had enough to think on. From nine o'clock in
the morning, heavy and deep peals rang like thunder over the
mountain side, and awoke the thousand echoes of the valleys; far
away toward Donon rapid flashes crossed what sky appeared between
the peaks; and as night approached, yet louder sounds rolled
through every gorge, and the hollow voices of Hengst, of
Gantzlée, Giromani and Grossmann replied.
"What can all this be?" asked Berbel of herself, "can the day of
doom have come?"
Then returning to the cavern and finding Kateline huddled in a
corner munching a potato, she shook her rudely and hissed:
"Idiot! hearest thou nothing? Fearest thou nothing? Carest thou
for nothing but eating and drinking?"
She dashed the potato furiously to the ground, and sat herself
trembling by the hot spring, which sent its grey vapors to the
roof. Half an hour later, the darkness growing deeper, and the
cold intense, she lighted a fire of brushwood, which threw its
pale flashes over the vault of red stone, and pierced to the end
of the cavern, where Kateline slept with her feet buried in a
heap of straw, and her chin resting on her knees.
{623}
Without, all noise had ceased. The storm-witch pulled aside the
briars at the entrance, and gazed down the mountain side; then
she returned to her post by the fire, her thin lips set tightly
together, and her eyelids closed; she drew an old woolen coverlet
over her knees, and seemed to sleep. No sound broke the stillness
but the dripping of the condensed steam falling from the vault
back to its source with a melancholy plash.
So lasted the silence for hours. Midnight was nearing, when
suddenly the sound of footsteps, mingled with discordant noises,
started Berbel from her slumber. She listened, and heard the cry
of a human voice. She arose trembling, and, armed with a huge
thorn branch, glided to the opening; there, pushing aside the
briars, she saw in the moonlight the fool Yegof advancing alone,
but writhing as if in agony, and beating the air with his
sceptre, as if thousands of invisible beings surrounded him.
"To the rescue, Roug, Bléd, Adelrick!" he shouted in tones that
pierced the cold air like the clangor of an iron bell, his matted
beard and hair waving the while, and his dog-skin cloak folded
like a buckler around his left arm; "to the rescue! Follow me to
the death! See you not who are coming, cleaving the skies like
eagles? On, men of the red beards! Crush this race of dogs! Ah!
Minan, Rochart, are ye here?"
And then he called with savage shouts, upon all the dead of
Donon, defying them as if they were really there; then he
recoiled step by step, still striking the air, hurling curses,
urging unseen armies to the fight, and struggling as if
surrounded by foes. A cold sweat poured from Berbel's brow, she
felt her hair rise upon her head, and she would have fled; but at
the moment a strange murmuring arose within the cave, and, to her
horror, she saw the hot spring boiling fiercely, and masses of
vapor rising from it and advancing to the entrance of the cave.
Like phantoms the thick clouds came slowly on, and suddenly Yegof
appeared, crying in a husky voice,
"At last ye have heard me! ye are come!"
With a bound he darted to the opening. The icy air filled the
vault, and the vapors pouring forth, twisted and wreathed beneath
the vast vault of heaven, as if the dead of to-day and those of
long gone centuries had begun a never-ending conflict.
The pale moonbeams shed a weird light over Yegof's face and form,
as he stood with flashing eyes and sceptre outstretched, and
beard falling over his breast, saluting each phantom and calling
it by name.
"All hail, Bléd! Hail to thee, Roug! and to ye all, brave
warriors! The hour which for centuries you have awaited is at
hand; the eagles are whetting their beaks; the earth thirsts for
blood! Remember Blutfeld!"
Berbel's senses had almost left her; fear alone kept her
standing; but soon the last clouds escaped from the cavern and
melted in the limitless blue.
Yegof entered the vault and sat upon the ground near the hot
spring, his head resting upon his hands, and his elbows on his
knees, gazing with haggard eyes on the bubbling waters.
Kateline awoke sobbing, and the storm-witch, more dead than
alive, observed the fool from the darkest nook of the cave.
{624}
"They have all arisen from their graves," cried he suddenly;
"all! all! not one remains behind. They will give life to the
hearts of my young warriors, and teach them to despise death!"
He raised his face. A crushing sorrow seemed settled there.
"O woman!" he said, fixing his eyes upon the Wetterhexe with a
wolfish glare, "O thou descendant of the Valkyrs, but who at the
festal board hast never filled the deep cups of the warriors with
mead, nor placed before them the smoking flesh of the boar
Serimar, what canst thou do? Canst spin winding-sheets? To thy
task then! Spin night and day, for thousands of bold warriors are
stretched upon the snow. They fought valiantly. They did their
work well, but the hour had not yet come. Now the ravens feed
upon their flesh!"
Then in ungovernable fury, seizing his crown with both hands, and
tearing it from his head, although with it came away handfuls of
hair, he shouted:
"Accursed tribe! Will ye ever bar our way! But for ye we had long
since conquered Europe; ay, we of the red beards had been masters
of the world. And I humbled myself before this race of dogs! I
asked his daughter of one of them, instead of bearing her off as
the wolf does the lamb! Ah Huldrix! Huldrix! Listen, Valkyr," he
suddenly added in a low tone, "listen!"
He raised his finger solemnly. The Wetterhexe listened; a blast
arose without, and shook the old frost-laden forest. How often
had the sorceress heard that sound before, during the long winter
nights, without giving it a thought. Now, she was afraid.
And while she stood trembling, a hoarse cry smote her ear, and
the raven Hans, sweeping beneath the rock, flew in circles round
and round the cavern, flapping his wings as if in terror, and
croaking mournfully.
Yegof became pale as death.
"Vod! Vod!" he cried in despairing tones, "what has thy son
Luitprand done to thee? Why choose him rather than another?"
And for some seconds he seemed to have swooned; but soon, as if
carried away by a savage enthusiasm, brandishing his sceptre, he
darted from the cavern.
Wetterhexe, standing in the opening, followed him with an anxious
eye.
He strode straight onward, with outstretched neck, like a wild
beast rushing at its prey. Hans flew before, and they disappeared
in the gorge of Blutfeld.
Chapter XIX.
Toward two o'clock that night the snow began to fall, and at
daybreak it rested inches deep upon the men at the bivouacs.
The Germans had left Grandfontaine, Framont, and even Schirmeck,
and black spots far away on the plains of Alsace showed where
their battalions were in full retreat.
Hullin, roused at early dawn, inspected the bivouacs; he stopped
for a few minutes to gaze at the plateau--the scene of Dives's
charge at the cannon pointed down the mountain side, the
partisans stretched around the fires, and the pacing sentries;
then satisfied that all was well, he returned to the farm-house
where Catherine and Louise were yet sleeping.
The gray morning was entering at the windows. A few wounded, whom
the fires of fever had already seized, shrieked loudly for their
wives and children. Then the hum of many voices arose, and at
last Catherine and Louise appeared, and saw Jean-Claude seated in
a corner of a window; ashamed to be thought more devoted to
slumber than he, they hastened to bid him good morning.
{625}
"Well!" said Catherine inquiringly.
"They are gone, and we are masters of the road."
This assurance did not seem sufficient for the old woman. She
gazed through the windows, and saw the Austrians far off in
Alsace. Still her face bore the impress of an indefinable
uneasiness.
Between eight and nine o'clock, Father Saumaize, the priest of
the village of Charmes, arrived. A few mountaineers then
descended to the foot of the slope, and collected the dead who
lay there so thick. Then a long trench was dug, to the right of
the farm-house, in which partisans and Kaiserliks, in their
blouses, their slouched hats, their shakos, and their uniforms,
were ranged side by side. The good priest, a tall old man, with
locks white as snow, read the ancient prayers for the dead in
that rapid and mysterious voice which pierces the very depths of
the soul, and seems to summon long-past generations to greet the
new-comers to their realms--which calls so vividly to the hearts
of the living thoughts of the darkness and terrors of the grave,
and of the light and mercy beyond.
