If, as the author holds, Christianity was really only a

development of the more advanced thought of the pagan empire, why

did it not begin with the philosophers, the representatives of

that advanced thought? Yet nothing is more certain than that it

did not begin with them. The philosophers were the first to

resist it, and the last to hold out against it. It spread at

first among the people, chiefly among the slaves--that is, among

those who knew the least of philosophy, who were least under the

influence of the philosophers, and whose morals it is confessed

the philosophers did not and could not elevate. This of itself

refutes the pretence that Christianity was an offshoot of heathen

philosophy. If it had been, and its power lay in the fact that

the empire in its progress was prepared for it, its first

converts should have been from the ranks of the more advanced

classes. But the reverse was the fact. "You see your calling,

brethren," says St. Paul to the Corinthians, "that not many are

wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble; but

the foolish things of the world hath God chosen, that he may

confound the wise; and the weak things of the world hath God

chosen, that he may confound the strong; and the mean things of

the world, and the things that are contemptible, hath God chosen,

and things that are not, that he might destroy the things that

are; that no flesh should glory in his sight." [Footnote 197] So

said the great teacher of the Gentiles, as if anticipating the

objection of modern rationalists. Evidently, then, the pretended

preparation of the Roman empire for Christianity must count for

nothing, for Christianity gained its first establishments among

those whom that preparation, even if it had been made, had not

reached.

[Footnote 197: Cor. i. 26.]

We cannot follow step by step the author in the special chapter

which he devotes to the conversion of Rome, and the triumph of

Christianity in the empire. We have already indicated the grounds

on which he explains the marvellous fact.

{793}

He denies all agency of miracles, will recognize no supernatural

aid, and aims to explain it on natural principles or by natural

causes alone. Thus far he has certainly failed; but let us try

him on his own ground. We grant that the breaking down of the

hundred nationalities and fusing so many distinct tribes and

races into one people, under one supreme political authority, did

in some sense prepare the way for the introduction of a universal

religion. But it must be remembered that the fusion was not

complete, and that the work of amalgamating and Romanizing the

several nations placed by conquest under the authority of Rome

was only commenced, when Christianity was first preached in the

capital of the empire. Each conquered nation retained as yet its

own distinctive religion, and to a great extent its own

distinctive civilization. Gaul, Spain, and the East were Roman

provinces, but not thoroughly Romanized, and it was not till

after Christianity had gained a footing in the empire that

provincials out of Italy were admitted to the rights and

privileges of Roman citizenship. The law recognized the religion

of the state, but it tolerated for every conquered nation its own

national religion. There was as yet nothing in the political,

social, or religious order of the empire to suggest a universal

religion, or that opened the way for the introduction of a

catholic as distinguished from a national religion. All the

religions recognized and tolerated were national religions.

Christianity was always catholic, for all nations, not for any

particular nation alone. If, then, at a subsequent period, the

boasted universality of the empire favored the diffusion of

Christianity, it did not favor its introduction in the beginning.

In all other respects there was, as we read history, no

evangelical preparation in Rome or the Roman empire. The

progress, if progress it may be called, of the Gentiles, had been

away from the primitive religion reasserted by Christianity, and

in a direction from, not towards, the great doctrines and

principles of the Gospel. What of primitive tradition they had

retained had become so corrupted, perverted, or travestied as to

be hardly recognizable. They had changed, even with the

philosophers, the true basis of morals, and the corrupt morals of

the people were only the practical development of the principles

adopted by even the best of the Gentile philosophers, as

rationalism is only the development of principles adopted by the

reformers, who detested it, and asserted exclusive

supernaturalism. Even the monotheism of some pagan philosophers

was not the Christian doctrine of one God, any more than simple

theism--the softened name for deism--or even theophilanthropy is

Christianity. The Christian God is not only one, but he is the

creator of the world, of all things visible and invisible, the

moral governor of the universe, and the remunerator of all who

seek him. The God of Plato, or of any of the other philosophers,

is no creative God, and the immortality of the soul that Plato

and his master Socrates defended had hardly any analogy with the

life and immortality brought to light through the Gospel. The

Stoics, whom the author places in the front rank of pagan

moralists, did not regard God as the creator of the world, and

those among them who held that the soul survives the body,

believed not in the resurrection of the flesh, nor in future

rewards and punishments. Their motive to virtue was their own

self-respect, and their study was to prove themselves independent

of the flesh and its seductions, indifferent to pleasure or pain,

serene and unalterable, through self-discipline, whatever the

vicissitudes of life.

{794}

The philosophers adopted the morality of pride, and aimed to live

and act not as men dependent on their Creator, but as independent

gods, while the people were sunk in the grossest ignorance and

moral corruption, and subject to the most base and abominable

superstitions. Such was the pagan empire when Christianity was

first preached at Rome, only much worse than we venture to depict

it.

Now, to this Roman world, rotten to the core, the Christian

preachers proclaimed a religion which arraigned its corruption,

which contradicted its cherished ideas on every point, and

substituted meekness for cruelty, and humility for pride, as the

principle of morals. They had against them all the old

superstitions and national religions of the empire, the religion

of the state, associated with all its victories, supported by the

whole power of the government, and by the habits, usages,

traditions, and the whole political, military, social, and

religious life of the Roman people. They could not move without

stepping on something held sacred, or open their mouths without

offending some god or some religious usage; for the national

religion was interwoven with the simplest and most ordinary

usages of private and social life. If a pagan sneezed, no

Christian could be civil enough to say, "Jupiter help you," for

that would recognize a false god. Yet the Christian missionaries

did succeed in converting Rome and making it the capital of the

Christian world, as it was, when they entered it, the capital of

the heathen world. You tell me this mighty change was effected,

circumstances favoring, by natural and human means! _Credat

Judaeus Appelles, non ego_.

The cause of the success, after the preparation named, which

turns out to have been no preparation at all, were, according to

the author, principally the zeal, the enthusiasm, and the

intolerance or exclusiveness of the Christians, the doctrines of

the brotherhood of the race and of a future life, and their

appeals to the emotional side of human nature. He does not think

the conversion of Rome any thing remarkable. The philosophers had

failed to regenerate society in the moral order, the old

religions had lost their hold on men's convictions, the old

superstitions were losing their terrors, and men felt and sighed

for something better than any thing they had. In fact, minds were

unsettled, and were ready for something new. This description,

not very applicable to Rome at the period in question, is not

inapplicable to the Protestant world at the present time.

Protestants are no longer satisfied with the results, either

dogmatic or moral, of the Reformation, and the thinking portion

of them wish for something better than any thing they have; yet

not, therefore, can we conclude that they can easily, or by any

purely human means, be converted to the Catholic Church; for they

have--with individual exceptions, indeed--not lost their

confidence in the underlying principle of the Reformation, or

opened their minds or hearts to the acknowledgment of the

principle, either of Catholic dogma or of Catholic morals. It is

not so much that they do not know or misconceive that principle,

but they have a deep-rooted repugnance to it, detest it, abhor

it, and cannot even hear it named with patience. So was it with

the pagan Romans. The whole pagan world was based on a principle

which the Christian preacher could not speak without

contradicting.

{795}

The Christian ideal was not only above, but antagonistic to the

pagan ideal, and, consequently, the more zealous the Christian

missionary, the more offensive he would prove himself. His

intolerance or exclusiveness might help him whose faith was

strong, yet little heeded in practice; but when faith itself was

not only wanting but indignantly rejected, it could only excite

anger or derision.

The apostle had no _point d'appui_ in the pagan traditions,

and it was only rarely that he could find any thing in heathen

authors, poets, or philosophers that he could press into his

service. The pagan, no doubt, had natural reason, but it was so

darkened by spiritual ignorance, so warped by superstition, and

so abnormally developed by false principles, that it was almost

impossible to find in it anything on which an argument for the

truth could be based. The Gospel was not in the pagan order of

thought, and the Christian apologists had to support it by

appealing to a line of tradition which the Gentiles had not, or

had only as corrupted, perverted, or travestied. The only

traditions they could appeal to were those of the Hebrews, and

they found it necessary, in some sort, to convert the pagans to

Judaism, before they could convince them of the truth of the

Gospel. This was any thing but easy to be done; for the Gentiles

despised the Jews and their traditions, and the Jews themselves

were the most bitter enemies of the Christians, had crucified the

founder of Christianity, and rejected the Christian

interpretation of their Scriptures.

The doctrine of the brotherhood of the race taught by the church

was something more than was taught by the philosophers, in fact,

another doctrine; and, though it had something consoling to the

poor, the oppressed, the enslaved, yet these are precisely the

classes with whom old traditions linger the longest, and

prejudices are the most inveterate and hardest to be overcome.

They are the classes the most opposed to innovations, in the

moral or spiritual order. The Protestant reformers proved this,

and the peasantry were the last to accept the new gospel they

preached, and rarely accepted it at all but through the influence

or compulsion of their princes and nobles. We see, also, now, in

Protestant countries, that, the peasantry having become

Protestant, are far more difficult to convert than persons by

birth or education belonging to the upper classes. Yet, it was

precisely among the lower classes, or rather the slave class,

that the Christian missionary had his greatest success; though

the emancipation and equality he preached were spiritual only,

not physical or social.

The doctrine of future life the church taught was coupled with

two other doctrines hard for pagans to receive. The mere

continuance of the spirit after the death of the body was, in

some form, no doubt, held by the whole pagan world, a few

sceptics excepted; but the resurrection of the body, or that what

had once ceased to live would live again, was a thing wholly

foreign to the pagan mind. Plato never, to my recollection, once

hints it, and could not with his general principles. He held the

union of the soul with the body to be a fall, a degradation from

its previous state, the loss of its liberty; regarded the body as

the enemy of the soul, as its dungeon, and looked upon death as

its liberation, as a restoration to its original freedom and joy

in the bosom of the divinity. The pagans had, as far as I can

discover, no belief in future rewards and punishment in the

Christian sense.

{796}

They believed in malevolent gods, who, if they failed to appease

their wrath before dying, would torture them after death in

Tartarus; but the idea that a God of love would doom the wicked

to hell, as a punishment for their moral offences or sins, was as

hard for them to believe as it is for Mr. Lecky himself. Yet

Christianity taught it, and brought the whole empire to believe

it. Christianity, while it delivered the pagans from the false

terrors of superstition, replaced them by what to the pagan mind

seemed even a still greater terror.

In what the author says of appeals to the emotional side of our

nature, he shows that he has studied paganism with more care and

less prejudice than he has Christianity. The emotions, as such,

have for the Christian no moral or religious value. The love the

Gospel requires is not an emotional love, and Christian morals

have little to do with the moral sentiment which Adam Smith

asserted, or the benevolence which Hucheson held to be the

principle of morality. There is no approach to the Christian

principle in the fine-spun sentiment of Bernardine Saint-Pierre,

Madame de Staël, or Chateaubriand. Sentimentalism, in any form,

is wholly foreign to Christian morals and to Christian piety, and

neither has probably a worse or a more dangerous enemy than the

sentimentalism so rife in modern society, and which finds its way

even into the writings of some Catholics. The sentiment of

benevolence may be a _mobile_, but it is never the

_motive_ of Christian virtue. No doubt, one of the great

causes of the success of Christianity was the inexhaustible

charity of the early Christians, their love for one another,

their respect for and tenderness to the poor, the forsaken, the

oppressed, the afflicted, the suffering. But that charity had not

its origin in our emotional nature, and though it may be attended

by sentiment, is itself by no means a sentiment; for its reason

and motive was the love of God, especially of God who had assumed

our nature, and made himself man for man's sake, and died on the

cross for man's redemption. The Christian sees God in every

fellow-man who needs his assistance, or to whose wants he can

minister. "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these my

brethren, ye have done it unto me." The Christian finds his Lord,

the Beloved of his soul, wherever he finds one for whom Christ

died, to whom he can be of service.

This charity, this love, may be mimicked by the sentiment of

benevolence, but it does not grow out of it, is not that

sentiment developed or intensified; it depends on the great

central mystery of Christianity, that of "the Word made flesh,"

and can never be found where faith in the Incarnation is wanting,

and faith is, always and everywhere, an intellectual act, not a

sentimental affection. If it were a natural sentiment or emotion,

why was it to be found among Christians alone? The heathen had

all of nature that Christians have; they even recognized the

natural brotherhood of the race, as does the author; how happens

it, then, if Christianity is only a development of heathenism,

and Christian charity is only a natural sentiment, that you find

no trace of it in the pagan world? There is no effect without a

cause, and there must have been something operating with

Christians that was not to be found in paganism, and which is not

included even in nature.

