THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
A
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.
VOL. XVIII.
OCTOBER, 1873, TO MARCH, 1874.
NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE.
9 Warren Street.
1874.
CONTENTS.
Archbishop Spalding, 512.
Are Our Public Schools Free? 1.
Block of Gold, A, 855.
Brittany, More about, 111.
Catharine, S., of Ricci, 420.
Cathedral of Chartres, The, 235.
Catholic Literature in England Since the Reformation, 261, 363.
Catholic Young Men's Associations, 269.
Christmas Story, A, 479.
Como, A Week at the Lake of, 137.
Confiscation Laws, Italian, 30.
Court of France in 1830, The, 403.
Crime--Its Origin and Cure, 55.
Daniel O'Connell, 208.
Dubois' Madame Agnes, 68, 195.
English Christmas Story, An, 479.
English Maiden's Love, An, 694.
English Sketches: An Hour in Jail, 279.
English Sketches: Ruins of an Old Abbey, 398.
Epiphany, The, 590.
Evangelical Alliance, The, 353.
Farm of Muiceron, The, 171, 338, 442, 627, 734.
Father Sebastian Rale, S.J., 541.
France, The Court of in 1830, 403.
French Poet, A, 94.
Fur Trader, The, 412, 502.
Grace Seymour's Mission, 668, 806.
Grande Chartreuse, A Visit to the, 118.
Grapes and Thorns, 10, 220, 303, 591, 772.
Hester Hallam, 473.
Hour in a Jail, An, 279.
How George Howard was Cured, 40.
Italian Confiscation Laws, 30.
Jansenist Schism in Holland, The, 686, 838.
John Stuart Mill, 721.
Laus Perennis, 388.
Literature, Catholic, in England, 261, 363.
Looker-Back, A, 711, 848.
Love of God, The, 93.
Madame Agnes, 68, 195.
Madame de Staël, 532.
Metaphysics, A Talk on, 289.
More about Brittany: Its Customs, Its People, and Its Poems, 111.
My Friend and His Story, 87.
Nano Nagle, 658.
Napoleonic Idea and Its Consequences, The, 79.
Odd Stories, 142.
O'Connell, Daniel, 208.
One Chapter from Hester Hallam's Life, 473.
Our Masters, 702.
Paris Hospitals, 124.
Philosophical Terminology, 184, 753.
Principles of Real Being, The, 433, 577, 824.
Public Schools, Are they Free? 1.
Rale, Father Sebastian, S.J., 541.
Real Being, The Principles of, 433, 577, 824.
Religious Policy of the Second Empire, 793.
Ruins of an Old Abbey, 398.
See of S. Francis of Sales, The, 249.
Son of God, The, Archetypal Beauty, 165.
Song of Roland, The, 378, 488.
Spalding, Archbishop, 512.
Spiritualism, 145, 318, 606.
Staël, Madame de, 532.
Tale of the Northwest, A, 412, 502.
Talk on Metaphysics, A, 289.
Terminology, Philosophical, 184.
Travels with a Valetudinarian, 522.
Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, A, 118.
Week at the Lake of Como, A, 137.
Year of Our Lord 1873, The, 558.
Young Men's Associations, Catholic, 269.
POETRY.
Child Restored, The, 531.
Church Postures, 9.
Cui Bono? 684.
Dante's Purgatorio, 166, 299, 587.
Epigrams, 298, 657.
From Egypt to Chanaan, 557.
Greatest Grief, The, 425.
In Thy Light shall we see Light, 248.
Late Home, 771.
Little Chapel, The, 756.
Lute with the Broken String, The, 285.
Mary, 110.
Nature, To, 123.
Ordinandus, 472.
Priest, The, 219.
Recent Poetry, 54.
Self-Love, 194.
Serious "Vive la Bagatelle," The, 441.
Sleep, 317.
Trouvere, The, 67.
Venite, Adoremus, 501.
Vigil, 857.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Acts of the Early Martyrs, The, 576.
Arena and the Throne, The, 575.
Ark of the People, The, 573.
Augustine, S., Works of, 860.
Baron of Hertz, 574.
Bible History, 430.