All day wagons and sleds kept carrying the wounded to their
villages; for Doctor Lorquin, fearing to increase their
excitement, was forced to yield to their cries and prayers that
they might again see their homes. Toward evening Catherine and
Hullin found themselves alone in the great hall; Louise had gone
to prepare supper. Great flakes of snow still continued to fall
without, and from time to time a sled departed silently bearing
its wounded owner buried in straw, sometimes a man, sometimes a
woman, leading a horse by the bridle. Catherine, seated at the
table, folded bandages with an absent air.
"What ails you, Mother Lefevre?" asked Jean-Claude. "Ever since
morning you have been sad and thoughtful. Is this your rejoicing
over victory?"
The old woman looked up, and slowly pushing the linen from her,
replied:
"True, Jean-Claude; I am anxious."
"Anxious? About what? The enemy is in full retreat, and Frantz
Materne, whom I sent to watch them, and all Pivrette's and
Jerome's and Labarbe's couriers report that they are returning to
Mutzig. Old Materne and Kasper, after having buried the dead,
learned at Grandfontaine that not a white coat is to be seen
toward Saint Blaize-la-Roche. All this proves that our dragoons
of the Spanish wars gave them a warm reception on the Senones
road, and they fear to be turned by way of Schirmeck. I see no
reason for uneasiness, Catherine."
And Hullin gazed at her with a look of inquiry.
"You will laugh at me again, Jean-Claude," said she; "I have had
a dream."
"A dream!"
"Yes; the same that I dreamed at Bois-de-Chênes."
Her voice grew louder, and, before Hullin could interrupt, she
continued half angrily:
{626}
"Say what you will, Jean-Claude, a great peril hangs over us.
Yes, yes, all this seems senseless, and is only a dream, but it
was not a dream; it was what had passed and what I saw again and
recognized in my sleep. Listen! We were as we were to-day--after
a great victory--where I know not--in a sort of huge wooden hut,
crossed by strong beams and defended by palisades. We were secure
and careless. All whom I saw around me I knew. There were you,
Marc Dives, Old Duchêne, and many others--old men long since
dead--my father and old Hugo Rochart of Harberg, the uncle of him
who has just died, all in gray blouses, and with long beards and
bare necks. We were rejoicing and drinking from great vessels of
red earth, when a cry arose, 'The enemy are returning!' And Yegof
on horseback, his beard streaming in the wind, his crown
surrounded with spikes, an axe in his hand, and his eyes
glittering like a wolfs, appeared before me. I rushed at him with
a stake; he awaited me, and I saw no more. But I felt a sharp
pain at my throat; a cold blast struck my face, and it seemed as
if my head were swinging at the end of a cord. Yegof had hung it
to his saddle and was galloping away." The old woman ended her
story in such a tone of belief that brave Jean-Claude shuddered.
There were a few moments of silence; then Hullin, rousing
himself, replied:
"It was but a dream. I, too, often have horrible ones. It was the
noise, the shrieks, the terror of yesterday tormenting you,
Catherine."
"No!" she answered firmly, as she resumed her work; "it was not
that. In good truth, during the whole of the battle--even when
the cannon thundered upon us--I feared nothing; I was sure we
would be victorious, for that too I had seen. But now I fear!"
"But the Austrians have evacuated Schirmeck; all the line of the
Vosges is defended; we have more men than we need, and still more
are arriving every moment."
"No matter!"
Hullin shrugged his shoulders.
"Come, come, Catherine! You are feverish. Try to calm yourself
and dispel such gloomy thoughts. I laugh at all these dreams as I
would at the Grand Turk with his pipe and blue stockings. We have
men, munitions, and defences, and these are better than the
rosiest-colored dreams."
"You mock me, Jean-Claude."
"No; but to hear a woman of sound sense, of courage and
determination, talk as you do, makes one indeed think of Yegof,
who boasts that he has been living sixteen hundred years."
"Who knows?" said the old woman obstinately. "He may remember
what others have forgotten."
Hullin proceeded to relate his conversation of the day before
with Yegof, at the bivouac, thinking thus to disperse her gloom;
but seeing that she was inclined to agree with the fool on the
score of the sixteen centuries, the good man at length ceased,
and paced the room with bowed head and anxious brow. "She is
becoming mad," he thought; "another shock, and her mind is gone."
Catherine, after a silence, seemed about again to speak, when
Louise tripped into the room, crying:
"Mamma Lefevre, Mamma Lefevre, a letter from Gaspard!"
Then the old woman, whose lips had been pressed tight together in
her indignation at Hullin's ridicule, lifted her head, and the
sharp lines of her face softened.
She took the letter and gazing at the red seal, said to the young
girl:
"Kiss me, Louise; it bears good tidings."
{627}
Hullin drew near, glad that something had happened to distract
Catherine's thoughts, and Brainstein, the postman, his heavy
shoes covered with snow and his hands resting upon his staff,
stood with a weary and careworn air at the door.
Catherine put on her spectacles, opened the letter slowly,
notwithstanding the impatient glances of Jean-Claude and Louise,
and read aloud:
"This, my dear mother, is to inform you that all goes well, and I
arrived Tuesday evening at Phalsbourg, just as they were closing
the gates. The Cossacks were already on the Saverne side, and
skirmishing was kept up all night with their advance. The next
day a flag of truce summoned us to surrender the place. The
commandant Meunier told the bearer to go and hang himself, and,
three days after, a storm of shell and canister began to hail
upon the city. The Russians have three batteries; but the hot
shot do the most harm. They set fire to the houses and when the
flames appear, showers of canister prevent our putting them out.
The women and children keep within the blockhouse; the citizens
fight with us on the ramparts. They are brave men, and among them
are some veterans of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and Egypt,
who have not forgotten how to work the guns. It makes me sad to
see their grey moustaches falling on the cannon as they aim. I
will answer for it, they waste no powder; but it is hard to see
men, who have made the world tremble, forced in their old age to
defend their own homes and hearths."
"Hard indeed," said Catherine, drying her eyes. "It makes my
heart bleed to think of it."
She continued:
"The day before yesterday the governor decided to attack the
tile-kiln. You must know that these Russians break the ice to
bathe in platoons of twenty or thirty, and afterward dry
themselves there at the fire. About four in the afternoon, as
evening was coming on, we made a sally through the arsenal
postern, passing through the covered ways and filing along the
path leading to the kiln. Ten minutes after, we began a rolling
fire on it, and the Russians had scarcely time to seize their
muskets and cartridge-boxes, and, half-dressed, to form ranks
upon the snow. Nevertheless, they were ten times more numerous
than we, and began a movement to the right, on the little chapel
of Saint John, so as to surround us, when the guns of the arsenal
opened a fire upon them, the like of which I never saw before,
sweeping them down in long lanes. In less than a quarter of an
hour they were in full flight to Quatre-Vents, without waiting to
pick up their coats, their officers at their head, and round-shot
from the town acting as file-closers. Father Jean-Claude would
have laughed at their predicament. At night-fall we returned to
the city, after destroying the kiln, and throwing two
eight-pounders we captured into its well. So ended our first
sortie. I write you from Bois-de-Chênes, which we have reached on
a foraging expedition. The siege may last months.
"I should have told you that the Allies are passing through the
valley of Dosenheim to Weschem, and flooding the roads to Paris
by thousands. Ah! if God would only give the emperor the victory
in Lorraine or Champagne, not one of them would return. But the
trumpets are sounding the recall, and we have gathered a goodly
number of oxen and cows and goats. We may have to fight our way
back. Farewell, my dear mother, and Louise, and Father
Jean-Claude. You are ever in my thoughts and my heart."
{628}
Catherine's eyes grew moist as she finished.
"What a brave fellow he is!" she murmured; "he knows only his
duty. Well! well! Do you hear, Louise, how he remembers you?"
Louise threw herself into the old woman's arms, and Mother
Catherine, despite the firmness of her character, could not
restrain two great tears, which coursed down her furrowed cheeks;
but she was soon herself again. "Come, come!" said she; "all is
well. Come Brainstein, eat a morsel of bread and take a glass of
wine, and here is a crown for your trouble; I wish I could give
as much every week for such a letter."