The pagans, like modern Protestants, worshipped success, and

regarded success as a mark of the approbation of the gods.

Misfortune, ill-luck, failure was a proof of the divine

displeasure. Cromwell and his Roundheads interpreted uniformly

their victories over the royalists as an indisputable proof of

the divine approval of their course.

{797}

It never occurred to them that the Almighty might be using them

to chastise the royalists for their abuse of his favors, or to

execute vengeance on a party that had offended him, and that,

when he had accomplished his purpose with them, he would break

them as a potter's vessel, and cast them away. The heathen looked

upon the poor, the needy, the enslaved, the infirm, the helpless,

and the suffering, as under the malediction of the gods, and

refused to offer them any aid or consolation. They left the poor

to struggle and starve. They did not do even so much for them as

to shut them up in prisons called poor-houses. They looked with

haughty contempt on the poor and needy, and if they sometimes

threw them a crust, it was from pride, not charity, without the

least kindly sympathies with them. As with modern non-Catholics,

poverty, with them, was regarded and treated as a misfortune or

as a crime.

Yet the Christians looked upon the poor with love and respect.

Poverty, in their eyes, was no misfortune, no crime, but really a

blessing, as bringing them nearer to God, and giving to the

Christian more abundant in this world's goods an opportunity to

do good, and lay up treasures in heaven. The Christian counts

what he gives to the poor and needy as so much treasure saved,

and placed beyond the reach of thieves and robbers, or any of the

vicissitudes of fortune. Whence this difference between the pagan

and the Christian, we might say, between the Catholic and

non-Catholic? It cannot come from the simple recognition of the

natural brotherhood of the race, for the natural ties of race and

of kindred fail to call forth a love so strong, so enduring, so

self-forgetting as Christian charity. Indeed, Christian charity

is decidedly above the forces of nature. The brotherhood that

gives rise to it is not the brotherhood in Adam, but the closer

brotherhood in Christ; not in generation, but in regeneration.

Give, then, as large a part as you will to Christian charity, in

the conversion of Rome, you still have offered no proof that the

conversion was effected by natural causes, for that charity

itself is supernatural, and not in the order of natural causes.

Mr. Lecky wholly fails to adduce any natural causes adequate to

the explanation of the conversion of Rome and the triumph of

Christianity over paganism. He cannot do it, for this one

sufficient reason, that paganism was impotent to reform itself,

and yet it had all the natural causes working for it that

Christianity had. The Christians had no more of nature than had

the pagans, while all the natural advantages, power, wealth,

institutions, human learning and science, the laws, habits,

customs, and usages of the entire nation, or aggregation of

nations, were against them. How, then, not only do by nature what

the same nature in paganism could not do, or by nature alone

triumph over nature clothed with so many advantages, and

presenting so many obstacles? Why should nature be stronger, and

so much stronger, in Christians than in Pagans, that a few

illiterate fishermen from the lake of Genesareth, belonging by

race to the despised nation of the Jews, could change not only

the belief, but the moral life of the whole Roman people?

Clearly, the Christians could not succeed without a power which

paganism had not, and therefore not without a power that nature

does not and cannot furnish.

{798}

The author denies the supernatural, and seeks to combat the

argument we use by showing that several eastern superstitions,

especially the worship of Isis, were introduced into Rome about

the same time with Christianity, and gained no little currency,

in spite of the imperial edicts against them. This is true, but

there was no radical difference between those eastern

superstitions and the state religion, and they demanded and

effected no change of morals or manners. They were all in the

order of the national religion, were based on the same principle,

only they were a little more sensual and corrupt. Their temporary

success required no other basis than Roman paganism itself

furnished. And the edicts against their mysteries and orgies were

seldom executed. It needs no supernatural principle to account

for the rapid rise and spread of Methodism in a Protestant

community, for it is itself only a form of Protestantism. But

Christianity was not, and is not, in any sense, a form or

development of paganism; in almost every particular, it is its

direct contradictory. It was based on a totally different

principle, and held entirely different maxims of life. A

worshipper of Bacchus or Isis could without difficulty conform to

the national or state religion, and comply with all its

requirements. The Christian could conform in nothing, and comply

with no pagan requirements. He could take no part in the national

festivities, the national games, amusements, or rejoicings, for

these were all dedicated to idols. There is no analogy in the

case.

Mr. Lecky denies that the conversion of Rome was a miracle, and

that it was effected on the evidence of miracles. He admits that

miracles are possible, though he confounds miracles with

prodigies, and says there is five times more proof in the case of

many miracles than would be required to prove an ordinary

historical fact; but he rejects miracles, not for the want of

proof, nor because science has disproved them, but because the

more intelligent portion of mankind have gradually dropped them,

and ceased to believe in them, as they have dropped the belief in

fairies, dwarfs, etc. The enlightened portion of mankind, it must

be understood, are those who think like Mr. Lecky, and profess a

Christianity without Christ, moral obligation without God the

creator, and hold effects are producible without causes. We

confess that we are not of their number, and probably shall never

be an enlightened man in their sense. We believe in miracles, and

that miracles had not a little to do with the introduction and

establishment of Christianity. As the author admits them to be

possible, and that many are sustained by far greater proof than

is needed to prove ordinary historical events, we hope that it

will be allowed, that, in believing them, we are not necessarily

involved in total darkness. But we have no space, at present, to

enter upon the general question of miracles--a question that can

not be properly treated without treating the whole question of

the natural and the supernatural.

The author tells us that the early Christians at Rome rarely

appealed, if at all, to miracles as proofs either of their

doctrines or their mission. Yet that they sometimes did would

seem pretty certain from the pains the pagans took to break the

force of the Christian miracles by ascribing them to magic, or by

setting up analogous or counter miracles of their own. Certain it

is, however, that they appealed to the supernatural, and adduced

not only the miracle of the resurrection of our Lord, which

entered into the very staple of their preaching, and was one of

the bases of their faith, but to that standing miracle of

prophecy, and of a supernatural providence--the Jewish, people.

{799}

The very religion they preached was supernatural, from beginning

to end, and they labored to prove the necessity of faith in

Christ, who was crucified, who rose from the dead, and is Lord of

heaven and earth. There is no particular miracle or prophecy

adduced to prove this that cannot, indeed, be cavilled at; but

the Hebrew traditions and the faith of the Jewish people could

not be set aside. Here was a whole nation whose entire life

through many thousand years had been based on a prophecy, a

promise of the Messiah. This prophecy, frequently renewed, and

borne witness to by the national organization, the religious

institutions, sacrifices, and offerings, and the entire national

and moral life through centuries, is a most stupendous miracle.

When you take this in connection with the traditions preserved in

the Hebrew Scriptures, which go back to the creation of the

world--developing one uniform system of thought, one uniform

doctrine, one uniform faith, free from all superstition; one

uniform plan of divine providence, and throwing a marvellous

light on the origin, duty, and end of man--you find a

supernatural fact which is irresistible, and sufficient of itself

to convince any unprejudiced mind that Christianity is the

fulfilment of the promises made to Adam after his expulsion from

the Garden, to the patriarchs, to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, and

to the Jewish people.

We have no space here to develop this argument, but it is the

argument that had great weight with ourselves personally, and, by

the grace of God, was the chief argument that brought us to

believe in the truth of Christianity, and in the church as the

fulfilment of the synagogue. The apostles and early apologists

continually, in one form or another, appeal to this standing

miracle, this long-continued manifestation of the supernatural,

as the basis of their proof of Christianity. They adduced older

traditions than any the pagans could pretend to, and set forth a

faith that had continued from the first man, which had once been

the faith of all mankind, and from which the Gentiles had fallen

away, and been plunged, in consequence, into the darkness of

unbelief, and subjected to all the terrors of the vilest, most

corrupt, and abominable superstitions. They labored to show that

the Gentiles, in the pride of their hearts, had forsaken the God

that made them, creator of heaven and earth, and all things

therein, visible or invisible, for Satan, for demons, and for

gods made with their own hands, or fashioned by their own lusts

and evil imaginations. They pursued, indeed, the same line of

argument that Catholics pursue against Protestants, only modified

by the fact that the Protestant falling away, so clearly foretold

by St. Paul in his Epistles, is more recent, less complete, and

Protestants have not yet sunk so low as had the Gentiles of the

Roman empire.

But it was not enough to establish the truth of Christianity in

the Roman mind. Christian morals are above the strength of nature

alone; yet the pagans were not only induced to give up their own

principle of morals, and to accept as true the Christian

principle, but they gave up their old practices, and yielded a

practical obedience to the Christian law. Those same Romans

changed their manner of life, and attained to the very summits of

Christian sanctity. The philosophers gave many noble precepts,

preserved from a purer tradition than their own, but they had no

power to get them practised, and our author himself says they had

no influence on the people; yet they enjoined nothing above the

forces of nature.

{800}

The Christians came, taught the people a morality impracticable

to nature even in its integrity, and yet what they taught was

actually practised even by women, children, and slaves. How was

this? It was not possible without supernatural aid, or the

infusion of grace which elevates the soul above the level of

nature, enabling it at once to act from a supernatural principle,

and from a supernatural motive. All who have attempted the

practise of Christian perfection by the strength of nature alone,

have sadly failed. Take the charitable institutions, societies

for relieving the poor, providing for the aged and infirm,

protecting the fatherless and widows, for restoring the fallen,

and reforming the vicious or criminal, established by

non-Catholics--they are all comparative, if not absolute

failures. Though modelled after institutions of the church, and

supported at lavish expense, none of them succeed. They lack some

essential element which is efficacious in Catholic institutions,

and that element is undoubtedly supernatural grace, for that is

all Catholics have that they have not in far greater abundance.

They have humanity, natural benevolence, learning, ability, and

ample wealth--why do they not succeed? Because they lack

supernatural charity, and the blessing of God that always

accompanies it. No other reasons can be assigned.

Mr. Lecky thinks the persecutions by the state, which the early

Christians had to endure, or that the spread of Christianity in

spite of them, are not worth anything in the argument. In the

first place, he pretends that the persecutions were not very

severe, and were for the most part confined to particular

localities, and rarely became general in the empire; they were of

brief duration, and came only at distant intervals, and the

number of martyrs could not have been great. In the second place,

the persecutions rather helped the persecuted religion, as

persecution usually does. Rome, in reality, was tolerant, and

most of the pagan emperors were averse to harsh measures, and

connived at the growth of the new religion, which they regarded

as one of the innumerable superstitions hatched in the East, and

which must soon pass away.

Rome tolerated for conquered nations their national religion, or

worship, but no religion except the state religion for Romans.

The national gods recognized by the senate, and whose images were

allowed to stand by the side of the Roman gods, might be

worshipped; but no Roman citizen was allowed to desert the state

religion, and nowhere in the empire was any religion tolerated

that was not the national worship of some people subject or

tributary to Rome. Now, Christianity was no national religion,

and was hostile to the state religion, and utterly irreconcilable

with it; for it there was no toleration; it was prohibited by the

laws of the empire as well as by the edicts of the emperors. The

Christians might at first be overlooked as too insignificant to

excite hostility, or they might have been regarded, since they

were chiefly Jews, as a Jewish sect; they might also, as they

were a quiet, peaceable people, obeying the laws when not

repugnant to the law of God, performing all their moral, social,

and civil duties, and never mingling in the affairs of state,

have been connived at for a time. But they had no legal

protection, and if complained of and brought before the

tribunals, and proved to be Christians, they had no alternative

but to conform to the national religion or suffer death, often in

the most excruciating forms; for the Romans were adepts in

cruelty, and took delight in watching the writhings and

sufferings of their victims.

{801}

Even Trajan, while he prohibited the search for them, ordered, if

accused and convicted of being Christians, that they should be

put to death. Such being the law, the prefect or governor of a

province could at any time, without any imperial edict, put the

law in force against the Christians, if so disposed; and that

they did so in all the provinces of the empire, frequently and

with unsparing severity, we know from history. The Christians

were safe at no time and nowhere in the empire, and it is

probable that the number of victims of the ten general

persecutions were by far the smaller number of those who suffered

for the faith prior to the accession of Constantine. We place no

confidence in the calculations of Gibbon or our author, and we

have found no reason for believing that the Christian historians,

or the fathers, exaggerated the number of those who received the

crown of martyrdom.