Byrne's Irish Emigration, 288.
Catholicity and Pantheism, 426.
Christian Doctrine, The Enchiridion, etc., 860.
Christian Trumpet, The, 427.
De Concilio's Catholicity and Pantheism, 426.
De Smet's Voyages aux Montagnes Rocheuses, etc., 287.
Divine Sequence, The, 286.
Dove of the Tabernacle, The, 859.
Essays on Various Subjects, 429.
Ewing, Thomas, Memorial of, 859.
Fastré's Acts of the Early Martyrs, 576.
Fullerton's Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 286.
Fullerton's Seven Stories, 574.
Goldie's Life of B. John Berchmans, 720.
Good Things for Catholic Readers, 288.
Gordon Lodge, 574.
Historical Sketches, 144.
Holy Mass, The, 858.
House of Gold, and the Saint of Nazareth, 287.
Idea of a University, 144.
Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 431.
Irish Emigration to the United States, 288.
Jesuits in Conflict, 719.
Kinane's The Dove of the Tabernacle, 859.
Kirkpatrick's Spain and Charles VII., 429.
Labadye's Baron of Hertz, 574.
Lascine, 574.
Lectures on S. John, 860.
Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, 720.
Lefebvre's Louise Lateau, 857.
Lenten Sermons, 859.
Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 286.
Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718.
Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, by Bishop Mullock, 718.
Life of the B. John Berchmans, 720.
Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, 432.
Life of the Ven. Anna Maria Taigi, 858.
Lives of the Irish Saints, 718.
Marie and Paul, 574.
Meditations for the Use of the Clergy, 431.
Memorial of Thomas Ewing, 859.
Moscheles' Recent Music and Musicians, 432.
Müller's The Holy Mass, 858.
Mullock's Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718.
Newman's Historical Sketches, 144.
Newman's Idea of a University, 144.
O'Hanlon's Lives of the Irish Saints, 718.
O'Leary's Bible History, 430.
O'Reilly's Songs from the Southern Seas, 431.
Pleadings of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, 859.
Poetical Life of S. Joseph, 287.
Potter's Sacred Eloquence, 144.
Pratt's Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575.
Preston's Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most Sacred Heart of
Jesus Christ, 720.
Pronouncing Handbook of 3,000 Words, 287.
Real Presence, The, 574.
Recent Music and Musicians, 432.
Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575.
Rituale Romanum Pauli V. Pontificis Maximi Jussu Editum et a
Benedicto XIV. Auctum et Castigatum, etc., 575.
Sacred Eloquence, 144.
Sacred Heart of Jesus, Pleadings of the, 859.
Saxe Holm's Stories, 574.
Scotti's Meditations for the Use of the Clergy, 431.
Segneri's Lenten Sermons, 859.
Seven Stories, 574.
Songs from the Southern Seas, 431.
Soule and Campbell's Pronouncing Vocabulary, 287.
Spain and Charles VII., 429.
Spalding's Life of Archbishop Spalding, 432.
Story of Wandering Willie, The, 432.
Thompson's The Life of the Ven. Anna Maria Taigi, 858.
Tissot's Real Presence, 574.
Townsend's Arena and the Throne, 575.
Voyages aux Montagnes Rocheuses et Sejour ches les Tribus Indiennes
de l'Oregon, 287.
White's Gordon Lodge, 574.
Wiseman's Essays on Various Subjects, 429.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XVIII., No. 103.--OCTOBER, 1873.[1]
ARE OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS FREE?
"Give Catholics their full rights; ask nothing of them you would
not willingly concede if you were in their place."--_New York
Journal of Commerce._
The subject of education, the method and extent of it, is undoubtedly
one of the foremost topics of discussion to-day, and will be more
conspicuous than ever in the immediate future. And, while all men are
agreed that a sound and sufficient education of the entire people
is our only ground of hope for the perpetuity of our rights and
liberties--that, in truth, it is vital--it is not to be wondered at
that men differing in the depth as well as extent of their individual
culture, should also widely differ as to the constituent elements of a
sound and sufficient education. There are, for instance, some, as yet
happily few in number, who, in the maze of confusion and Babel-like
discussions of sectarians and false teachers turn their faces away
in hopeless, helpless uncertainty, and suggest that _religion_ of
every name and kind must be excluded and the Deity himself ignored in
our public schools, so that public education shall be _secular_; and
however much of "religion" of any and every sort may be taught, it must
be _in private_. This is natural enough in those unfortunate persons
who so far lack a _positive faith_ that they see no safety except in
uncertainty, and hence adopt a kind of _eclecticism_ which, embracing
some abstract truth, may confessedly also contain something of error.