The postman, well pleased at her bounty, followed her, and
Jean-Claude hastened to question him as to the enemy's movements;
but he learned nothing new, except that the Allies were besieging
Bitche, and Lutzelstein, and that they had lost some hundreds of
men in attempting to force the defile of Graufthal.
Chapter XX.
About ten o'clock that night Catherine Lefevre and Louise, after
having bid Hullin good-night, retired to their chamber, which was
situated over the great hall. In this room were two huge feather
beds, with red and blue striped curtains rising to the ceiling.
"Sleep-well, my child," said the old woman. "I can no longer bear
up against my weariness."
She threw herself upon her bed, and in a few minutes was in a
deep slumber. Louise did not delay following her example.
This lasted mayhap two hours, when a fearful tumult broke upon
them.
"To arms! to arms!" shouted fifty voices. "They are on us! To
arms!"
Shots resounded, and the tramp of hurrying feet mingled with
cries of alarm; but above all was heard Hullin's voice giving
orders in short, resolute, ringing tones, and to the left of the
farm, from the gorges of Grosmann rose a deep heavy murmur like
that of an approaching storm.
"Louise! hearest thou, Louise?" cried Catherine.
"Yes, yes. Great Heaven! it is terrible?"
Catherine sprang from her bed.
"Arise, my child," she cried; "dress quickly."
The shots redoubled and the windows were lit up as if by constant
flashes of lightning.
"Attention!" shouted the voice of Materne.
They heard the neighing of a horse without, and the rush of many
feet below in the passage, the yard, and in front of the house,
which shook to its foundations.
Suddenly shots were fired from the hall on the ground floor. A
heavy step sounded on the stairs; the door opened, and Hullin,
pale, his hair disordered and his lips quivering, appeared,
bearing a lantern.
"Hasten," he cried, "we have not a moment to lose."
"What has happened?" asked Catherine.
The firing became louder and louder.
"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"
The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the
stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw
Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway
on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the
muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken
wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung
among the rafters.
{629}
As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:
"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"
And the brave fellows below shouted:
"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"
Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken,
burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder;
but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting
the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.
They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their
dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall,
scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles
from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they
saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the
black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the
ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.
Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness,
and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback,
before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and
bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a
dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips
foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and
Louise by her side.
"Here at last!" cried the doctor, "God be thanked!"
And Frantz Materne added:
"If it were not for you, Mother Lefevre, you may be sure that not
one of us would quit the plateau tonight; but for you--"
At this moment, a tall gaunt fellow, passed at full speed,
shrieking as he ran:
"They are upon us! Every one for himself."
Hullin grew pale.
"It is the miller of Harberg," he muttered, grinding his teeth.
"Traitor!"
Frantz said nothing, but brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed
and fired.
Louise saw the coward fling his arms in the air and fall face
downward on the snow.
Frantz, with a strange smile, reloaded his piece.
"Comrades!" said Hullin; "here is your mother; she who gave you
powder and food that you might defend your homes; and here is my
child. Save them!"
And all answered:
"We will save them or die with them."
"And remember to warn Dives to remain at Falkenstein until
further orders."
"We shall not fail."
"Then forward, doctor, forward," cried the brave old man.
"And you, Hullins?" asked Catherine.
"My place is here. Our position must be defended to the death."
"Father Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching her arms toward
him.
But he had, already turned the corner; the doctor whipped up his
horse; the sledge crunched the snow, and behind it Frantz Materne
and his men, their rifles on their shoulders, strode on, while
the roll and clatter of the musketry continued. The old mistress
of Bois-de-Chênes, remembering her dream, was silent. Louise
dried her tears and threw a last long gaze on the plateau, which
was lighted up as if by a fire. The horse galloped beneath the
blows of the doctor, so that the mountaineers of the escort could
scarcely keep up with it; but it was long ere the tumult, the
shouts of battle, the clatter and crash of the shots, and the
whistling of the balls, cutting through the branches of the
trees, and growing more and more indistinct, were heard no more;
then all seemed vanished like a dream.
{630}
The sledge had reached the other slope of the mountain and darted
like an arrow through the darkness. The tramp of the horse's
hoofs, the hard-drawn breath of the escort, and from time to time
the call of the doctor, "Ho, Bruno, old fellow!" alone broke the
deep stillness.
A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up from the valley of the Sarre,
bore from afar, like a sigh, the never-ending plaint of the
torrents and woods. The moon broke through a cloud and looked
down on the dark forests of Blanru, with their tall, snow-laden
firs. A few moments after, the sledge reached a corner of the
woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle, cried:
"Now, Frantz, what are we to do? The path turns to the hills of
Saint-Quirin, and here is another going down to Blanru. Which
shall we take?"
Frantz and the men of the escort drew near. As they were then on
the western side of the Donon, they began to catch glimpses once
more of the German fusilade, and occasionally they heard the
crash of a cannon-shot echo through the abysses. "The path to the
hills of Saint-Quirin," replied Frantz, "is shorter if we wish to
stop at Bois-de-Chênes; we shall gain at least three quarters of
an hour by it."
"Yes," said the doctor, "but we risk being taken by the
Kaiserliks who now hold the defile of the Sarre. They are already
masters of the heights, and they have doubtless sent detachments
to the Sarre-Ridge in order to turn Donon."
"Let us, take the Blanru path then," answered Frantz; "it is
longer, but safer."
The sledge descended the mountain side to the left, along the
skirts of the wood. The partisans in single file, their rifles
slung on their backs, marched upon the top of the slope, and the
doctor, on horseback, in the narrow way, broke through the
snowdrifts. Above hung the long fir branches, burying road and
travellers in deep shadow, beyond which streamed the pale
moonlight. The scene was picturesque and majestic, and under
other circumstances Catherine would have wondered at its weird
beauty, and Louise would not have failed to admire the long
icicles glittering like spars of crystal where the moonbeams
fell; but now their hearts were full of unrest and fear, and soon
the sledge entered the deep gorge, whence they could see no light
but that which flooded the mountain peaks. Thus they pushed on in
silence until at length Catherine, rousing herself from the
gloomy thoughts in which she seemed plunged, spoke.
"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us at the bottom of Blanru,
will you explain why we have thus been carried off? Jean-Claude
seized me, threw me on this truss of straw, and here I am."
"Ho, Bruno!" cried the doctor.
Then he answered gravely:
"To-night, Mother Catherine, the greatest of evils has befallen
us. It cannot be laid to Jean-Claude; for by the fault of another
we have lost the fruit of all our blood and toil."
"By whose fault?"
"Labarbe's, who did not guard the defile of Blutfeld. He died
afterward doing his duty like a man; but his death could not
repair his fault; and if Pivrette does not arrive in time to
support Hullin, all is lost. We must then abandon the road and
retreat."
{631}
"What! Blutfeld in possession of the enemy."
"Yes, Mother Catherine. But who would have thought that the
Germans would have entered it? A defile almost impracticable for
infantry, surrounded by pointed rocks, where the herdsmen
themselves can scarcely descend with their flocks and goats?
Well, they passed through it, two by two, turned Roche-Creuse,
crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself
like a lion until nine at night, but finally had to take to the
woods and leave the road to the Kaiserliks. That is the whole
story, and it is fearful enough. Some one must have been cowardly
and treacherous enough to have guided the enemy to our rear--to
have delivered us over bound hand and foot. O the wretch!" cried
the doctor in a trembling voice; "I am not revengeful, but if
ever he falls under my hand, how I will dissect him! Ho, Bruno!
Ho, boy!"
The partisans still maintained their steady shadowy march, and no
word was spoken.
The horse again began a gallop, but soon slackened his pace and
breathed heavily.
Mother Lefevre was once more buried in thought.
"I begin to understand," said she at length; "we were attacked
tonight in front and flank."