It is a great mistake to suppose that paganism had lost its hold

on the Roman mind till long after the Christians had become a

numerous body in the empire. There were, no doubt, individuals

who treated all religions with indifference, but never had the

pagan superstitions a stronger hold on the mass of the people,

especially in Rome and the western provinces, than during the

first two centuries of our era. The republic had been transformed

into the empire, and the government was never stronger, or the

worship of the state more intolerant, more fervent, or more

energetically supported by the government. The work of Romanizing

the various conquered nations was effected under the emperors,

and the signs of decline and dissolution of the empire did not

appear till near the close of the third century. The Roman state

and paganism seemed to be indissolubly linked together--so

closely that the pagans attributed to the rise and progress of

Christianity the decline and downfall of both. Certain it is,

that paganism lost its hold on the people or the state only in

proportion to the progress of Christianity; and the abandonment

of the heathen gods and the desertion of the heathen temples were

due to the preaching of the Gospel, not a fact which preceded and

prepared the way for it. Converts are seldom made from the

irreligious and indifferent classes, who are the last, in any

age, to be reached or affected by truth and piety.

The fact is, that paganism fought valiantly to the last, and

Christianity had to meet and grapple with it in its full force,

and when supported by the strongest and most effective government

that ever existed, still in the prime and vigor of its life. The

struggle was harder and longer continued than is commonly

supposed, and by no means ended with Constantine. Paganism

reascended the throne--in principle, at least--under Constantius,

the son, and avowedly under Julian, the nephew of the first

Christian emperor. Every pagan statesman saw, from the first,

that there was an irrepressible antagonism between Christianity

and paganism, and that the former could not prevail without

destroying the latter, and, of course, the religion of the state,

and apparently not without destroying the state with it. The

intelligent and patriotic portion of the Roman people must have

regarded the spread of Christianity very much as the Protestant

leaders regard the spread of Catholicity in our own country. They

looked upon it as a foreign religion, and anti-Roman.

{802}

It rejected the gods of Rome, to whom the city was indebted for

her victories and the empire of the world. We may be sure, then,

that the whole force of the state, the whole force of the pagan

worship, backed by the passions and fanaticism of the people,

whether of the city or the provinces, was exerted to crush out

the new and offensive worship; and, whether the numbers of

martyrs were a few more or a few less, the victory obtained by

Christianity against such fearful odds is not explicable without

the assumption of supernatural aid--especially when that victory

carried with it a complete change of morals and manners, and the

practice in not a few who underwent it of a heroic sanctity, or

virtues which are confessedly above our natural strength.

No false or merely natural religion could have survived, far less

have vanquished, such opposition as Christianity encountered at

every point. The very fact that it thrived, in spite of the

fearful persecution to which it was subjected, is a proof of its

truth and divinity. We grant the blood of the martyrs was the

seed of the church, but persecution fails only when it meets

truth, when it meets God as the resisting force. We know the

strength of superstition and the tenacity of fanaticism; but we

deny that persecution has ever increased or multiplied the

adherents or aided the growth of a false religion. There is no

example of it in history. It is only the truth that does not

succumb; and even they who profess the truth, when they have lost

the practice of it, have yielded to the spirit of the world, and

have ceased to be faithful to God, fail to stand before

persecution, as was seen in the almost entire extinction of

Catholics in the European nations that accepted the Protestant

Reformation. The inefficacy of persecution to extinguish the

doctrine persecuted is a commonplace of liberalism; but history

proves the contrary, and hence the fact that Christianity,

instead of being extinguished by the heathen persecution, spread

under it, and even gained power by it, is no mean proof of its

truth and its supernatural support.

The author obtains his adverse conclusion by substituting for the

Christianity to which Rome was actually converted, and which

actually triumphed in the empire, a Christianity of his own

manufacture, a rationalistic Christianity, which has nothing to

do with Christ Jesus, and him crucified; a Christianity despoiled

of its mysteries, its doctrinal teachings, its distinctive moral

precepts, and reduced to a simple moral philosophy. It is with

him a theory, a school; not a fact, not a law, not an authority,

not a living organism, nor of an order essentially different from

paganism. His Christianity has its starting point in paganism,

and only marks a particular stage in the general progress of the

race. He does not see that it and paganism start from entirely

different principles, and come down through separate and hostile

lines, or that they have different ancestors. He does not

understand that Christianity, if a development at all, is not the

development of paganism, but of the patriarchal and Jewish

religion, which placed the principle of duty in man's relation to

God as his creator and final cause, not in the assumption of

man's own divinity or godship. Hence he finds no need of

supernatural aid to secure its triumph.

The author, placing Christianity in the same line with paganism,

supposes that he accounts sufficiently for the conversion of Rome

by the assumption that the Christians placed a stronger emphasis

on certain doctrines held by the pagan philosophers, and were

actuated by a greater zeal and enthusiasm than were those

philosophers themselves.

{803}

Yet he does not show the origin of the greater zeal, nor its

character; and he entirely misapprehends the enthusiasm of the

early Christians. They were, in no received sense of the word,

enthusiasts, nor were they, in his sense of the word, even

zealots. They in no sense corresponded to the character given

them in _The Last Days of Pompeii_. They were neither

enthusiasts nor fanatics; and their zeal, springing from true

charity, was never obtrusive nor annoying. We find in the earlier

and later sects enthusiasts, fanatics, and zealots, who are

excessively offensive, and yet are able to carry away the simple,

the ignorant, and the undisciplined; but we never find them among

the early orthodox Christians, any more than you do among

Catholics at the present day. The early Christians did not "creep

into houses and lead away silly women," nor assault people in the

streets or market-place, and seek to cram Christianity down their

throats, whether they would or not, but were singularly sober,

quiet, orderly, and regular in their proceedings, as Catholics

have always been, compelling not people to hear them against

their will, and instructing in the faith only those who

manifested a desire to be instructed. The author entirely

mistakes both the Christian order of thought and the character of

the early Christians who suffered from and finally triumphed over

the pagan empire.

----------

Translated From The French.

Paganina.

I.

Master Aloysius Swibert was an organist in a small Austrian town;

but from afar his perfect knowledge of harmony, and freshness and

delicacy of inspiration, were known and praised; and many a

stranger artist, having heard him, wondered that he did not seek

renown and even glory in larger cities, and saw with astonishment

how his art and his simple friendships contented and ornamented a

life requiring nothing more.

He gave his time to the study of the great masters, a study full

of pure enjoyment, but laborious and difficult, and, with a

singular simplicity of character, he never approached them

without the greatest reserve and respect.

Obstinately he worked, allowing himself but little respite to

indulge the flights of his fancy, or the inspiration which, now

and then, came to him so luminously, so brightly that the brave

artist cried out his thanks in ecstasy, in the fulness of his

joy.

His musical thoughts are all in a tiny volume. No long

fantasies--half pages mostly--sometimes only lines, short and

excellent and original; blessed originality, not coarse or

confusing, but healthy and true--the daughter and messenger of

inspiration!

{804}

II.

Thus rolled the weeks, returning ever the Sunday so ardently

desired; for to Master Swibert each Sunday was an event. He

thought of the one passed, and looked forward to the coming one;

all were equally dear. From the Saturday evening previous, all

things sang to him his feast-day songs, and the next morning,

collected and serious, in his best clothes, he sought his church

and his organ.

He had his own ideas, considered extreme by some, on the ministry

of the musician in the services of the church, on the respect due

the place and the instrument. His heart beat when he approached

the organ, and he played, following his conscience, sometimes

well, sometimes better, never seeking success--on the contrary,

dreading it.

His work accomplished, he walked with his sister, serious and

happy. The people loved to see them pass, and, from the doors of

their houses, saluted them amicably. In return, they gave each a

pleasant smile, and rejoiced that men and things should wear

their holiday robes, their Sunday colors. If the trees were green

and the weather fine, their happiness was complete. It made the

good man sad, though, if men or children worked, or even planned

their occupations. "Poor creatures!" he said, "is not even Sunday

for them?" And his heart beat as he spoke. But when he met whole

families enjoying themselves, the fathers important, the mothers

busy and happy, and the children gay and prattling, he entered

his lodging so happily, kissed his sister, and awaited his

friends.

III.

He had but two--that is too many--and these could only remember

having passed one Sunday evening away from Master Swibert. On

their arrival, there were three just men under the same roof--one

more than is necessary in order that our Lord may be in the midst

of them.

They supped, and the organist's sister, twelve years younger than

he, a fresh and graceful girl, waited on his guests, and offered

them some nice white cakes, prepared the day before. Each one

paid her his heartfelt compliments, while, smiling and silent,

with pleasure she received them.

After supper, Master Swibert seated himself at his piano and

played for his friends his studies of the past week. The music

was mingled with conversation, and art and philosophy beguiled

the hours. Seated around a good-sized pot of beer, with

consciences at ease, with active bodies and cheerful spirits,

these companions pursued endless conversations in all that

interested their honest hearts until, as night closed round them,

their souls were elevated and they spoke of heaven. There seemed

to be a marvellous contact between their natures and all that is

spiritual.

Such was Master Swibert's interior on Sunday evenings. Could

chance have led thither some growing youth, all ardor and

enthusiasm, and had he essayed the eternal temptations of love

and glory, his answer would have been a smile. There they had no

place. The three friends were happy.

IV.

But in this world every thing passes, happiness especially. The

day came when Master Swibert had to part from all he loved--his

quiet habits, his home, and his country.

He was tall, and looked strong and healthy; yet his friends were

disquieted about him, for he seemed restless, like a tree which

outwardly appears vigorous, but at heart decayed and liable to

fall with the first rough wind. His physicians gave a reason for

their uneasiness, and ordered him south.

{805}

The organist and his sister set out one day, hurrying their

adieus as people who run away. When they were at the foot of the

Alps in Italy, they stopped at a sunny little town, a day's

journey from Milan, which we will call Arèse. Master Swibert was

then forty-four.

How this man, who, till now, had lived more like a priest than a

man of the world, could be led by his passions to marry an

Italian and a singer, is difficult to explain. Besides, it is

superfluous to look for a reason for any unreasonable act.

Perhaps the good old sun was the cause, laughing behind the trees

at the follies of which he makes us guilty.

But the girl was pretty, reputed good, and dedicated to her

parents every moment her vanity did not require. So the organist

married her.

V.

They say love lives by contrasts; the god of such a union should

have been well fed. But his life was short, for, after a few

months only, he died. Perhaps of a fit of indigestion.

The Italian did not like the retired and exclusive life demanded

of her, and the German could not accept the free behavior of his

wife. He could not believe in the purity of a soul that sought

vulgar homage and common admiration.

He was wrong to judge her by the ideas of his own country. His

name there had been so honorably borne that, if it was for the

singer too heavy a burden, death only could release her. This

death took place under peculiar circumstances.

Paganini was just then being heard at Milan, and exercising that

singular fascination that made his artistic personality the most

characteristic of our time.

This age, which believes in no thing, accords him a legend, and,

in truth, his power with the instrument he used was surprising

and unequalled.

The fascination he possessed by his eccentric and well-executed

performances is well known; how, for instance, he only appeared

in a demi-obscurity, in some romantic scene; or, in some fit of

inspiration, broke rudely the three strings of his instrument,

and performed on the remaining one his most astonishing

variations.

Whether it was skill, or a want of genius, no matter; the effect

produced was marvellous. On the wife of Master Swibert the result

was astonishing. Her child was born before its time, and in one

of the side-scenes of the theatre of La Scala.

Its life seemed so feebly assured that it was baptized

immediately with the name of Rose Marie; but Paganini, flattered

by the adventure, insisting upon being godfather on the occasion,

the little one was only known by the name of Paganina.

Thus was born the singular artist whose history we relate. We

know the exterior facts, the accidents, we may say, of her life.

Popular imagination has made of them an interesting legend; but

these facts were produced by interior emotions little understood,

and would be perfectly unintelligible could we not trace in her

the two tendencies, the two natures, which she inherited from her

parents.