The early settlers of this country--this "land of liberty"--however,
had no idea of excluding religion from the schools; and if any among
them or their immediate successors entertained even any peculiar
notions as to what constituted religion, they were very summarily
"squelched out."
Even "the great expounder of the constitution" was in the habit of
adjuring his fellow-citizens "not to forget the _religious_ character
of our origin," and to remember that the right to "life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness" is guaranteed to us in that epitome of human
wisdom which the great New Englander was born to defend. That right
it is the privilege and the duty of each one of us also to maintain,
especially when it is threatened under the specious pretext of reform.
These and other reflections are suggested by the perusal of a pamphlet,
a sort of campaign document, issued by the "New York City Council
of Political Reform," first published in 1872, and thought to be of
consequence enough to be reissued in the present year of grace 1873.
This document contains among others a report entitled "Sectarian
Appropriations of Public Money." The very title of this report at once
alarms and arouses us. We are alarmed at the dangers that menace, and
we are aroused to defend, our rights as Americans. In this defence we
invoke the genius of liberty and the spirit of "equal rights," and
shall fight under the "Stars and Stripes," the flag of freedom, till
we succeed in repelling the open as well as insidious assaults of the
enemies of that truth which only can make us FREE.
The ostensible and praiseworthy purpose of the pamphlet in question is
to expose the frauds upon the city treasury perpetrated by the late
"Tammany Ring," which, in the person of the "boss thief of the world,"
is now on trial, in a sort, before the courts, charged with _robbery_,
_theft_, and _perjury_, but the real purpose, the iniquitous and
damnable purpose, is intimated in the following words of the report
upon "Sectarian Appropriations, etc.": "Over $2,273,231 taken from the
treasury in 1869, 1870, 1871. One sect gets in cash $1,915,456 92;
besides public land, $3,500,000. Total to a single sect, $5,415,456
92." And further (on page 10 of the same report): "Nearly $2,000,000 of
the money raised by taxes abstracted from the public treasury of the
city and county of New York in the last three years alone for sectarian
uses. A single sect gets $1,396,388 51, besides a large slice of the
city's real estate."
This "sect" means the Catholic Americans of the city of New York, in
numbers somewhere about 500,000, or nearly half the population of the
city; of whom we are told elsewhere in this same report (page 4) that,
"as a sect," it has during the last three years, _by an alliance with
the Tammany Ring drawn_ (taken, abstracted) _from the public treasury,
in cash, for the support of its convents, churches, cathedrals, church
schools, and asylums, the enormous sum of_ $1,396,388 51.
It is hardly worth while for our present purpose to verify or to
contradict this total or the particulars of it, for the errors into
which the report or its author has perhaps ignorantly fallen, though
not inconsiderable in magnitude, hardly affect our main purpose; and
after all, these "inaccuracies" may not, it is hoped, be the result of
_carelessness_ solely, but are due in some measure to the fact that
many of the "sects," while they parody our practices, appropriate also
our names, and so may conveniently be confounded with our Catholic
institutions.
We will, however, point out some which may readily be investigated.
For instance, on page 10 of the report just mentioned, we find that
the "House of Mercy," Bloomingdale, with a $5,000 "abstraction" in
1869, is classed as Roman Catholic, and it happens to be a Protestant
institution; the "Sisters of Mercy" also, with an "abstraction" of
$457, is Protestant; "German-American School, S. Peter's Church," with
its "abstraction" of $1,500, is Protestant; and the "German-American
Free School," with its "abstraction" of $14,000 in 1869, $2,496 in
1870, and $1,960 in 1871, is Protestant; and the "German-American
School, Nineteenth Ward," with its "abstraction" of $3,150 in 1869
and $2,700 in 1870, is Protestant; and the "Church of Holy Name or S.