"Just so, Catherine; and, by good fortune, ten minutes before the
attack, one of Marc-Dives's men--the smuggler Zimmer, an old
dragoon--arrived at full speed to warn us. If he had not come,
we were lost. He fell among our outposts after having passed
through a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The
poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust, and the blood
was pouring from his wound."
"And what did he say?" asked the old woman.
"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! We are turned! Jerome sent
me--Labarbe is dead--the Germans passed through Blutfeld!'"
"He was a brave man!" murmured Catherine.
"Yes, a brave man!" replied Frantz, drooping his head.
All became silent, and thus for a long time the sledge kept on
through the narrow, winding valley. From time to time they were
forced to stop, so deep was the snow, and then three or four
mountaineers took the horse by the bridle and pulled him on.
"No matter," exclaimed Catherine, emerging from her reverie,
"Hullin might have told me--"
"But if he had told you of the two attacks," interrupted the
doctor, "you would not have come away."
"And who dare hinder my doing as I wish? If it pleased me to
descend from this sledge, am I not free to do so? I had forgiven
Jean-Claude--I repent having done so!"
"O Mother Lefevre!" cried Louise; "if he should be killed, while
you speak thus!"
"She is right, poor child!" thought Catherine--
And she continued:
"I said I repent of forgiving him; but he is a brave man, to whom
I can wish no ill. I forgive him with all my heart. In his place
I would have done as he has done."
{632}
Two or three hundred yards further on, they entered the defile of
the Rocks. The snow had ceased falling and the moon shone
brilliantly from between two great black and white clouds. The
narrow gorge, bordered by pointed rocks, seemed to unroll its
length to their view, and on its sides high firs rose, until lost
in distance. Nothing broke the deep quiet of the woods; human
turmoil seemed indeed far away. So profound was the silence that
they heard every step of the horse in the soft snow, and even his
weary breathing. Frantz Materne halted from time to time, cast a
glance over the dark mountain sides, and then hastened to
overtake the others.
And valleys succeeded valleys; the sled ascended, descended,
turned to right and to left, and the partisans, with their cold
blue bayonets fixed, followed steadily after.
Thus toward three in the morning they had reached the field of
Brimbelles, where even yet may be seen an old oak standing in a
turn of the valley. On the other side, to the left, in the midst
of bushes white with snow, behind its little wall of loose stones
and the palings of its little garden, the lodge of Cuny, the
forester, began to outline itself against the mountain side, with
its three bee-hives in a row on a plank, its old knotty vine
climbing to the roof, and its little branch of fir hung over the
door by way of sign; for in that solitude Cuny joined to his
avocation of forester that of innkeeper.
Here, as the road runs along the edge of a bank several feet
above the field, and the moon was obscured by a thick cloud, the
doctor, fearing lest the sledge should be overset, halted beneath
the oak.
"Another hour will see us to the end of our journey, Mother
Lefevre," said he; "so be of good cheer--we have now plenty of
time."
"Ay," said Frantz; "the worst is over, and we can breathe the
horse."
The whole party gathered around the sledge, and the doctor
dismounted. A few produced flint and steel to light their pipes,
but nothing was said; all were thinking of Donon. Could
Jean-Claude hold his own until the arrival of Pivrette? So many
painful thoughts weighed upon the mind of each that no one cared
to speak.
They were some five minutes under the old oak when the cloud
slowly passed away and the pale moonlight streamed down the
gorge. But what is that yonder, between the two firs? A beam of
light falls upon it--upon a tall dark figure on horseback; it is
a Cossack with his lambskin cap, and long lance hanging backward
under his arm, slowly advancing; Frantz had already aimed, when
behind appeared another lance, and another, and in the depths of
the forest, under the deep blue sky, the little group saw only
swallow-tailed pennons waving, lances flashing, and Cossacks
advancing straight on toward the sledge, but without hurry, some
looking around, others leaning forward in their saddles like
people seeking something. They numbered more than thirty.
Catherine and Louise gazed upon each other. Another minute and
the savages would be upon them. The mountaineers seemed
stupefied. They could not turn the sledge in the narrow way, and
on one side was the steep slope to the field, on the other, the
steep mountain side. The old woman, in an agony of fear, seized
Louise's arm and whispered in trembling tones:
"Let us fly to the woods!"
She tried to spring from the sled, but her shoe came off in the
straw.
Suddenly, one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural exclamation
which ran all along their line.
"We are discovered!" cried Doctor Lorquin, drawing his sabre.
Scarcely had he spoken, when twelve shots lit up the path. Wild
yells replied. The Cossacks left the road and dashed with loose
rein over the field, fleeing like deer, to the forest lodge.
{633}
"There they go," cried the doctor; "we are safe!"
But the brave surgeon was too hasty in his conclusion; the
Cossacks, describing a circle in their career, massed their
force, and then, with lance in rest, bending over their horses'
necks, came right on the partisans, shouting "Hurrah! hurrah!"
Frantz and the others threw themselves before the sledge.
It was a terrible moment. Lance grated against bayonet; cries of
rage replied to curses. Beneath the old oak, through the branches
of which only a few scattered moonbeams fell, rearing horses,
with manes erect, struggled up from the field to the path,
bearing barbarous riders with blazing eyes and uplifted arms,
striking furiously, advancing, recoiling, uttering yells that,
might chill the stoutest hearts.
Louise and the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes stood erect in the
sledge, pale as death. Doctor Lorquin, before them, parried,
lunged, and struck, crying the while:
"Down, down! Morbleu! Lie down!"
But they heard him not.
Louise, in the midst of the tumult, thought only of protecting
Catherine, and Catherine--imagine her horror when she saw Yegof,
on a tall, bony horse, among the assailants--Yegof, his crown
upon his head, his unkempt beard and dogskin mantle floating on
the wind, and a lance in his hand. She saw him there plainly, as
if it were broad day, flourishing his long weapon not ten paces
from her, and she saw his gleaming eyes fixed on hers.
The most resolute souls seem often utterly broken by the pursuit
of a relentless and inflexible fate. What was to be done?
Submit--yield to that fate. The old woman believed herself
doomed; she saw the mingled combat--men striking and falling in
the clear moonlight; she saw riderless horses dashing over the
field; she saw the attic window of the forester's lodge open, and
old Cuny aim without daring to fire into the mass. She saw all
these things with strange distinctness, but she kept repeating to
herself, "The fool has returned; whatever may happen, he will
hang my head to his saddle-bow. My dream is true--true!"
And indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears. The
mountaineers, too feeble in numbers, began to give way. Soon,
like a whirlwind, the Cossacks burst upon the road, and a lance's
point passed through the old woman's hair, so that she felt the
cold steel pass across her neck.
"O wretches! wretches!" she cried, as she fell to the bottom of
the sledge, still holding, however, the reins in both hands.
Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen upon the sledge. Frantz and the
others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could render no
assistance. Louise felt a hand grasp her shoulder--the hand of
the fool, mounted on his tall steed.
At this supreme moment, the poor girl, crazed with fear, uttered
a shriek of distress; then she saw something flash in the
darkness; it was the barrels of Lorquin's pistols, and, quick as
lightning, she had torn them from the doctor's belt. Both flashed
at once, burning Yegof's beard, and sending their bullets
crashing through the skull of a Cossack who was bending toward
her. She seized Catherine's whip, and standing erect, pale as a
corpse, struck the horse's flanks with all her might. The animal
bounded from the blow, and the sledge dashed through the bushes;
it bent to the right--to the left; then there was a shock;
Catherine, Louise, sledge and straw, rolled clown the steep
road-side in the snow. The horse stopped short, flung back on his
haunches and his mouth full of bloody foam. He had struck against
an oak.
{634}
Swift as was their fall, Louise had seen some shadows pass like
the wind behind the copse. She heard a terrible voice--the voice
of Dives--shout,
"Forward! Point! point!"
It seemed but an illusion--a mingled vision, such as at our
latest hour passes before our glazing eyes; but as she rose, the
poor girl doubted it not; sabres were clashing twenty paces from
her, behind a curtain of trees, and Marc's voice still rang on
the night:
"Bravely, boys, bravely! No quarter!"