Master Swibert arrived in time to say adieu to his wife, who did

not survive her confinement. Then, as a miser with his treasure,

he carried off his daughter. The child was feeble, but the

organist felt within himself such an intensity of paternal love

that he could not doubt she would live; "for," said he, "the

vital forces of a creature are not wholly in itself, but in the

love of its parents."

{806}

The sister of Master Swibert had married and left him. Therefore

alone with his daughter, he entered an unoccupied house, where

their new lives should develop themselves.

VI.

Happy the children born of Christian parents! They alone

understand the integrity of affection that addresses itself to

the soul, the delicacy of love which envelops the infant, from

the bosom of its mother, conducting it through every danger, and,

even in spite of maternal instinct, to the port of safety.

The organist could put in practice no personal theories of

education. He thought a father and mother (he was both) have but

one thing to do--to love and love on, to watch on their knees

near the cradle of their child, to observe attentively the

movements of the soul in its dawning light, to direct it on high,

always on high, guard it from all that is impure, (triviality,

even, he considered so;) and so, in fine, enforce the impressions

of a saintly and ideal character, before even the child has

consciousness of its perceptions.

Give your imagination to the interior of a family where such

sentiments prevail; one sees marvellous things, that no painter

can paint in colors true enough to render public. O pure and holy

family joys! If we hesitate to describe you, it is from respect.

We know with what discretion we should touch on holy things, and

we hardly dare to make ourselves understood, to those who are

fathers, by sketching the scenes of these first years of

childhood between Master Swibert and his daughter.

VII.

Night has come; the child is going to sleep. Her father, pursuing

his studies, is seated at the piano near the little being who has

all his heart, and is now his inspiration; the waves of harmony

go out into the night, white apparitions encircle the cradle,

graze the earth, and fly away. The child sleeps.

Attentive and listening, her angel looks at her, opening slightly

its wings to better protect her, and throwing over her closed

eye-lids the bluish and transparent veil. The little face smiles

sweetly.

In the morning she awakes, her soul filled with the joys of the

night. She hears the birds sing, and the bright morning sun with

heavenly rays gilds the cover of her little bed. She watches it

play on her white curtains and turns toward her father, her eyes

filled with tears, a weight on her heart. "Why do you weep, my

daughter?" "Because, my father, I love you dearly, and I am too

happy."

Yes, well may we discuss the joys of childhood. To sing them,

poets lose their breath; to paint them, exhaust the colors of

their palettes; and heap image upon image as their heated fancies

may suggest, yet what have they done? Nothing. Yet the subject is

worth their study. And how is it that there are so many who have

known these joys in all their purity, who in their manhood gaze

on into the future, and so seldom look to that past which made

them so happy? Would they not, at times, give worlds to be again

that little child at its mother's knee?

VIII.

Paganina was nearly seven years old, when she found a companion;

the organist's sister died, leaving her only child to the care of

her brother.

{807}

The little boy, named André, seemed to be of a gentle and even

weak character. He was the same age as his cousin, but never was

presented a more perfect contrast.

Paganina had not yet acquired that marvellous beauty that

afterward became so celebrated, but something there was about her

very strange and very attractive.

She was reticent and retiring, nonchalant in gesture and careless

in behavior. Her face was always sad, an indescribable, almost

ferocious _ennui_ seeming completely to overpower her. But

if some recital, some sudden expression touched her imagination,

or music entranced her, her deep black eyes threw out a violet

flame, and even sparkled. But that was all. The calm of an

affected, scornful carelessness returned immediately.

Restlessness is the common host of the domestic hearth.

Master Swibert trembled to see the worldly and theatrical genius

of the mother develop in the child; he knew well that, in a

nature strong and deep as hers, such tastes would make terrible

ravages. And the development of each successive year was not

calculated to dispel his fears.

Everything in the child alarmed him, from her habitual

concentration to her fits of passionate tenderness--the outburst

of the moment, volcano-like, a jet of brilliant flame which

sparkles and goes out.

IX.

Master Swibert could boast in his dying hours of never having

deserted the child for an hour even. After having devoted the

early hours of the day to her and her cousin's education, he

superintended and guided their recreations--an important part, in

good hands, of the training of a child.

He had the habit of taking every day a long walk. The route they

loved best he called the German road. It was that by which the

organist had come to Italy. The sight of it revived his memories,

and flattered the melancholy love he gave his country.

On the way, the children listened to the stories of the good

musician, who so willingly related them. They spoke of Germany;

for on this chapter Master Swibert never tired. He led his little

auditors into the world of ballads and legends, and we can

readily imagine the pretty curiosity and happy astonishment

which, at their age, he awakened. Their favorite legend was that

of the great emperor Barbarossa, who slept so many centuries in

an obscure grotto, leaning on a table of stone into which his

beard had grown. These stories were better than our nurses tell;

for the organist related them, not to impose on the credulity of

his youthful auditory, but to extract the poetry they contained;

and this he did wonderfully. Poetry never did harm to any one.

But the children loved, even better than the legends, the

recitals suitable for them from the German poets. The story of

Mignon delighted them. What could be told them sufficed; and they

loved the little girl who had no other language than song, who

took the face of an angel and aspired to heaven, where she went

without scarcely having lived on earth.

Their imagination was inflamed. They longed to see the country of

their dreams. Sometimes, at the turn of the road, they began to

run, in the unavowed hope of seeing, at last, what was behind the

mountain; but, the circuit passed, and only a long road,

apparently without end, presenting itself, the poor little things

cried with disappointment.

{808}

Their father, ready to weep with them, took them in his arms to

control them, and told them for the hundredth time one of his

pretty ballads.

X.

The route into Germany is through a beautiful country. After

traversing a plain for some distance, one enters into a deep

gorge in the mountain and then begins to ascend.

This gorge gives passage to a torrent, dry in summer, but,

becoming furious during the rains of autumn, uproots trees,

carries away bridges, and, undermining the stones at their base,

lowers, each year, the level of the neighboring elevations. The

route accommodates itself poorly to this terrible neighbor, and

follows it as far off as possible. Around on the left shore, it

turns quickly at a certain height, and crosses the torrent over a

very high bridge. There, continuing to ascend, it makes a circuit

over a plain of moderate extent, while a narrow and badly

constructed road, bordering the sides of the ravine, leaves it to

descend to the magnificent residence which, from time immemorial,

belongs to the family of the Ligonieri. It is called the Château

Sarrasin.

A view unequalled presents itself from this elevation. Below it,

on the first ladder of the heights, is seen the black mass of the

chateau, so near that one can almost penetrate into the interior

of the edifice; and beyond, the plain, displaying under the

silvery net-work of its water-courses the richness of its

vegetation; and finally, on the left, the wooded slopes of the

mountain, crowned with glaciers, and developing into a gigantic

hemicycle. When the dazzled eye is at rest, or gazing afar, it

ever returns to the Chateau Sarrasin; and worthy is it of the

closest regard.

Its name indicates its antiquated pretensions; but it has no

uniformity of style; each age has given it a stone, and from the

labor of centuries has resulted a whole of a character grand and

majestic.

Proudly encamped on a perpendicular rock, accessible only on one

side, it commands the plain and defies the mountain with its

black and menacing tower, that seems to have been placed there to

protect the other less hardy constructions.

From the road, the traveller raises his eyes to this eagle's

nest; he contemplates with pleasure the terraces which shelve

below, suspending over the precipice their flowering groves and

massive oaks, and, naturally, he demands its history. Yet this

history was not always to be praised. The chronicle credits those

who inhabited it in past ages with a series of adventures more

curious than moral, and enough to fill a book of legends.

The Ligonieri have followed the progress of civilization. In our

day, they respect the laws, and even make themselves respected.

They serve the state in the highest ranks of the administration,

the army, and diplomacy. Yet it would seem that, after all, the

devil has not lost much; for they tell wild stories of the

castle's being fatal to conjugal love, of its reigning queens

ever suffering in silence the affronts of some rival under its

cursed roof. Popular recitals represent them isolated, lifting to

heaven their innocent hands, and mingling their prayers with the

noise of orgies and the songs of feasts. The favorites of the

Chateau Sarrasin belonged mostly to the theatre, and among them

was she who reigned a certain evening when the scene took place I

am going to relate.

{809}

XI.

This evening, then, the organist and his two children had arrived

on the elevation that commands the residence of the Ligonieri,

and were looking about them. There was a _fête_ at the

Château Sarrasin.

The grand _salon_ of the ground floor was illuminated, and

crowded with a brilliant assembly of guests. Long waves of light

came from the windows and doors, and showed the crowd pressing

around every opening, and in the shadows revealed groups seated

attentively at cards.

All heads were turned toward one point; all looks were in the

same direction, and attached themselves to a woman standing in

the centre of the light, and surrounded by a chorus and a

numerous orchestra.

This woman was clothed in green, and wore a crown of ivy, the

ornament of the old bacchantes. A green diamond threw its

lustrous rays from her impure forehead. She sang--not the songs

that carry tired souls into the regions of the ideal, and make

them forget for a moment the sadness of earth; but guilty joys

and culpable pleasures were her theme. The metallic voice sang in

response to her chorus; and, becoming more and more excited, the

quick, passionate notes mounted into a demoniacal laugh. How sad,

how true it is, that the human soul, once beyond the bounds of

purity, rejoices in and receives new excitement from the delirium

of blasphemy.

XII.

Attracted by the light, Paganina advanced toward the precipice.

The passionate music had turned her brain. Her growing agitation

became extreme, and she betrayed it in gestures and ardent words.

When Master Swibert called her, she refused to obey.

Understanding at last, her father rose, pale as a corpse.

"Unfortunate child!" he cried, "thy bad angel is approaching

thee. Now comes the hour when I regret thy birth. God grant that

I may not be punished for having shown thee the spectacle of evil

thou comprehendest so quickly."

The child advances, her father follows, and she begins to run.

Wildly through the midst of the rocks she risks her life at every

step. Her father, breathless, pursues her, frightened, and

covered with a cold perspiration. His eyes, grown large already

with fear, see his daughter precipitated into an endless abyss;

and discover, also, in the future another abyss still more

shadowed and more horrible, where, perhaps, will be lost the

deeply-loved soul of his child.

The guests of the Château Sarrasin heard two cries mingle with

the joyousness of their _féte_. The organist seized his

child just at the moment when, from the edge of the precipice,

she would have plunged into eternity.

He had saved her life, but not regained her soul. That evening,

the child separated herself from him in a spirit of revolt which

almost broke his heart to witness.

XIII.

Master Swibert slept but little, and badly. When he awoke, he

wondered how he had been able to omit to Paganina his usual

good-night. His eyes fell instinctively on the door where, every

morning, she came, half-clothed, to salute him. The sun's rays

gilded the sill, and the good father's heart beat, thinking how

happy he would be if at that moment she would appear. He said,

"She is coming;" but she came not.

{810}

The organist walked up and down his room, interrupting, from time

to time, his monotonous promenade, to listen, in hopes of hearing

a word, a creaking, a fluttering of a robe. He heard nothing but

the uncertain step of André, wandering sad and lonely in the

parts of the house least occupied.

The hours passed. The organist still waited, his suffering

becoming anguish. Sometimes he felt he must call out, "My child!

my child!" Already he opened his arms to receive her; but his

sense of duty prevailed, and he waited for her.

The night again returned, and Paganina had shown no signs of

life. A bitter sadness, drop by drop, was accumulating in the

heart of her unfortunate father. The most mournful thoughts took

possession of him. He dreamed of his approaching death, and saw

his child alone, abandoned to interior and exterior enemies, and

in his weakness he reproached himself for having brought her into

this world.

Already more than half the night had gone. Overwhelmed with

sorrow, exhausted, he threw himself into an arm-chair, wondering

if he could bear to suffer more, when Paganina entered

noiselessly, on tiptoe, lest she should awaken her father, whom

she believed asleep. She approached him gently, knelt by his

side, and, taking one of his hands, covered it with silent tears.

What a change for our poor organist! An immense joy overflowed

his heart, and spread over his whole being in delicious emotion.

He forgot all past suffering and future inquietude. He lost all

consciousness of the present but the knowledge that his daughter

was there, pressed to his heart, and palpitating midst her sobs.

He leaned over, and two tears, the first shed by this austere

man, fell on the young bowed head--her baptism of peace and

pardon. Grief, repentance, the love of the child, obscured for a

time, now manifested themselves violently. She hung convulsively

on the neck of her father, and begged his pardon. They exchanged

kisses, stifled cries, and little words of tenderness, that are

the first elements of that pure and passionate, delicate and

violent language of the domestic hearth, so little capable of

description.