Matthew," with its "abstraction" of $463 12, is also Protestant; and
the "Free German School," with its "abstraction" of $5,000 in 1869,
$3,600 in 1870, and $4,480 in 1871, is also Protestant; and the "German
Mission Association," with its "abstraction" of $5,000 in 1869, and
$10,000 in 1870 and 1871, is also Protestant; besides others, perhaps,
improperly classed as Roman Catholic. In some other instances, the sums
"abstracted" were simply amounts of assessments improperly laid and
subsequently refunded.
And in connection with this suggestion of errors may be noted, also,
among the _omissions_ (suppressions, may we not say?) the instance
of "The Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents" which
is mentioned (on p. 16 of the report in question) as receiving an
"abstraction" of $8,000 in 1870 and nothing in 1871. This is a
Protestant institution, and so classed in the Report--to show, we
suppose, how small an "abstraction" comparatively it "took." But will
the author of the report tell us how large an "abstraction" that
society "took" of "public money"? As he has not, and perhaps does not
know, we refer him to its annual report, where he will find as follows,
viz.:
1870. From State Comptroller, $40,000 00
From City Comptroller, 8,000 00
Board of Education, License,
and Theatres, 22,218 53
----------
$70,218 53
1871. State Comptroller, $40,000 00
Board of Education, 5,766 91
making a pretty total of $70,218 53 for 1870 and $45,766 91 for 1871.
There is also the "New York Juvenile Asylum," a Protestant institution,
which does not seem to be mentioned in the report in question, but it
will be found that in 1871 it "abstracted"
From the City Treasury, $48,049 41
From the Board of Education, 4,015 83
----------
$52,065 24
There are other "omissions"--that of the "abstraction" by the
"Children's Aid Society," for instance--but these are enough for the
purpose, although it may be added that in 1872 this institution "took"
from the city $106,238 90.
Our objection is not so much to the amount "in cash" stated to have
been "taken," because the report admits that it has not been expended
for individual or selfish purposes, but in the maintenance and working
of schools and other beneficent institutions. We wish, however, that
the "New York City Council of Political Reform" had used the means at
its command to give an accurate and _complete_ statement, and we think
it would have been wiser to do so, inasmuch as, while professedly
carrying on the purpose proclaimed in its motto on page 1 of the
report in question, to "CHERISH, PROTECT, AND PRESERVE THE FREE COMMON
SCHOOLS," it has seen fit so unmistakably to attack the "single sect."
Certainly, we object to the manner in which the "sect" is charged
to have acquired its money, although having used it so wisely. This
"single sect," comprising as it does more than two hundred millions
(or two-thirds) of the Christian population of the world, rather
objects to the term "sect" as applied. And if the author will take the
trouble to consult the other Webster--not Daniel, whom we have already
quoted--but him of the more venerable baptismal name, he will learn,
very likely, however, not for the first time, that the term "sect"
means "a denomination which dissents from an established church."
And Catholics are certainly not aware that they are "dissenters" in
the hitherto recognized sense of the word among polemical writers.
Whether his application of the term is malicious or simply the result
of ignorance, makes little difference; it suited _him_, and is of no
particular importance just now to us.
But surely the author of the report cannot think the amount, even
as overstated by him, to be disproportionate to the end to be
attained--"to cherish, protect, and preserve the free common schools,"
when it is added that _our_ purpose is also "to extend" and to make our
common schools "free" indeed to all, whether Jew or Gentile. All that
we ask is to have our equal rights in this land of equal rights, and
to extend in the broadest manner the freedom of the public schools, so
that the rights and consciences of none may be restricted or violated.