Then she saw a dozen Cossacks climbing the slope opposite, in the
midst of the bushes, like hares, and through an opening beneath,
Yegof flying across the valley, in the clear moonlight like a
frightened bird. Several shots resounded, but they did not reach
the fool; and standing erect in his stirrups while his horse kept
on at his utmost speed, he turned in the saddle, shook his lance
defiantly, and shouted a "Hurrah!" in a voice like that of a
heron escaping the eagle's talons. Two more shots flashed from
the forester's lodge; a rag flew from the fool's waist, but he
still held on his course, again and again hoarsely shouting his
"Hurrah!" as he followed the path his comrades had taken.
And then the vision vanished.
When Louise again became conscious, Catherine was standing beside
her. They gazed for a moment at each other, and then embraced in
an ecstasy of joy.
"Saved! saved!" murmured Catherine, and they wept in each other's
arms.
"You bore yourself well and bravely," said the old woman.
"Jean-Claude, Gaspard, and I may well be proud of you."
Louise trembled from head to foot. The danger passed, her gentle
nature asserted itself, and she could not understand her courage
of a few moments before.
Then, finding themselves more composed, they tried to reach the
road, when they saw the doctor and five or six partisans coming
to meet them.
"Ah! you needn't cry, Louise," said Lorquin; "you are a dragoon,
a little Amazon. Your heart seems now in your throat, but we saw
all. And, by the by, where are my pistols?"
As he spoke, the thicket separated, and tall Marc-Dives, his
sabre hanging from his wrist, appeared, crying,
"Ha! Mother Catherine! What a time? What luck that I happened to
be on hand! How those beggars would have plundered you!"
"Yes," returned the old woman, pushing her gray hair beneath her
hood, "it was indeed fortunate."
"I believe you. Not more than ten minutes ago I reached Father
Cuny's with my wagon. 'Do not go to Donon,' said he; 'for the
last hour the sky above it has been red; they are fighting
there!' 'Do you think so?' said I. '_Ma foi_! yes,' he
replied. 'Then Joson will go ahead as a scout, and we will empty
a glass while we wait for his return.' Scarcely had Joson
started, when I heard shouts as if the fiends had broken loose.
'What is the matter, Cuny?' I cried. He did not know, so we
pushed open the door and there saw the fight. Ha! we did not wait
long. I was on Fox at a bound, and then, 'Forward!' was the word.
What luck!"
{635}
"Ah!" said Catherine, "if we were only sure that matters were
going as well on Donon, we might indeed rejoice."
"Yes; Frantz told me all about it; something is always going
wrong," answered Marc. "But here we are standing in the snow. Let
us hope that Pivrette will not let his comrades be crushed, and
let us empty our glasses which are yet half full."
Four other smugglers came up, saying that the villain Yegof was
likely to return with a swarm of thieves like himself.
"Very true," replied Dives. "We will return to Falkenstein, since
Jean-Claude so orders; but we cannot bring our wagon with us; it
would hinder our crossing the country, and in an hour all those
wretches will be upon us. But let us go to Cuny's. Catherine and
Louise will not object to a cup of wine, nor will the others. It
will put back your hearts in the right place. Ho! Bruno!"
He took his horse by the bridle. Two wounded men were placed on
the sledge. Two others killed, with seven or eight Cossacks, lay
stretched upon the snow. They left them as they were, and all
entered the old forester's house. Frantz was beginning to console
himself for not being on Donon. He had run two Cossacks through
the body, and the sight of the lodge put him in good humor.
Before the door stood the wagon, laden with cartridges. Cuny came
out crying,
"Welcome, Mother Lefevre. What a night for women to be out! Be
seated. What is going on yonder?"
While they hastily emptied a bottle, everything had to be again
explained. The good old man, dressed in a simple jacket and green
knee-breeches, his face wrinkled and his head bald, listened with
staring eyes, ever and anon clasping his hands as he cried,
"Great God! good God! in what days do we live! We cannot travel
the high roads without fear of being attacked. It is worse than
the old stories of the Swedes!"
And he shook his head.
"Come," said Dives, "time presses; forward!"
All went out; the smugglers drove the wagon, which contained
several thousands of cartridges and two little casks of brandy,
three hundred paces off, to the middle of the valley, and there
unharnessed the horses.
"Forward, forward!" cried Marc; "we will overtake you in a few
minutes."
"But what are you going to do with the wagon?" asked Frantz.
"Since we have not time to bring it to Falkenstein, we had better
leave it under Cuny's shed than to abandon it in the middle of
the road."
"Yes, and have the poor old man hung when the Cossacks return, as
they will in less than an hour," replied Dives. "Do not trouble
yourself; I have a notion in my head."
Frantz rejoined the party around the sledge, who had gone on some
distance. Soon they passed the sawmill of Marquis, and struck
straight to the right, to reach the farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes,
the high chimney of which appeared over the plateau, three
quarters of a league away. When they were on the crest of the
hill, Marc-Dives and his men came up, shouting,
"Halt! Stop a moment. Look yonder!"
And all, turning their eyes to the bottom of the gorge, saw the
Cossacks caracoling about the wagon to the number of two or three
hundred.
"They are coming! Let us fly!" cried Louise.
"Wait a moment," replied the smuggler; "we have nothing to fear."
{636}
He was yet speaking, when a sheet of flame spread its purple
wings from one mountain to the other, lighting the woods to their
topmost branches, and the rocks, and the forester's lodge fifteen
hundred feet below; then followed a crash that shook the earth.
And while with dazzled eyes they gazed at each other, mute with
horror, Marc's peal of laughter mingled in the sound that yet
rang in their ears.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he shouted; "I knew the beggars would gather round
the wagon to drink my brandy, and that the match would have time
to reach the powder. Do you think they will follow us further?
Their limbs adorn the firs. So perish all of their kind who have
crossed the Rhine!"
The entire party, partisans, the doctor, everyone, had become
silent. So many fearful scenes, scenes which common life knows
not, gave all food for endless thought. Each one murmured to
himself, "Why must men thus torture, tear, ruin one another? Why
should they thus hate each other? And what ferocious spirit urges
them to such deeds, if not the spirit of evil, the archdemon
himself?"
Dives alone and his men were unmoved, and galloped on laughing
and applauding what had been done.
"Ha, ha, ha!" cried the tall smuggler; "I never saw such a joke!
I could laugh a thousand years at it."
Then he became gloomy, and said,
"Yegof is at the bottom of all this. One must be blind not to see
that it was he who guided the Germans to Blutfeld. I would be
sorry if he were finished by a piece of my wagon; I have
something better in store for him. All that I wish is, that he
may remain sound and healthy until I meet him some day in a
corner of the woods. Let it be one, ten, or twenty years--only
let it come! The longer I wait, the keener will be my appetite;
good morsels are best cold, like wild-boar's cheek in white
wine."
He said all this with a good-humored air; but those who knew him
knew that beneath that lay danger for Yegof.
Half an hour after, all reached the field of Bois-de-Chênes.
----------
Inscription On A Door.
Written By Theodulphus,
Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.
Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper,
Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul.
Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus,
Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.
Translation.
Set wide thy portals ever to the poor,
So Christ shall enter with them at thy door.
And let the poor be feasted from thy board,
So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.
C. E. B.
----------
{637}
"Poor Mara!"
The celebrated Rosenthal, in Germany, was the retreat where
Goethe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was
indeed a valley of roses, especially in early summer, when
flowers are most abundant, and the tender green of the rich
foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but
not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just
in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with
refreshments. A dozen seats were arranged round it, evidently for
a small and select company. Ere long, carriages drove up, and
some ladies alighted, and began to arrange the collation. Two of
them were the wife and daughter of Doles, the musician; they
brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table,
placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to
be occupied by their honored guest, no less a person than Mozart,
who had come to give his last concert in Leipsic. The rest of the
company soon joined them; and it would be interesting, had we
space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful
part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met
to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship.