XIV.

The stars sparkled peacefully in a cloudless sky. The breath of

the night, with its penetrating odors, came noiselessly, and

mingled the white hair of the father with the black curls of the

child. It refreshed their burning foreheads.

Peace has descended into their souls. Now and then a sob from

Paganina is the only witness of the past storm.

Master Swibert, with his head inclined, speaks in a low voice. He

says:

"My daughter, my tenderness for you knows no bounds. Trust to me.

Arrived at the summit of life, I, whose head is whitening toward

eternity, will tell you that, in this world, the only happiness

given man is in the affections of his family. You cannot tell,

before being a mother, what paternal affection is, and still less

will you understand mine. I was ignorant of it myself until

yesterday."

The child standing, her little feet united, pressed her head

against the heart of her father.

The organist continued: "The angel of a woman never leaves the

domestic hearth. If she lives in the world, her angel has

forsaken her. A woman's crown is formed in shadow and silence;

the gaze and admiration of a crowd will wither it. Your soul I

love, my daughter; and our mutual love must never end. Do you

understand me? Never! provided our souls rise together toward the

abode of infinite love."

{811}

The child listens attentively; divining, by a sort of intuition,

the sense of these teachings, engraving themselves, in letters of

fire, on her heart; and which she will understand, each day, more

and more.

Little by little, lulled by the whispering of her father;

refreshed, as if bathed in such admirable tenderness, she fell

asleep. Her father held her in his arms, and, raising his eyes,

he prayed.

Day has come. The aurora awakes in its humid splendor, and throws

its first rays over the mountain violets. The bells of the town

dance into the air their clear and joyous notes.

"My father," said Paganina in a low voice, and without opening

her eyes, "what do those bells say? Their ringing sound makes me

tremble with joy."

"My daughter, they celebrate, as they may, the day of the

Ascension, when Christ ascended into heaven."

"To heaven! my father;" and she added, in so weak a voice that he

could scarcely hear her, "It seems that I am there now--that I

repose in your arms."

The organist looked at his daughter, whose closed eyes seemed to

enjoy interior contemplation; while his pale face expressed his

delight. He raised her; held her up, as if to offer her to God;

then laid her quietly on her little bed, and let her sleep.

XV.

From that day, the organist possessed perfect control over his

daughter. If she seemed disposed to escape from his influence, he

recalled the night of the Ascension, and that sufficed. Paganina

was still a little girl; but soon she would cease to be one. Her

future beauty was crystallizing. The features could be seen; but

they had not yet blended into their after harmony. There was

something surprising about her.

Morally, the incomprehensible little creature was all dissonance

and violent contrasts, promising to be equally powerful for good

or evil, as she should be led by superior or inferior influences.

The distinctive character of her nature, habitually concentrated

and sometimes impetuous to excess, was her passion for every

thing beautiful. Music exercised an extraordinary influence over

her. It was, properly speaking, her language; and she understood

in it what others could not. Already she spoke in it wonderfully.

Her father taught her his instrument; and she gave herself with

love to the study. However, it was easy to see that the demon of

song would make her his; so Master Swibert hesitated to give her

a master, restrained by his personal ideas on the subject. He had

his theory, which appeared singular, no doubt, and he revealed it

to his daughter, saying, "Too perfect an instrument is a snare

for a musician; for when he has at his service an organ of this

kind, he forgets too often to raise it to the ideal, and gives it

to matter. Where are those who can disengage themselves from

matter to arrive at an idea? Where are those who know that the

beauty of the body is the shadow of the beauty of the soul? To

pursue exclusively the first is to lose both.

"Look at the immortal composers of my country, whose genius will

radiate unto the last of posterity. The shrill notes of the piano

are the most common expression of their glorious thoughts. The

musicians of this nation find voices neither pure nor powerful

enough to express their pitiful imaginations. When I see such

anxiety for the sign, I esteem poorly the thing signified, and I

think that its beauty is, above all, material.

{812}

"I love the human voice. What an admirable instrument! But I

tremble to see how it is used to express the passions of earth

and the enchantments of pleasure. It is dangerous to possess it.

I warn you of your danger, my daughter."

I have already said that this theory was singular. The word

appears weak, perhaps; but it came from Germany.

However, it had no influence on the destiny of Paganina; for,

having finished his reasoning, her father gave her a master.

Happily, logic alone does not govern the world.

The little one then learned to sing. Her success in this study

was rapid, and passed all foresight. Sometimes Master Swibert was

confounded when he heard her, and trembled before this power

which had come from himself.

XVI.

The moment came when André was to be submitted to the proof of a

public education. His uncle considered such a course necessary to

make him a man. It was decided that he should receive at the

conservatory of Naples the classic traditions of Italian art. The

organist and his daughter wished to accompany him to his

destination.

They travelled by short stages. Master Swibert proposing,

according to his habit, an elevated result, communicated to his

children the riches of his erudition. They stopped wherever they

could hope to gather some fruit, curious to visit every place of

which they knew the history, and he desirous to give them a

living knowledge which would be for ever impressed upon them.

His studies and affections induced him to neglect the mere

vestiges of antiquity to seek with greater love the souvenirs of

Christianity and the relics of the saints. We know if they abound

on this illustrious earth.

Every day, then, the travellers turned a new leaf of the book

which they had lisped from their childhood. The history of the

martyrs particularly seized upon the imagination of Paganina. She

never tired of listening to it on the very places they had

sanctified by such sublime acts as the world rarely knows.

We may scoff at or disdain the wonders of interior sanctity, but

indifference is arrested by the heroism of martyrdom.

The martyrs wear the double crown of divine and human glory.

After their God, they are the vanquishers of death. Inspired

courage burns on their faces; and when are added to their ranks

the grace and beauty of woman and child, why refuse to their

memory the homage of love and admiration, if even not to be

Christian is considered worthy of worldly honor.

Paganina had the intelligence of greatness; she loved courage and

true nobility. The recitals of her father drew tears from her

eyes; and in traversing the arenas made memorable by some bloody

triumph, she felt within her every inspiration to celebrate them.

Here she was true to her Italian nature; but she spoke with an

elevation of accent and depth of emotion which are the privileges

of northern nations.

One evening she was at the Colosseum. She felt an enthusiasm

within her, an inspiration unaccountable, and pictured in

life-colors the crowd of excited people, watching and crying out

to the poor Christian martyrs struggling and dying, in the

brightness of a supernatural light. She entirely forgot herself.

{813}

Something like a hymn breathed from her oppressed heart;

eloquence overflowed from her lips. The passers-by were attracted

toward her, and her father listened overcome and astonished.

While she appeared transfigured, standing in the light of the

setting sun, which seemed to throw around her the bloody purple

of which she chanted, a ray of the glory of her ancestors rested

on the forehead of this grandchild of the martyrs.

That evening, her father, in taking her home again, said to her,

"Go on, my little one; many have passed for eloquent who had not

your inspiration; many have sought for poetry, and great they

were; but they have not found the fruit your tiny hands have

gathered. Mignon sang: you sing and speak; and if you use your

power for good, Mignon may not compare with you."

Excuse the blindness of a father, if you please.

XVII.

When the time came for the children to part, André was overcome

in a manner which seemed incompatible with his nature, so

ordinarily tranquil. The father and daughter returned alone, and

lived afterward with no other company than themselves. They felt

no need to seek their diversion among their neighbors. The simple

ties of friendship or convenience to them were unnecessary, and

the organist preserved with the outside world only the

acquaintance that strict politeness demanded.

Paganina's affection increased daily. A profound sentiment

without display, and only recognizable by certain mute signs that

might have escaped an indifferent eye. Her father, however, could

not be deceived.

So these two beings were never separated. They worked together;

the organist conducted his daughter into the highest regions of

music, and was astonished, in teaching her, to discover horizons

hitherto unknown. Paganina made wonderful progress.

Those who find in art their happiness in this world, and seek the

depths of those mysterious tongues of which so many speak and

know nothing--those alone can form an idea of the happy moments

passed in their solitude.

At times these two souls rose together, mounted even to the pure

heights where, to those who attain to them, is given a

supernatural felicity.

To these joys Paganina aspired with an immoderate ardor; but in

attaining them she experienced a reaction of extreme sadness.

This disquieted her father; so, in the language of parable which

he liked to use, and which sometimes proved more original than

gracious, he said, "My daughter, my daughter, drink with

precaution; at the bottom of the purest streams are hidden the

most dangerous reptiles. Be prudent, or you will swallow the

leech. There is only one fountain to quench your thirst, and

where, with your impetuous humor, you may drink with safety: it

is that which gushes toward eternal life."

To Be Continued.

-------

{814}

[Transcriber's note: This discussion is impressive, considering

that quantum theory and the internal structure of the atom

appears many decades in the future.]

Translated From The Etudes Religieuses.

Recent Scientific Discoveries.

By Fr. Carbonelle.

The hypothesis of an ethereal medium everywhere diffused, is

still, in spite of some vague objections urged against it,

universally received, and the most recent theories and researches

have not suggested its abandonment or modification in any

important respect. On the contrary, they point to its more exact

establishment, and to its application to large classes of

phenomena in which, until lately, it was hardly supposed to be

involved. There is no longer any branch of natural philosophy

which can dispense with it; and in the theory of heat as a mode

of motion, which will soon be the basis of a new system of

physics more full and clear than the previous one, the motion

must probably be explained by the principle of ethereal

undulations or vibrations.

These vibrations show themselves by three different effects,

namely, heat, chemical action, and color. The first two were for

a long time neglected, but the third offered quite a large field,

in which many very beautiful discoveries were made. It was known,

for instance, that the oscillations were made with prodigious

rapidity. Thus, the red of the spectrum is produced by vibrations

repeated four hundred and eighty-three trillions of times in a

second; while for the violet, more than seven hundred and eight

trillions are required. Between these limits all the visible rays

are contained, and, taken successively, they produce all the

shades of the spectrum, and, by their combination, all possible

colors. But as there are vibrations in the air too rapid or too

slow to give the sense of sound to the ear, so there are, in the

ether, slower than the red, or quicker than the violet, and hence

invisible. The first have been detected by their calorific, the

second by their chemical effects. The spectrum has thus been

considerably extended at both ends, and we cannot be sure that

its true limits have even yet been found.

These facts have been known for some time, and are found in all

treatises on physics. We only speak of them in order to explain

better the theories proposed by modern science to explain the

three effects of ethereal radiation.

The hypothesis of three essentially different kinds of rays has

now been abandoned. The solar beam, for example, which causes six

hundred and thirty trillion vibrations a second, has the three

properties of producing in the eye the sensation of blue, of

heating Melloni's thermo-electric pile, and of decomposing the

chloride of silver used in photography; but it does not appear

that three different rays vibrating with this velocity are sent

to us, each the cause of a separate effect. Notwithstanding the

most careful experiments, no one of these properties has ever

been diminished in a ray without diminishing the rest in the same

proportion. Of course, these properties are differently

proportioned in the different rays of the spectrum; but in two

rays from the same part, and hence having the same velocity of

vibration, these properties always consist in the same relative

intensity.

{815}

At the red end of the spectrum, the heating power predominates;

at the other extremity, the chemical; in the middle, the

luminous. The reason of this seems to be merely the difference of

vibratory velocities; and we shall see that this will suffice to

account for it.

Let us first explain how we conceive the production of the

phenomena of chemical action and of heat. For clearness, we must

advert to a theory familiar to all, according to which ponderable

matter is composed of excessively small volumes, called atoms,

which, though perhaps theoretically divisible, are never divided

by any physical or chemical action. In the constitution of

bodies, these atoms are supposed to be grouped in some manner,

each group forming what is called a molecule. These, unlike the

atoms, are decomposed in chemical changes, though not in physical

ones, by which we understand such as evaporation, melting,

crystallization, heating, magnetizing, electrifying, etc., unless

these happen to affect the chemical constitution as well as the

physical condition of the substance. All these do not alter the

arrangement of the atoms in the molecule, but only the position

or distance of the molecules with regard to each other. A

collection of molecules may be called a particle; physical action

then alters the constitution of the particle as chemical does

that of the molecule. It may be remarked that our senses give us

no direct evidence of the existence of molecules, much less of

that of atoms, and they are supposed to be so extremely small

that it will probably never be possible to detect them in this

way.