We ask simply that the "money raised by taxes," so large a portion of
which we are charged to have "abstracted," shall be divided _pro rata_,
and so, by dividing the difficulty, conquer it! In the report, it is
admitted (p. 4) that the "enormous sum" alleged or intimated to have
been surreptitiously "taken" or "abstracted," was not "taken" for the
purpose of individual gain, but for "the support of convents, churches,
cathedrals, and church schools." What sum, _thus expended_, can be too
great? In what is it enormous? Is it enormous because disproportioned
to the amount expended by other "sects"? Or is it so because expended
for the support of schools kept in "damp basements of churches, so
dark that gas has to be used on the brightest days," rather than in the
"educational palaces" where Catholics cannot go without a violation of
conscience, and from which they are practically excluded?
And here it is notable that in the report now under consideration (p.
2) is printed the following, purporting to be an extract from a report
of the "Secretary of Commissioners of Charities" to the Legislature in
1871, wherein it is said the secretary "_refers very truthfully to the
already marked injury to the public schools of the city of New York
caused by building up and supporting from the public treasury so large
a number of rival sectarian schools_" (see _Rep._ pp. 99, 100). The
italics are not ours.
Now, in the report of the Hon. Abram B. Weaver, Superintendent of
Public Education, made in the same year (1871), he says: "The aggregate
and the average attendance was greater absolutely, and in proportion
to population, than in any former year"--"... 11,700 schools were
maintained, 17,500 teachers were employed, and about $10,000,000 were
expended" (_Rep. Com. of Education_, 1871, p. 291). "The average number
of pupils for the whole state in attendance each day of the entire
term in 1870 was 16,284, more than in 1869, etc." (p. 292). And in
New York City, we are told in the same report (p. 301 of _Report of
Commissioners of Education_, 1871), "It is interesting to note, as
evidence of the substantial progress of free schools in New York City,
that, while the whole population of the city has increased but about 14
per cent. in the last ten years, the average attendance of pupils has
increased nearly 54 per cent. in the same time." Now, wherein consists
the _injury_ complained of? While the average attendance on the "free
public schools" was actually increasing, whence came the children
attending in these "damp basements of churches," and what necessity
drove them from the "educational palaces"? Is the condition, in certain
respects, of our public schools such as is pictured by the writer of
the following, taken from the New York _Herald_ of Feb. 9, 1873:
"PUBLIC-SCHOOL ABUSES.
"TO THE EDITOR OF THE HERALD:
"Your articles on school ventilation have my hearty approval. I
have sent my two youngest boys for two successive winters to the
boys' school on Thirteenth street, near Sixth avenue (primary
department), but each time they remained from one to two weeks, and
then had to remain home, owing to a severe cold or inflammation
of the lungs, which kept them away for weeks. Having tried the
school thus I was compelled to remove them this winter to a
private school, where they have attended regularly and have been
in good health. No judgment is used in that department in regard
to ventilation. Sometimes the room is excessively warm; at other
times the windows on both sides of the house are opened, and the
current of cold air descending on the heads of the children causes
catarrhal affections and pneumonia.
"Such complaints as the following have been made about the girls'
school, Twelfth street, near University place. A continual system
of stealing is going on after they leave in the afternoon. The
desks locked up are opened and articles removed, even books as
well as other things, and if anything is accidentally left by the
scholars it is always gone before morning. Nothing is safe in
that school, and the question is, who steals it? Complaints, I
understand, have been made, but no steps taken to correct it again.
"The Board of Education is frequently applied to for necessary
books and material for conducting the school, and they are not
supplied. No notice is taken. The teachers have to purchase
themselves the necessary articles, or go without. At present, to my
knowledge, an important part of a teacher's duty is prevented being
fulfilled by reason of not having the necessary material. Teachers
are afraid of complaining for fear of losing their situations.
AMICUS."
Or this, taken from the New York _Telegram_ of February 13, 1873:
"An association has been formed by the women of Washington, called
'The Society for Moral Education,' which has for its object the
proper education and mental development of the children of the
country. The society holds regular meetings, and proposes to become
a national organization. Mrs. L. B. Chandler, of Boston, is the
inspiring genius of the movement. The members of the society, in
an appeal for support, say: 'As women, teachers, and mothers, we
feel it incumbent upon us, in view of the alarming prevalence of
intemperance and various frightful social vices, the increase
of pernicious knowledge among children and youth, the general
ill-health of women, the large number of diseased, deformed,
idiotic children born, and the appalling mortality of infants,
to seek the means whereby future generations may be blessed with
better knowledge of the laws of life, wiser and stronger parents,
and a purer social state."