There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed, the composer would
have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled
even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their
discourse were the musical masters of the world, and the state
and prospect of their art.
"Oh! could we only entice you to live here," said one of the
company to the great composer.
"No; the atmosphere does not suit me," replied Mozart; "the
reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those
who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may
come to Leipsic; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way,
what think you of Bonn?"
"You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?"
"Not I. Had you asked me where art had the least chance of
spreading her wings for a bold flight--where she was most
securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have
answered, 'Bonn.' But that unpromising city has produced one of
the greatest geniuses of our day."
"Who? who?" eagerly demanded several among the company.
"A lad, a mere lad, who has been under the tutelage of the
elector's masters, and shocked them all by his musical
eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He
came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting
his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave
him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner
so spirited, so admirable--carried away by the music, which
entered his very soul, forgetful of his faint-heartedness--full
of inspiration! 'Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble
one, and I told him so."
"His name?"
"Louis von Beethoven."
"I know his father well," said Hiller.
{638}
"Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For, mark
me, railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten
path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad
Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his _forte_ will
be sacred music."
The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Handel.
As the sun declined westward, the company rose and returned to
the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward
from the concealment of the foliage, and walked pensively to and
fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved. It was the
artist Mara, a violoncellist of great merit--famous, indeed--but
ruined by dissipation. His wife had left him in despair of
reforming his intemperate habits; his friends had deserted him;
all was gone but his love of art; and that had brought him to see
the great Mozart.
"Well, well," he said to himself, "I have heard and know him now.
His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Handel and old
Sebastian. Ah! that music in my dream." He struck his forehead.
"But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara-- Mara--_non e pen com
era prima!_ If 'twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing
that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them
on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh! 'twould be
glorious!"
The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once
inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her
painful and contaminating bonds!
"Why," resumed the soliloquist--"why was I not invited to make
one among the company assembled here to welcome the great
chapel-master? I, too, am a famous artist; I can appreciate
music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the
first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day-time!
It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave
ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of
evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and
clap for me, and call me a merry fellow; and I _am_ the
merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome. I would
rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me. The
wine! Am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is
my master; and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I
rebel, till I cry mercy, and crouch at his feet again. Oh! if I
had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches. But I
have no friends--none, not even Gertrude. She has left me; and
there is no one at home now even to reproach me when I come back
drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a
companion or two. Heinrich--no; he laughs and makes game of me
like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of
being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and
then they will say once again, 'Poor Mara!'"
With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away, and was
presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was
heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing
after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the
Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to
throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was
caught by his pursuer.
"What the mischief are you about?"
"Let me alone!" cried Mara, struggling.
"Do you mean to be drowned?"
{639}
"Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose; and
what have you to say against it, Friedrich?"
"Nothing, if your fancy runs that way," replied the lad,
laughing; "only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and
just now you are wanted."
"Wanted?"
"Yes; I came to look for you."
"Who wants the poor drunkard Mara?"
"They want you at Breithoff's, tonight, at the supper given to
Mozart after the concert; and you must bring your instrument; we
are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall
go with me to the concert."
Mozart's concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his
acquaintances had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led
away by his companion.
The concert was a splendid one, and attended by all the taste and
fashion of Leipsic. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were
full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the
composer gratified and thankful. Mozart thanked the performers in
a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led
off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.
Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared,
and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as
the most distinguished artists. The revelry was prolonged beyond
midnight, and, as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we
are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone,
and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp
the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were
musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a
fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement
of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger
guests began to put their practical jokes upon him, and provoke
him to imitate the noises of different animals on his
violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them
with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after
glass, till, at last, he fell back quite overpowered and
insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and
clipped his mustaches, and tricked him out in finery that gave
him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to
his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be,
next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been
disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond
the bounds of propriety and sound judgment, Mozart included.
It was considerably after noon, the next day, that poor Mara, the
victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting
disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be
enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his
eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this
miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had
been heaped upon him in wicked sport.
The door soon opened, and Mozart entered. At sight of the
composer, Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation.
Mozart looked grave and sad.
"You are much the worse for last night's dissipation, my good
fellow," said he.
"Ah Master Mozart!" said the violoncellist, with a faint smile,
"it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara."
{640}
"I have something to say to you, friend," answered the composer,
in a voice of emotion. "In the first place, let me thank you for
your music, last night."
The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.
"I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such
music."
"You were pleased with it?" asked Mara, looking up, while a beam
of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.
"Pleased? It was noble--heart-stirring! I must own I did not
expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was
charmed. And when you played the air from _Idomenio--sacré!_
but it went to my soul. I have _never_ had my music so
thoroughly appreciated--so admirably executed. Mara, you are a
master of your art! I reverence you!"
"You?" repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.
"Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all, last
night."
The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands;
rapture had penetrated his inmost heart.
"Oh! you make me very happy," faltered he.
"I am glad of it, for now I am going to say something painful."
Mara hung his head.
"Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill, last
night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man."
Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.
"We forgot that such as we are set up for an example to the
uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter wine! Art--our
mother--has reason to blush for us."
"For me," cried Mara, deeply moved; "but not for you."
"Yes, for me," repeated Mozart, "and for all who were there. It
was a shameful scene. What," he continued, with rising
indignation--"what would the true friends of art have thought of
such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have
said, perhaps, 'These men are wild fellows, but we must let them
have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free
living; they must have stimulants to compose or play well.' No,
no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such
excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought
to the bottle. I tell you, I hate myself for last night's
foolery."
"Ah master, you who are so far above me?" sighed Mara.
"And lo, here the wreck of a noble being!" said the composer, in
a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming: "Listen to
me, Mara. You have been your own enemy, but your fall is not
wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you
shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above
those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved,
and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a
lesson, Mara--a lesson which I shall remember my life
long--which I shall teach to others. You have done me good--I
will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna."
The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him
he so venerated--whom he looked on as a superior being. While he
talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius,
lamented his faults, and gave him hope that all was not yet lost,
the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was
the waking of his mind's energies; the struggle of the soul for
life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed!
Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the
last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands,
and wept aloud.
{641}
"Come," cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes
moistened--"come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by
the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this
purse, put your dress in order, and make haste. I will call for
you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more." And forcing a
well-filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened
away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had
saved from worse than death.
The great composer was early summoned from this and many other
works of mercy and benevolence. But if this noble design was
unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once
more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the
mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the
prize; if he did not, the fault was wholly his own. Whatever the
termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.
----------
Discipline.
A block of marble caught the glance
Of Buonarotti's eyes,
Which brightened in their solemn deeps,
Like meteor-lighted skies.
And one who stood beside him listened,
Smiling as he heard;
For, "I will make an angel of it!"
Was the sculptor's word.
And soon mallet and chisel sharp
The stubborn block assailed,
And blow by blow, and pang by pang,
The prisoner unveiled.
A brow was lifted, high and pure;
The wak'ning eyes outshone;
And as the master sharply wrought,
A smile broke through the stone!
{642}
Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair
Escaped in floating rings;
And, plume by plume, was slowly freed
The sweep of half-furled wings.
The stately bust and graceful limbs
Their marble fetters shed,
And where the shapeless block had been,
An angel stood instead!
O blows that smite! O hurts that pierce
This shrinking heart of mine!
What are ye but the Master's tools
Forming a work divine?
O hope that crumbles to my feet!
O joy that mocks, and flies!
What are ye but the clogs that bind
My spirit from the skies?
Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee
Encumbered heart and hands:
Spare not the chisel! set me free,
However dear the bands.
How blest, if all these seeming ills
Which draw my thoughts to thee
Should only prove that thou wilt make
An angel out of me!
----------
{643}
From The German Of Dr. B. Werneke.
The Teachings Of Statistics Concerning
The Freedom Of The Human Will.