In the application of this chemical theory to that of light, a

new hypothesis is made, namely, that the ethereal fluid, whether

itself continuous or composed of separate elements, penetrates

all the interstices between the atoms of a molecule, as well as

those between the molecules. The motions of this fluid, and of

the matter which it penetrates, are communicated to each other,

according to laws not yet ascertained, but of which we already

have some glimpses. Thus, in treating of the effects of the

ethereal vibrations on ponderable bodies, great importance is

probably due to what is called _isochronism_, or equality of

times; that is, the agreement of the rapidity of vibration of the

ether with that of which the matter is susceptible; for in all

known communications of vibratory movements, this isochronism

plays a very notable part. If, for example, we place upon the

same stand two clocks, having pendulums of the same length, and

consequently swinging in the same time, and start one of them,

the slight impulses communicated by this to the other will

finally set the latter also in motion. If, on the other hand, the

pendulums are not isochronous, no such effect will be produced.

In the same way, a stretched cord will vibrate if one of the

sounds of which it is capable is produced near by; but it will

not be affected by other notes, even though much louder--showing

that isochronism is more important than intensity. Another

illustration of the same thing struck me forcibly some ten years

ago. I had ascended with some photographic apparatus to the top

of an old square tower, very high and massive, to take some

views. The tower belonged to a church, the bells of which were

rung several times while I was there. The great bell, though of a

very considerable size, shook the building very slightly; it

hardly caused any tremor in the image of the landscape.

{816}

But a second and much smaller bell could not be rung without

giving to the tower, after two or three minutes, a strong swaying

movement like that of a tree shaken by the wind. This was owing

to the isochronism between the oscillations of the tower and of

the small bell, which more than compensated for the difference of

mass.

We have here an explanation of the physical and chemical

phenomena produced by the ethereal rays. A few vibrations of this

medium, probably, would produce no perceptible effect on a mass

of matter; but these movements are repeated hundreds of trillions

of times in a second, and however feeble their influence at

first, isochronism may finally give it great power. Let us

consider, first, the molecules, which have some connection

between them, as yet unknown, but probably only allowing a

certain set of vibratory velocities, (as a cord will only vibrate

so as to produce a definite series of musical notes.) If, then,

these are isochronous with those of the surrounding ether, the

movement of the latter will be communicated to the molecules; or,

according to the new theory of heat, the body will be warmed.

These movements may even become so violent as to permanently

modify the manner of union of the molecules--that is, to change

the state of the body from solid to liquid or gaseous; and, by

this change of state, the molecules may become insensible to the

vibrations which previously affected them; for the set which they

can now perform may have been entirely altered. The phenomena of

heat are then well accounted for by this theory. To explain

similarly the chemical ones, we have only to suppose ethereal

vibrations, such that the movement affects the atoms separately,

instead of the whole molecule, so that, after they have been

sufficiently prolonged, the connection between the atoms will be

destroyed. According to this, the chemical action of light should

always be one of decomposition; it is so undoubtedly in most

cases, and in the rest, where a combination is produced--as, for

instance, in the formation of chlorhydric acid by the action of

the violet rays on a mixture of chlorine and hydrogen--we shall

adduce hereafter some facts which explain them, and show that

even here the real action of the rays is a decomposing one. It

may be remarked that the introduction of these ethereal

vibrations, whose dimensions and velocities are well known, into

the region, still so mysterious, of atoms and of molecules,

promises to lead to results long unhoped for. If, for example,

the theory above stated is correct, it would appear that the

union of the atoms is such that their necessary time of

oscillation is shorter than that of the molecules; since the red

rays, which have the greatest heating power, vibrate more slowly

than the violet, which are the most active chemically, as stated

some distance back.

The luminous action of the rays is no doubt the most important

for us, but also the most difficult to study; we have, however,

something to say about it, for real progress has lately been made

in this department. In the first place, since we are speaking of

sensations, it is necessary to notice that this subject has two

very different parts, one of which belongs to natural science,

and the other to psychology. We shall here speak only of the

first, that is, of three classes of phenomena which are produced

at the exterior extremities of the nervous fibres, on the line of

the fibres, and in the brain respectively.

{817}

It has been said, in a previous paper, that each of these

requires a certain time, and the experimental results as to these

times were there given. But this is all, or almost all, the

knowledge, unfortunately, which we yet have as to what takes

place in the brain. The conjecture has been made that the

different kinds of sensations are due to different modifications

of the cerebral extremities of the various nerves; or that at the

interior extremity of the optic nerve, a different action occurs

from that at the nerve of hearing, which seems probable, since

there are good reasons for believing that the action of the main

body of the nerve itself is precisely the same for all the

sensations. In more than one way, our nervous system would then

resemble the telegraph. All the wires are traversed by similar

currents, but the registering apparatus is different in each. In

one, the dispatch is read off upon a dial; in another, it is

printed on a moving band; in a third, a facsimile is given of it,

etc. The sending is also accomplished by different means; but in

all cases the same agent, the electric current, is employed.

Since we are treating of the sensation of sight only in

connection with the external vibrations, we need here only

discuss the first of the three classes of phenomena mentioned

above, those which correspond to the transmission of the

dispatch. In explaining this, we shall follow the celebrated

professor of Heidelberg, M. Helmholtz.

The use of the spectroscope, and the analysis of light as now

made in physics, chemistry, and astronomy, might induce the idea

that color is an intrinsic property of the rays, depending

entirely upon the length of the undulation in each, and

inseparably connected with it; but this is not the case. Color is

an organic phenomenon, only produced in the living animal; and,

in one sense, is very independent of the length of the wave,

since it can even exist without the presence of any luminous ray.

Its laws are admirably exhibited in a figure called Newton's

circle. This circle has been modified by recent experiments, and

has received three enlargements, which make it a sort of triangle

with rounded corners; but it is very well to preserve its name,

for, as yet, the claims of Newton in optics have not been

contested in any "_Commercium epistolicum_." Let us briefly

describe this figure. The red, green, and blue of the spectrum

occupy the three corners respectively. Passing round the

circumference, we go from red to green through yellow, from green

to blue through greenish blue, and from blue to red through

violet and purple. If we draw a straight line from any point of

the circumference to the centre, we find the same color on all

points of the line, but more and more diluted, so that the centre

itself is perfectly white. This figure contains all possible

shades of color, and has the following remarkable property,

established by experiment. If we wish to know what color will be

produced by the mixture of any others, we have only to mark upon

this figure the points where the several colors are found, and

place weights there proportional to the intensities in which the

different colors are to be used in the combination; at the centre

of gravity of these weights, that is, at the point on which the

circle (supposed itself to be without weight) would balance when

thus loaded, we shall find the resulting shade. This point does

not need to be found by experiment, being more easily calculated

mathematically.

{818}

Now it is evident from this that color is a mere matter of

sensation; for it is obvious that the same centre of gravity can

be obtained by an infinity of arrangements of the original

colors, notwithstanding the diversity of their wave-lengths; and

it will also be found that these various mixed rays, though

having precisely the same color--that of the centre of

gravity--will differ entirely in their other properties. They act

variously upon the thermometer and on the sensitive photographic

plate, and give different tinges to colored objects which they

illumine. But upon the retina the action of all is the same. How

is this result to be explained? We will answer without stating

the proofs, which the limits of this article would forbid.

From what has been said, it will be seen that all colors can be

produced by the mixture of the three fundamental or primary ones,

red, green, and blue, which were placed at the three rounded

corners of Newton's circle. It will also be supposed that, as in

the theory of Thomas Young, nervous fibres of three kinds are

found at every point of the retina. When these are excited in any

way, whether by the vibrations of the ether, by lateral pressure

on the ball of the eye, by a feeble electric current, or by any

other means, they transmit the excitement to the brain; but the

red fibres, (so to speak,) if they should act alone, would only

produce, however they were irritated, the uniform sensation of a

red such as we hardly ever actually see, more _saturated_

than the ordinary red, and which would be found in our figure at

the extreme summit of the rounded corner. The two other kinds of

fibres would, of course, act similarly, producing colors more

pure than are usually seen; since, in our usual sensations, the

three are always mixed, each predominating in its turn; and this

is the case even in the spectrum itself. The effect of the pure

colors in the latter may, however, be heightened as follows: Let

us fix our eyes, for instance, for a few moments on the

blue-green. This is the complementary of the red. The fatigue

will produce a momentary insensibility in the fibres

corresponding to the blue and green, and, turning the eyes to the

red part of the spectrum, the slight admixture of these colors

there present will fail to excite sensibly the corresponding

nerves, so that the red will be seen for a few seconds in great

purity. But to return. The stimulus of the first set of fibres,

though found more or less in all parts of the spectrum, will

predominate at the red end, where the vibrations are slowest;

that of the second set in the middle, where the green is found;

that of the third, at the blue extremity. Why these inequalities?

Why, also, do the dark rays, preceding the red and following the

violet, fail to act on the retina? No certain reason can be

assigned, but there are two very plausible ones: first, the media

which the rays have to traverse in the eye before reaching the

nerves have, like all other transparent bodies, the power of

absorbing the vibrations, not all uniformly, but some in

preference to others. This elective absorption would destroy or

diminish the effect of the rays on the nervous fibres. The second

reason, as will readily be surmised, is the want of isochronism

between the vibrations of the rays and those of the nervous

fibres.

In confirmation of this theory, a remarkable anatomical fact,

noticed among many birds and reptiles, may be cited. These

actually have in the retina three kinds of fibres: the first

terminated by a small, oily red drop, the second by a yellow one,

while the third have no perceptible appendage.

{819}

Evidently, the red rays will arrive most purely at the first, the

central rays of the spectrum at the second, while the blue and

violet ones will act freely only on the third. It must be granted

that no such thing has been observed in man and the other

mammalia; but something similar may be found in the singular

pathological phenomenon to which the chemist Dalton has given his

name. Daltonism is most frequently an inability to perceive red.

For eyes thus affected, the chromatic triangle or circle just

mentioned is considerably simplified; but sad mistakes are the

consequence. "All the differences of color," says Helmholtz,

"appear to them as mixtures of blue and green, which last they

call yellow." This disorder would be, according to the above

theory, a paralysis of the first, or red fibres. The simplicity

of this explanation is certainly in favor of the theory which

gives it. But we had determined not to bring up arguments. Let

us, then, pass on; remarking, however, one respect in which the

eye, otherwise so superior to the rest of the senses, is inferior

to the ear. Sounds, though combined to any extent in harmonies or

discords, can readily be separated by an experienced ear. The

eye, on the other hand, only sees the result of mixed colors; it

needs instruments to rival the ear; and it is only by means of

the prism that it can separate and classify the various

vibrations which reach it.

But, provided with this prism, or _spectroscope_, it has

lately done wonders. It has discovered and measured a whole world

of new phenomena, which, according to the theory just developed,

must be attributed to reciprocal exchanges of movement between

the ether and the ponderable molecules. The light given by these

has disclosed to us many secrets of chemistry, and especially of

astronomy.

Before specifying the most recent of these discoveries, we will

profit by what has already been said to explain very briefly the

fundamental principles of spectral analysis. Transparent bodies,

whether solid, liquid, or gaseous, exercise upon the rays an

absorption which is called elective, because some undulations are

allowed to pass, while others are stopped, according to their

velocities; and one of the effects of this absorption is the

color of such bodies. This is to be explained by the principle of

isochronism. Those vibrations which, for want of it, cannot be

imparted to the surrounding matter, pass freely; the others are

absorbed. But it is remarkable that gases and vapors only absorb

a small number of them, while solids and liquids retain a great

many. Thus, supposing that we have obtained, in any way, a

continuous spectrum--that is, one with no breaks--containing all

the known rays, not only the visible ones between the red and

violet, but also the rest outside of these limits, a liquid or

solid body intercepting this light will entirely destroy, or

considerably weaken, large portions of this spectrum; whereas a

gas or vapor generally will only efface a few small ones, whose

absence is detected in the luminous part of the spectrum by the

dark, transverse lines which have been so long known in that of

the sun. This is certainly quite extraordinary, since it would

suggest the inference that in gaseous bodies, the molecules,

though less condensed, or further from each other, than in solids

or liquids, have a much smaller range of possible vibrations.

Besides this, the researches of Mr. Frankland on flames have

lately shown that, even in gases, this range increases as the

density augments. These results must undoubtedly be considered as

strange; but what, after all, do we know of the connection of the

elements of matter?

{820}

Without dwelling further on this point, we will mention the most

important fact learned by these experiments: that this elective

absorption is a complete test of the chemical composition of

gases. In given conditions of temperature and pressure, each gas

is perfectly distinguished from all others by the special

absorption which it exercises upon the luminous rays. The

principle by which chemical analysis is performed

spectroscopically is thus evident. To find if any particular gas

is to be found on the path of the ray, it is only necessary to

develop the latter into a spectrum, and to see, by the position

of the particular dark lines produced in it, if the absorption

due to this gas has been effected.

But this is not all. Bodies sufficiently heated become luminous.

According to the theory, this means that the molecules of matter,

in their turn, communicate their vibrations to the ether; and

here again we should find the influence of isochronism. The

ether, it is true, is susceptible of vibrations of any velocity

within certain very wide limits; but the molecules can give it

none which are not isochronous with their own. Let us see what

will result. Evidently, that the light which is emitted will,

when developed into a spectrum, be concentrated in brilliant

lines at those points where the velocities of undulation are the

same as those of which the gas is capable; and, further, these

lines should also evidently be in the same places, as the dark

lines which this gas produces, as explained above, in a

continuous spectrum, by absorption. This actually takes place in

most cases, but some exceptions must be expected; because

variations of temperature and pressure change the mutual

connections of the gaseous molecules, and hence should also

change the velocities of their oscillations. Thus, it is often

found that the same gases change their systems of brilliant lines

as their temperature or pressure changes; and Mr. Frankland has

even obtained gases giving continuous spectra, sometimes

attaining this result by pressure alone. The influence of heat

also explains why solid or liquid bodies, when incandescent, give

continuous spectra; while, at a low temperature, their

interposition produces an elective absorption. For it is known

that transparent solids or liquids become opaque when heated

sufficiently to shine; the reason apparently being that, like the

ether, they are capable of vibrations of any degree of rapidity

within the usual limits, and hence allow no ethereal ones--or, in

other words, no light--to pass through them, but absorb them all.

Most flames or incandescent vapors, on the contrary, do not

entirely lose their transparency. This property is of inestimable

value in our investigations of nature.

Gases, by the combination of their elective absorption with their

equally elective emission, produce results which at first sight

might appear singular, but which can now readily be explained.

Suppose that a flame is situated on the path of some rays which,

without this interposition, would give a brilliant continuous

spectrum. This flame only absorbs the ray having vibrations

isochronous with its own; on the other hand, it emits rays

similar to those which it absorbs. The resulting spectrum will

vary according to the relative intensity of the emitted and

absorbed rays. If these two intensities are equal, the spectrum

will remain continuous; but if the absorption predominates, there

will be dark lines in it; if the emission, brilliant ones.

{821}

Similar phenomena of reversal have been often met with in the

recent examinations of different parts of the sun.

The principles just explained have been known for several years,

and were sufficient for astronomy as long as it restricted its

investigations to the chemical analysis of the atmospheres of the

heavenly bodies. But it was soon perceived that much greater use

could be made of the spectroscope. Information is now beginning

to be acquired by means of it which had previously appeared to be

unattainable, regarding, for instance, the rapidity of the motion

of stars the distance of which is still unknown; the great

movements which are continually taking place in the great masses

of gas in the solar photosphere, and the pressure of these masses

at different depths; and it is even hoped that a direct

determination of their temperature may be made. Let us speak

first of the observations of stellar velocities. Their

possibility may easily be shown by means of an acoustic

phenomenon which the reader must frequently have noticed. Let us

suppose two trains of cars to be moving rapidly in opposite

directions, and that one of them whistles as it passes the other.

If we are seated in the latter, we shall perceive that the pitch

of the whistle suddenly falls as it passes us. The reason is

manifest. A certain time is necessary for the sound to reach us;

and while the train is approaching, this time is sensibly shorter

for each succeeding vibration, so that the interval between the

vibrations is apparently diminished, and the note is higher than

it would be were the trains at rest. On the other hand, as the

whistle recedes after passing, its pitch is lowered for a similar

reason. Of course, no such effect is produced by that of our own

train, which always remains at the same distance from us. By the

amount of flattening of the sound, it is quite possible to

calculate the velocity of the train, as compared with that of

sound. [Footnote 198]

[Footnote 198: Suppose the sum of the velocities of the

trains to be one-ninth of that of sound, and that the whistle

is, at a given moment, 1140 feet (which is about the distance

travelled by sound in a second) from our ear. The vibrations

emitted at this instant will reach us in one second; and all

those emitted in the nine seconds required for the train to

arrive will be condensed into the remaining eight. Their

frequency will then be nine-eighths of what it would be

without the motion. It will be diminished in nearly the same

ratio after the passage; since the vibration emitted nine

seconds afterward will require an additional second to reach

us; thus, the frequency will now be nine-tenths of what it

would be without the motion, or four-fifths of what it was

before meeting; corresponding to a flattening of two whole

musical tones. This would require a relative velocity of 127

feet a second, or 87 miles an hour; which gives the rule,

that, for every half-tone of flattening, the sum of the

velocities, or the velocity of the moving train, if we are at

rest, is 22 miles an hour.]

It is very easy to apply what has just been said of the waves of

sound to those of light. The motion of the sonorous body

displaces its sounds on the acoustic scale; in the same way, the

motion of the luminous body will displace its light on the optic,

placing any particular line, dark or brilliant, in the spectrum

nearer to the violet or rapid end, if the body is approaching;

and nearer to the red, if it is receding. And we are not obliged

to wait till the change has taken place in the character of the

motion, as in the case of the train, since we can always obtain

lines similar to those thus displaced, and having the same

velocity of vibration, from some terrestrial substance,

relatively at rest, and put the two side by side in the same

field; and by this means we obtain at once the difference between

the apparent number of vibrations in a second of the ray from the

moving body, and the real number, and thus the velocity of the

moving object. This observation has the advantage of being

independent of the distance of the objects observed, being as

accurate for the most distant stars as for the nearest.

{822}

We may notice, in passing, also a singular consequence. If the

motion were rapid enough, it would change the colors of objects;

and, since outside the visible spectrum there are dark rays, it

would even be possible for a luminous body to become invisible,

by the mere effect of movement away from or to us. But the

prodigious velocity of light places such a result among mere

metaphysical possibilities. Indeed, it was thought, for a time,

that the effect of motion on the spectral lines would never be

perceptible. The first trials only gave negative results, either

because the bodies observed were moving too slowly, or because

the instruments used were not sensitive enough. This is no longer

the case, as we shall soon see.

To conclude this explanation of principles, it only remains to

say a few words on the spectroscopic observations of temperature

and pressure. But here we shall indeed be obliged to be brief;

since Messrs. Frankland and Lockyer, who have undertaken

investigations on these important points, have not yet finished

their labors; and what they have as yet communicated to the Royal

Society of London, and the Academy of Sciences of Paris, is not

sufficiently detailed. In 1864, Messrs. Plücker and Hittorf

discovered that variations in temperature of some of the chemical

elements, such as hydrogen, nitrogen, sulphur, and selenium,

caused sudden changes in their spectra. At a certain degree of

heat, their former lines instantly disappeared and were succeeded

by new ones. This is evidently somewhat analogous to what takes

place in a sonorous pipe when it is blown more forcibly. At

first, the sound only becomes louder, then its pitch is suddenly

raised. But here we know the relation of the new note to the old

one; but the connection between the successive spectra has not

yet been ascertained. As regards pressure, Messrs. Frankland and

Lockyer inform us that one of the lines of hydrogen increases in

breadth with increased compression of the gas. We have also

already said that under very high pressures the gases have not

only shown broader bright lines, but even continuous spectra. (It

will be remembered that the usual spectrum given by a luminous

gas consists of isolated bright lines.) Father Secchi, whose

attention has lately been turned to composite rather than to

simple substances, has observed, among other things, that the

spectrum of benzine vapor is gradually modified with a gradual

increase of density.

Let us pass to the recent applications which astronomers have

made of these various principles. The eclipse of the 18th of

August, 1868, and the beautiful discovery of M. Janssen, have

naturally turned their attention to the sun, and some most

interesting discoveries have been made. To study its various

portions, an image of it is first produced in the focus of a

large telescope, which image is afterward enlarged by a lens

similar to those used for the objectives of microscopes; and its

different parts are successively placed upon the slit of the

spectroscope. (The slit is the small aperture of that shape

through which the light enters before falling upon the analyzing

prism.) This slit thus receives light from only a part of the

sun's disc; for the light diffused in our atmosphere and falling

upon it, although coming indeed from all parts of the sun, is too

feeble to interfere with the observations. Suppose, then, that

our eye is at the spectroscope, and that the slit is receiving

rays from the centre of the sun.

{823}

The movement of the heavens will bring all the points of the

solar radius successively upon it, from the centre to the edge;

and if the slit is placed perpendicular to this radius, it will

come out, of course, tangent to the edge. Under these conditions,

and if the atmosphere is steady, the phenomena will be as

follows.

As long as we are upon the disc, we shall see nothing but the

usual solar spectrum with its colors and its numerous dark lines.

The region from which this light comes is called the photosphere;

and its spectrum would be continuous were not its light absorbed

by the interposed vapors of a great many substances. These vapors

produce the dark lines; but where are they? It was for a long

time supposed that they formed an immense atmosphere round the

sun, only visible during total eclipses under the form of a

brilliant aureola. This hypothesis seems now to have been

abandoned, for reasons which will soon be given. It is generally

thought that these absorbing vapors form the atmosphere in which

the luminous clouds float, or, at least, that they are in

immediate contact with the photosphere.

Secondly, when we have nearly arrived at the edge, the spectrum

is covered with a number of bright lines. According to Messrs.

Frankland and Lockyer, these probably indicate a very thin

gaseous covering of the photosphere, the elective emission of

which has no effect for want of sufficient thickness, except upon

the borders of the sun, where it is seen very obliquely. Upon the

rest of the surface it only acts by its elective absorption, and

perhaps may be the only cause of the dark lines. This conjecture

certainly agrees with the principles just developed.

Thirdly, at the moment of passing off the disc, the lines all

disappear, and the spectrum becomes continuous. Father Secchi,

who informs us of this fact, naturally ascribes it to a

particular layer enveloping the photosphere. He adds that this

layer is very thin, so that tremulousness in the air suffices to

prevent its observation, on account of the mixture of lights. It

is not found on the whole circumference of the disc; but we shall

give an explanation of this. He supposes that it is the seat of

the elective absorption which produces the dark lines; but how

can this be reconciled with the continuity of the spectrum which

it emits?

This spectrum soon disappears, and some brilliant lines take its

place, particularly a red, a yellow, a green, and a violet one.

At this moment the slit is illumined by the famous rose-colored

layer, now called the _chromosphere_, upon which rest the

protuberances, formerly so mysterious, seen in total eclipses. We

cannot see it in the ordinary way, on account of the atmospheric

light; but it comes out in the spectroscope, its light being

concentrated in a few bright lines, while that of our atmosphere

is spread out in a long spectrum, and consequently much weakened.

It has been found that the mean thickness of this gaseous

envelope of the sun is more than 5000 kilometres, (3107 miles,)

or about four tenths of the earth's diameter, and that its

contour is very variable; it is often agitated like the waves of

a stormy sea, while in some places it sometimes has a very

uniform level. It is now regarded as forming the outer limit or

coating of the sun. The only reason which formerly supported the

belief in a gaseous atmosphere outside of it, the elective

absorption of which gave the dark lines of the solar spectrum,

was the phenomenon of the aureola, already mentioned. But the

thin layer discovered by F. Secchi will probably account for

this; and there are, on the other hand, very strong reasons for

rejecting the idea of such a vast exterior envelope.

{824}

One is the appearance, mentioned above, of the numerous bright

lines which Messrs. Frankland and Lockyer attribute to a thin,

gaseous coating of the photosphere. The light of these ought

seemingly to be absorbed by a thick atmosphere, and the lines

reversed to dark ones. Besides, these same observers consider

that the change of breadth of the lines shows that the pressure

is insignificant at the summit of the chromosphere, and that even

at the base it is less than that of our own air. Lastly, no

traces have been found of the bright-line spectrum which this

envelope ought itself to give in the vicinity of the disc.