The enemies of Christianity are, in our days, making war upon its
dogmas more fiercely and more generally than at any previous
period. Materialism--the teachings of which may be summed up in
the following propositions: There exists no God as a spiritual,
immaterial personality; there exists no spirit as a
supersensible, self-existent, immortal substance--is finding its
way into every rank of society. By clothing it in a popular garb,
its advocates are meeting with no small degree of success in
making converts to its errors, even among the working classes and
the deluded _prolétaires_ who have a dread of labor.
Materialism no longer goes to the trouble of exhibiting itself in
the guise of a well-connected philosophical system: it prefers
the more insidious method of appearing only occasionally, in
writings and speeches whose theme is of quite another nature. It
puts on an appearance of science and of devotion to genuine
progress; and herein consists its principal danger. When
doctrines, opposed to faith, are secreted in works on natural
science, and placed side by side with evident facts, there must
necessarily result a strong temptation for the unwary to look
upon them all as undeniable truths.
The science of _moral statistics_ is one of those that have
been most recently perverted to the purposes of materialism. The
founder of this science is Quetelet, the celebrated Belgian
astronomer and statistician. He first observed that, by
considering large masses of men during a long period, a certain
uniformity in the manner of their accomplishment could be traced,
in such voluntary acts as come under the observation of
statisticians, more especially in marriages, suicides, and
crimes. He even reached the conclusion that acts elicited under
the influence of free-will occur with a greater degree of
regularity than events which depend exclusively on the influence
of physical causes. This discovery was pursued still further.
Observations were made upon different nationalities, the results
were compared, and upon their evidence it was thought justifiable
to speak of a law of nature by which all human acts were supposed
to be controlled. This new law could not but be hailed with
pleasure by the disciples of materialism. They immediately took
it up and adduced it as evidence in favor of their doctrines. It
requires but a small amount of perception to see that, if all
human acts are controlled by a law of nature, there cannot be any
free-will. The denial of free-will implies the elimination of one
of the essential faculties of the human soul, and it, at the same
time, shakes Christianity to its foundation.. For, if everything
is subjected to an immutable necessity, sin and grace, redemption
and sanctification, need no longer be mentioned.
{644}
It is well worth our while to subject the new doctrine, founded
on the evidence of moral statistics, to an examination and to
test its tenability. We propose to do this in the following
pages. Before entering, however, into the assertions and
inferences of the materialists, it will be expedient to state a
few of the principal results of the science of moral statistics,
so that the reader may see the method by which such unexpected
and surprising conclusions have been reached, and may thus be
enabled to form a judgment for himself.
A glance at the statistical tables which record the sum-total of
marriages contracted in a single country reveals in reality that
their number is nearly the same, year after year. Even in
so-called anomalous marriages, that is, marriages in which a
young man allies himself to a woman much older than himself and
_vice versa_, as well as in marriages between widows and
widowers, there seems to be a certain uniformity. Thus, if we
take Belgium, with a population of about four and a half
millions, we find the total number of marriages, from the year
1844 to the year 1853, running as follows: 29,326,
29,210,
25,670,
24,145,
28,656,
31,788,
33,762,
33,169,
31,251,
30,636.
During the same years, the number of marriages between men of 30
years and under, with women of 30 years and under, stands thus:
13,024,
13,157,
11,578,
10,749,
12,642,
13,933,
14,440,
14,337,
13,488,
13,161.
Anomalous marriages, between men of 30 years and less, and women
of from 45 to 60 years, likewise evince a perceptible regularity
during the same years:
129,
102,
118,
98,
101,
140,
130,
128,
104,
115.
On the other hand, marriages between men of 60 years and over,
and women of 30 years and under, during the same series of years:
41,
36,
33,
42,
44,
47,
49,
42,
39,
32.
These figures are sufficient for an illustration. The result is
similar in the case of other countries.
If we consider, the age at which marriage is contracted, we
discover considerable uniformity in a single country, but wide
differences in different countries. The following table exhibits
what percentage of men and women contract marriages in the
different countries, at the different ages indicated:
Under 20 20-25 25-30 30-35 35-40 40-80
In England
Men 2% 46% 26% 11% 5% 10%
Women 12% 50% 20% 8% 4% 6%
In France
Men 2% 27% 33% 18% 9% 11%
Women 19% 38% 22% 10% 5% 6%
In Norway
Men 1% 23% 39% 20% 8% 9%
Women 5% 35% 33% 14% 6% 7%
In Bavaria
Men 0% 12% 32% 38% 38% 18%
Women 4% 25% 32% 29% 29% 10%
These figures show that in England 72 per cent of the men marry
between the ages of 20 and 30 years; in France, 60 per cent; in
Norway, 62 per cent; in Bavaria, however, only 44 per cent. In
England, 82 per cent of the women contract marriage at and under
the age of 30 years, whilst in Bavaria the percentage is only 61.
It is hardly to be supposed that what Quetelet calls _la
tendance an mariage_ (the tendency toward marriage) is less
strong in Bavaria than in England: we may only infer that the
conditions which render marriage practicable are more easily
realized in England than in Bavaria, and a single glance at both
these countries will show that such is really the case.
We shall now give a few figures from the statistics of suicide.
The following table contains the annual aggregate of suicides,
during a period of twenty years:
{645}
France Belgium Denmark Austria Prussia Saxony
1836 2340 189 241 1436 214
1837 2443 165 269 534 1502 264
1838 2586 167 292 1453 261
1839 2747 192 297 486 1474 246
1840 2752 204 261 550 1480 336
1841 2814 240 337 1630 290
1842 2866 220 317 587 1598 328
1843 3020 242 301 588 1720 420
1844 2973 255 285 1575 335
1845 3082 216 290 596 1700 338
1846 3012 247 376 611 1707 373
1847 3047 251 345 1852 377
1848 3301 278 305 1649 398
1849 3583 275 337 452 1527 328
1850 3596 340 454 1743 390
1851 3598 165 401 552 1816 402
1852 3676 150 426 637 2073 530
1853 3415 161 419 705 1942 431
1854 3700 189 363 770 2198 547
1855 3810 166 399 2351 568
Making all possible allowance for increased population in each of
these countries throughout the space of twenty years, and for
greater accuracy in the later records than in the earlier ones,
it still remains incontestable that in civilized countries
suicide is on the increase, and that this increase exceeds that
of the population.
By taking the annual proportion to a million of inhabitants, we
shall perceive that this crime is more frequent in some countries
than in others. The following figures comprise the period from
1856 to 1866:
In France, to one million of inhabitants, there
occurred yearly 111 suicides;
in Belgium, 47;
in Denmark, 276;
in Austria, 64;
in Prussia, 122;
in Saxony, 245;
in Bavaria, 72;
in Hanover, 137;
in Würtemberg, 85;
in Baden, 108;
in Hesse, 134;
in Mecklenburg, 162;
in Nassau, 102;
in Portugal, 7;
in England and Wales, 65;
in Hungary, 30;
in Dalmatia, 11;
in Europe generally, 84.
Very notable differences may be observed in these figures. The
degree of intellectual culture and social refinement is about the
same in Saxony as in Belgium, yet these two countries stand
widely apart on the record of suicides, even if it be allowed
that the estimate for Belgium is somewhat too low. There can be
no doubt that religion exercises a decided influence in this
matter. Saxony is a Protestant country, whilst Belgium is
Catholic. Similar divergences exist in favor of Austria when
compared with Prussia, and of Bavaria compared with Hanover.
Suicides are far more frequent amongst Protestants than amongst
Catholics. The latter possess in their faith far more remedies
against temptation to suicide than the former are able to obtain
from theirs. A Protestant despairs more readily than a Catholic.
These remarks apply only to countries at large. The great
metropolises, which may properly be designated hot-beds of
suicide, must be taken as exceptions, because in them practical
religion easily dies out and cannot exercise its usual influence.