To return to the chromosphere: of what gases is it formed? It

certainly is principally composed of hydrogen, perhaps in many

parts entirely so. When a series of electric sparks is passed

through a tube containing pure hydrogen at a very low pressure,

the tube is illumined with a light of the same color as that of

the protuberances. If this light is examined with the

spectroscope, it shows a fine spectrum with a number of brilliant

and very fine lines, among which four are conspicuous, broader

and brighter than the others. The first is red, the second green,

the third and fourth are violet; but this fourth is much the

faintest, and even the third is not so bright as the other two.

The first is called C, the second F, because their positions

exactly correspond to those of the two dark lines thus designated

by Fraunhofer in the solar spectrum. The third is very near the

dark line G of the sun, which is produced by the vapor of iron.

Now, the two first are always found among the lines of the

chromosphere; the third also is often visible; and M. Rayet has

recently seen the fourth. Hydrogen, then, exists in this layer;

for though its other lines are not seen, this may easily be

ascribed to their faintness. But there is one line of the

chromosphere which is still unexplained, the yellow one between C

and F. It would at first seem to be the well-known double line of

sodium, called D, which is so frequently met with in

spectroscopic experiments; but it is certain that it is somewhat

more refrangible than this; and it is not yet known to what

substance it is due; it may, perhaps, also belong to hydrogen,

under a different pressure or temperature from any under which it

has been observed here.

It has been said that the outline of the chromosphere is

generally very irregular. Immense columns rise from it, the

celebrated protuberances, the height of which is sometimes as

much as eleven diameters of the earth, (or 85,000 miles.) It

must, therefore, be subject to great agitation, to which the

spectroscope bears witness. Mr. Lockyer has observed several

times that foreign substances were projected into it; for

example, magnesium into one protuberance as far as the sixth part

of its height; barium and sodium, and probably other bodies also,

were seen, but at smaller elevations. We now understand the

breaks in the thin layer detected by F. Secchi; it is probably

torn by the upward movement of various substances toward the

protuberances. It is, in fact, wanting near the bright spots on

the sun, called faculae, and it is now known that these faculae

are always covered by protuberances.

Near these bright spots are also usually found the dark spots

which have been observed for more than two centuries. Some

discoveries have just been made regarding these which are perhaps

the most interesting of any yet made in the sun.

{825}

Every one knows that they are composed of two distinct parts--the

nucleus, which appears black in a telescope, but which is really

quite bright, since it gives a spectrum of its own; and the

penumbra, which surrounds this nucleus. The latter consists of

portions of the photosphere, drawn out in the form of threads

toward the centre of the nucleus; these threads sometimes unite

with each other and form bridges, as it were, over the dark

space. All the spectral observations confirm the idea previously

entertained, that these spots are really cavities in the

photosphere; also they indicate that these cavities are filled

with absorbing vapors, whose high degree of pressure is manifest

by the broadening of their lines. Mr. Lockyer has seen in them

sodium, barium, and magnesium; F. Secchi, calcium, iron, and

sodium. Above these spots the hydrogen of the chromosphere

appears in quantities sufficient for its elective emission to

destroy the black lines produced by its absorption upon other

parts of the disc, and even sometimes to change them into bright

ones. But there are many other peculiarities in the spectra of

the spots; and F. Secchi, in examining them, has hit upon an idea

which seems to us very suggestive. It was already known by

observations of their frequency and size, that the sun is a

slightly variable star, with a period of ten and one third years.

We now find a new resemblance between it and the other variable

stars. It may be remembered that the Roman astronomer has lately

divided the stars into four classes, according to the general

character of their spectra. He has just compared the different

portions of the sun with these four groups, and finds that if its

surface was all like the nuclei of the spots, it would have to be

put in the class whose type is Betelgeux, all of which are more

or less variable; that the penumbras are like Arcturus, and the

general surface of the photosphere like Pollux. He has also

concluded, from the presence of many of the dark lines in the

nuclei, that the vapor of water exists in these regions of the

sun; and the appearance of others not yet named has caused him to

suspect the presence of many other compound bodies. Up to this

time, hardly any thing but the simple substances has been looked

for, as the heat of the sun would seem to be so great as to

separate all the composite ones; but this temperature probably is

not so high in the spots. It became, therefore, of interest to

examine the faint red stars which form his fourth group; and in

doing so, F. Secchi has obtained the surprising result that the

vapor of a compound substance, namely, benzine, gives, when

incandescent, a spectrum having bright lines exactly

corresponding to the dark ones of one of the stars of this group.

This star, then, appears to have an atmosphere of benzine.

Finally, the spectroscope has demonstrated the movement of at

least one star. Mr. Huggins has found that the hydrogen lines in

the spectrum of Sirius do not exactly coincide with those of this

gas when at rest, but are displaced toward the violet; this

observation was confirmed at Rome. It would follow from this that

Sirius is rapidly approaching us. This is the only observation of

this description which seems yet to be well established. But may

it not be possible to make others, and even elsewhere than among

the stars? The chromosphere is, as we know, the scene of very

rapid movements; and may not these be visible by the displacement

of the spectral lines?

{826}

The following remark of Mr. Lockyer, in one of his communications

to the Royal Society, would induce us to hope for this: "In the

protuberance of which we are speaking, the line F was strangely

displaced. It seemed that some disturbing cause altered the

refrangibility of this line of hydrogen _under certain

conditions and pressures_." But is it really to pressure that

this displacement is due, when we know that rapid movement

produces this effect, which has never been known to follow from

pressure? But let us hasten to acknowledge that, in a subsequent

communication of the same author, we find a sentence much more to

the point, and which only needs to be a little more developed to

answer our question. Mr. Lockyer is here speaking of movements in

the vapors which fill the cavities of the spots. "The changes of

refrangibility," says he, "of the rays in question show that the

absorbing matter is rising and falling relatively to the luminous

matter, and that these movements can be determined with great

precision." Let us hope that this will be verified by

observation, and that exact measures will show the fertility of

such a promising theoretical principle. [Footnote 199]

[Footnote 199: The rapidity of some of these movements has

been said to be about one hundred miles a second.]

The length of this bulletin is beginning to alarm us; but since

it should include all the last scientific developments concerning

the subject of ethereal vibrations, a word must be added on some

curious experiments of Mr. Tyndall. The chemical action of these

vibrations had hardly been examined hitherto, except in the

nutrition of plants, in the formation of chlorhydric acid, and in

the transformation of various substances, principally used in

photography. The successor of Faraday has recently studied their

effects upon vapors, and has applied the curious results of his

investigations to some as yet unexplained facts of meteorology

and astronomy. Passing a cylindrical beam of light down a long

glass tube full of the vapor which he wished to examine, he found

that the vapor soon ceased to be completely transparent. An

incipient cloud, as he calls it, soon appeared, so thin that it

could only be seen by the light of the beam producing it, but

became invisible in the full light of day. Some vapors

undoubtedly will not produce it; but the experiment succeeds

perfectly with many different ones, especially with nitrite of

amyle, bisulphide of carbon, benzine, etc. The following

explanation of this phenomenon seems quite probable. The

vibrations of the ethereal medium, or at least some of them, are

communicated to the _atoms_ of which the composite

_molecules_ of the vapor are formed. Owing to isochronism,

the movement becomes strong enough to break up the molecule, the

atoms of which are formed into new combinations, which are better

able to resist the action of light. If the new substance cannot

remain under the given pressure and temperature in the gaseous

state, it will be precipitated in liquid particles, which are at

first extremely small, but gradually increase in size, so as to

intercept the light and become visible. If the vapor employed

satisfies these conditions, the experiment ought to succeed. The

chemical analysis of the products has, we believe, in some cases

confirmed this explanation; we will now confirm it by some facts

of another kind.

In Mr. Tyndall's experiments, the vapor examined was never

unmixed; when it was put into the tube, some other gas was also

introduced, usually atmospheric air; but other gases were also

employed. With hydrogen, a remarkable effect was produced. On

account of its small density, it failed to sustain the liquid

particles, and they slowly settled in the bottom of the tube.

{827}

By a suitable diminution of the pressure of these mixtures of gas

and vapor, the chemical action of the rays could be retarded at

pleasure. The "incipient cloud" could then be seen to form

gradually; and whatever was the character of the vapor used, the

cloud had always at first a magnificent blue color. Continuing

the experiment, the brilliancy of the cloud increased, but its

blue tinge diminished, until it became as white as those usually

formed. The natural explanation of this change is found in the

gradual growth of the liquid particles.

The cloud was not usually formed all along the course of the

rays. After having traversed a certain thickness of vapor, the

rays, though seeming as bright as ever, lost their chemical

power. This result might easily be predicted by the theory. Only

a few of these rays had the proper length of wave to act by

isochronism upon the atoms of the vapor. These would be absorbed

shortly after entering; and the others, though vastly more

numerous and escaping absorption, would produce no chemical

effect. It was even probable that, by passing the light at the

outset through a small thickness of the liquid, the vapor of

which was contained in the tube, all its active rays could be

taken out; and experiment confirmed this conclusion. It is to be

regretted that the light was not examined with the prism before

being employed; the wave-length of the active rays would then

have been known. It is no doubt very probable that they are

toward the violet extremity, either among the visible rays or

beyond. But the colored glasses, which the English physicist

interposed, only partially resolve the question. The prism would

undoubtedly have shown that the wave-length of the active rays

varies with the substance exposed to them.

Some vapors taken alone are almost insensible, while their

mixture is immediately affected by the passage of the rays. Such

is the case of that of nitrite of butyle with chlorhydric acid.

This is very easily explained theoretically. The disturbance

communicated to the atoms by the ethereal vibrations, though very

decided, may be insufficient to break up the molecules. But if

another cause, though itself insufficient alone, comes to its

assistance, the atoms may be separated. Such another cause is

that which chemists have long known as _affinity_, the

manifestations of which are very numerous; but which has not yet

been submitted to a precise analysis. In the case just mentioned,

the affinity of the elements of the nitrite of butyle for those

of the chlorhydric acid conspires with the vibrations to destroy

the molecules of the two substances and form a new one, which is

precipitated. The phenomenon is like that observed in the growth

of plants. Light alone is not sufficient to decompose the

carbonic acid of the air; neither are the leaves when in the

dark. But when the sun's rays fall upon them, the carbonic acid

is decomposed, its oxygen uniting with the atmosphere and its

carbon with the plant. It is now easy to justify what was said in

the beginning as to the formation of chlorhydric acid by the

action of the rays on a mixture of chlorine and hydrogen. It is

only necessary that the molecules of these gases, or, at least,

of one of them, should be composed of several atoms. Affinity

alone could only break the union of these very slowly; but the

light would shake them apart, and enable the affinity to act

immediately.

{828}

So far Mr. Tyndall's experiments agree perfectly with the theory;

they confirm it, but they do not extend it. He has, however, made

others, which seem to disclose new points in the theory of

exchange of movements between the ether and ponderable matter. It

might no longer be the atoms or the molecules which would have to

be considered in respect to the ethereal vibrations, but even the

particles, if sufficiently small. In fact, these particles

reflect the rays not absorbed, according to entirely new laws. In

the first place, although belonging to colorless liquids, they

reflect the blue rays much better than the others. This is true

of all the vapors tried, without exception. This elective

reflection only holds when their dimensions are small, since it

disappears as the size of the particles increases. This is quite

a new fact, and, it must be acknowledged, as yet quite

unexplained. Secondly, they polarize light according to laws

which must also be called new, being entirely different from

those given by theory and experiment for polarization by

reflection. In one respect these laws are not new; for they have

been long observed in atmospheric polarization; but this has

always been one of the knotty points of the undulatory theory.

Evidently, Mr. Tyndall's experiments do not clear it up entirely;

but they have made an important advance in that direction, by

showing to what physical circumstance this polarization is

probably due. It would appear, that is, that in the higher

regions of our atmosphere there are vapors which, instead of

condensing in particles large enough to form ordinary clouds, are

precipitated like those used by Mr. Tyndall, and fill the air

with extremely small particles and with incipient clouds. This

hypothesis is certainly very probable. It accounts at once for

the blueness of the sky, and for its polarization of light.