In the year 1865, when Paris had a population of 1,863,000
inhabitants, there were 706 cases of suicide, that is, one to
every 2638; in Vienna, with a population of 550,000 inhabitants,
there were 110 cases, that is, one for every 5000; in London,
with 3,000,000 inhabitants, there were 267, that is, one for
every 11,715; and in New York, population 1,095,000, 36 cases of
suicide, one to every 28,000 inhabitants. Accordingly, the
greatest number of suicides is committed in Paris, where reign
the highest degree of social culture and the most rigorous police
surveillance, and the smallest number occurs in New York, the
seat of the greatest social and political liberty.
We may here state, as a general rule, that high intellectual
culture is not a preventive of suicide. Observation shows, on the
contrary, that it is comparatively most frequent in countries
where the enlightenment of the population has attained the
highest point, and that it occurs far oftener in cities than in
rural districts.
{646}
This fact is unmistakable evidence that moral improvement is not
keeping pace with intellectual progress, and that governments,
whilst furthering the latter with increasing zeal, are not
bestowing sufficient care on the former. From the year 1826 to
the year 1860, suicides increased 130 per cent in France, whilst
the population increased but 13 per cent. This astounding
circumstance has been looked upon as attributable to the
advancement of industry and the progress of science and popular
education; and no doubt justly, if we consider how much more
frequently suicide is committed in the enlightened northern and
eastern departments of France than in the less progressive
southern and western.
Something similar is noticeable in Germany. Saxony and its
neighboring provinces rank undeniably as high in general
education as any state in Germany; but it is also to be remarked
that they furnish the largest number of cases of suicide; whilst
in the Tyrol, Old Bavaria, and other provinces of a lower grade
of general education, the number is considerably less. And if, in
the Catholic parts of the Rhenish provinces and in Westphalia,
which are not behind Saxony in general culture, suicides are of
less frequent occurrence, we are only justified in attributing
the difference to the happy influence of the Catholic religion.
Quite a peculiar discovery from statistics, and one that at first
thought is rather astonishing, is the fact that the number of
suicides increases with the advance of age, and that the
proportion appears to be equal in the two sexes. It seems that
indifference about life and recklessness about the dread future
become greater as the years of life pass by. This, however, may
be psychologically accounted for without inventing for the
purpose a _general law_, according to which suicides are
supposed to be apportioned to the various ages of human life.
We will now cast a glance at the statistics of crimes. Accurate
records upon this subject, published in England, Belgium, and
France during a series of years, afford us ample material for
this investigation. Similar records, commenced at a later period,
have been kept in the Netherlands, in Bavaria, in Baden and other
states; and since 1854, the Prussian Ministry of Justice has,
every second or third year, published a thorough report of the
proceedings of the criminal courts of that kingdom. It is
impracticable, however, to establish a comparison between
different countries on this point, as very notable differences
exist between them with respect to their laws and their
administration of justice. We are consequently compelled to
confine our observations to one country. We choose Prussia as it
was before 1866, because its various provinces present a variety
of forms of religion, nationalities, degrees of education,
industry, and commerce, which affords an excellent opportunity
for instituting comparisons. Moreover, the same code is
everywhere in use, excepting in the Rhenish provinces, where the
Napoleonic is established.
The following table exhibits the number of criminals, with their
religious professions, as arraigned before the criminal courts of
Prussia from 1855 to 1862:
Accused. Evangelicals. Catholics. Jews.
1855 8089 4743 3245 84
1856 8722 5116 3509 87
1857 6260 3658 2493 105
1858 4995 3038 1870 81
1859 5192 3083 2024 82
1860 5283 3164 2028 85
1861 5720 3308 2319 88
1862 5690 3382 2327 76
Average 6244 3686 2477 86
{647}
On an average, from eighteen to nineteen per cent of the accused
were every year pronounced not guilty. It might naturally be
expected that, in the case of special crimes, the ratio of those
acquitted to those condemned would vary greatly. Thus, of 100
accused of theft, an average of 6 was acquitted; of serious
injury done to the person, an average of 25; of murder, about 16;
of violation of official obligations, about 36; of perjury,
upward of 41.
By calculating what proportion of the accused from 1859 to 1862
belonged to each of the above-mentioned religious denominations,
we find that of the Jews there was one accused for every 2978
inhabitants; one Catholic for every 3087, and one Protestant for
every 3415. Hence, the accused were most numerous amongst the
Jews; least numerous amongst the Protestants. The unfavorable
position here assigned to the Catholics is accounted for by the
fact that large figures refer to the eastern provinces of
Prussia, which are inhabited in a great measure by Catholic
Sclaves, with little culture and very much impoverished. A
considerable difference is observable in the provinces. The
average of a period of four years (1859-1862) counts 1 accused
for every 2345 in Silesia, 2503 in Posen, 2853 in Brandenburg,
3101 in Prussia proper, 4056 in Pomerania, 4436 in Saxony, 4863
in Westphalia, 5095 in the Rhenish province.
The eastern provinces present a sadder condition than the
western. Unfortunately the statistical tables give us no
information concerning the nationality of the accused. But, if we
confine our investigation to Rhineland and Westphalia, where the
population is purely German, the result will be found altogether
in favor of Catholicity. The census of these two provinces,
including Hohenzollern, amounted in 1861 to 1,474,520 Protestants
and 3,313,709 Catholics. During a term of five years,
(1858-1862,) 1463 Evangelicals and 3138 Catholics appeared before
the tribunals, making 1 for 5035 Evangelicals and 1 for 5280
Catholics. Whence we infer that nationality, want of education,
and poverty produce effects in the eastern provinces which cannot
be found where Catholics and Protestants are on an equality in
those respects.
The comparison seems to be specially favorable to the Catholic
provinces when the infliction of punishment upon the guilty is
considered. For great offences, the punishment is penitentiary;
for less offences, imprisonment. Now, although in 1855 the number
of accused was much greater amongst the Catholics than amongst
the Protestants, nevertheless there was but one penitentiary
culprit for 8430 inhabitants in Rhineland and Westphalia, whilst
in the Protestant provinces there was 1 for 4179. Hence, the
number of penitentiary culprits in these latter being double
argues likewise greater crimes.
The foregoing statistics of criminals, considered with respect to
creed, enable us to form a conclusion in regard to the influence
of the particular form of religion upon the dispositions of men.
Amongst Catholics, the crimes peculiar to youth seem to
predominate, whilst amongst Protestants they are the crimes of
mature and of advanced age.
The former appear to decrease with the advance of intellectual
culture and improvement in temporal welfare, whilst the latter,
on the contrary, appear to become more numerous.
{648}
Further figures might be given showing that the majority of
criminals belong to the laboring classes, and that the incentives
to crime are want and absence of training amongst the working
people, and dissipation and luxury in higher ranks of society. We
will, however, content ourselves with what has been stated, and
proceed to discuss the conclusions which materialists draw from
such data.
At the present day, materialists conclude, from such facts and
figures as these, that the volition of man is not free. They
pretend that it is impossible to explain the regularity with
which acts, seemingly voluntary and deliberate, are elicited,
unless we accept the conclusion that free will is a mere fiction
of the imagination, and that science inevitably forces us to the
conviction that all human acts depend on what they designate a
law of nature. They say that such a degree of order in the
occurrence of human acts could not possibly result from the
unbiased power of self-determination. They reject the distinction
between nature and man as a being partly spiritual, and consider
him as a purely material product of nature, subjected, like
animals, plants, and minerals, to general laws, without the power
of exercising the slightest influence on his own destiny. And
this outcry against free-will is raised by men in every
department of science, by naturalists, philosophers, historians,
physicians, and jurists. Says Buckle, in his _History of
English Civilization_, speaking of the evidences of moral
statistics:
"In certain conditions of society a large proportion of men
_must_ put an end to their own existence. Such is the
general law. The special inquiry as to who is to commit the
crime depends, of course, upon particular laws, which, in their
united energies, must obey the general law to which they are
subordinate. And the force of the higher law is so irresistible
that neither the attachment to life nor the dread of the future
can to any degree hinder its execution."
Dankwart declares boldly:
"Man is not a free agent. He is just as little responsible for
any of his deeds as a stone which, in obedience to the law of
gravitation, falls upon one's head. The criminal act was the
necessary development of a law of nature."