Or this, from Prof. Agassiz, embodied in an editorial article of the
Boston _Herald_ of October 20, 1871:
"Year after year the chief of police publishes his statistics of
prostitution in this city, but how few of the citizens bestow
more than a passing thought upon the misery that they represent!
Although these figures are large enough to make every lover of
humanity hang his head with feelings of sorrow and shame at the
picture, we are assured that they represent but a little, as it
were, of the actual licentiousness that prevails among all classes
of society. Within a few months, a gentleman (Prof. Agassiz) whose
scientific attainments have made his name a household word in all
lands, has personally investigated the subject, and the result has
filled him with dismay, when he sees the depths of degradation to
which men and women have fallen; he has almost lost faith in the
boasted civilization of the XIXth century. In the course of his
inquiries, he has visited both the well-known 'houses of pleasure'
and the 'private establishments' scattered all over the city. He
states that he has a list of both, with the street and number,
the number of inmates, and many other facts that would perfectly
astonish the people if made public. He freely conversed with the
inmates, and the life histories that were revealed were sad indeed.
To his utter surprise, a large proportion of the 'soiled doves'
_traced their fall to influences that met them in the public
schools_, and although Boston is justly proud of its schools, it
would seem from his story that they need a thorough purification."
Or are we driven to the conclusion that the "injury" complained of is
like that which was chronicled so long ago, as suffered by Haman at the
hands of Mordecai?
"A single sect gets $1,396,388.51, besides a large slice of the
city's real estate." This, of course, refers to the cathedral lots.
That this "large slice" was fairly obtained, in the customary way of
business, more than half a century ago, and at a time when no "Tammany
Ring" existed, and when this "same sect" had no regularly consecrated
place of worship in this city, so insignificant were its numbers, is
notoriously a matter of record--known, indeed, of all men who choose to
know; and the statement made in the "report" has been so often refuted,
that the repetition of it now is disgraceful, and is simply a lie "well
stuck to." As to the other leases mentioned "at a nominal rental," what
matters it to anybody but Haman so long as the property, however now
increased in value for building sites or other material advantage to
the "money-changers," is devoted, as the report in question expressly
admits, to the cause of education--of the education of "the children
whose poverty prevented them from attending the public schools for
want of clothing, and in many cases even of food"--as we are told
in the following extract from the last published _Report_ of the
Board of Public Instruction (city of New York) for 1871 (page 14):
"It will be seen from the preceding statement" (showing the average
attendance at the schools under the jurisdiction of the Board to be,
for 1871, 103,481, and in 1870, 103,824) "that the attendance at the
public schools has not increased, which is readily explained by the
fact that many benevolent and charitable institutions have entered the
educational field. In these institutions the children whose poverty
prevented them from attending the public schools for want of clothing,
and in many cases even of food, are provided for."
In the same pamphlet from which we have quoted is also another
"Document," designated "No. 4," embodying what purports to be a
report made to the "State Council of Political Reform" in 1870 by
"the Committee on Endowment and Support by the State of Sectarian
Institutions." This "report" contains, among other quotations from
Aristotle, Washington, Jay, De Witt Clinton, Chancellor Kent, Milton,
Lord Brougham, Guizot, and Horace Mann, many of which are so generally
known and accepted as to have become truisms, one notable extract
from Thomas Jefferson, which embodies very nearly all that Catholics
desire and are contending for. Jefferson says: "A system of general
instruction which shall reach every description of our citizens from
the richest to the poorest ... give it to us in any shape." This is
what _we_ ask. We make no war; we have no "plan of attack" upon the
public schools, as charged upon page 5 of this Document No. 4; our
chief desire is simply that expressed in the words already quoted
from Thomas Jefferson; and, with the "sectarians," we deny that the
system now in use is sufficiently "general" to accomplish the purpose
intended, or that it can be called a general system while it excludes
any class whose positive religious convictions must necessarily be
daily interfered with by what is called an "unsectarian" method of
instruction. We believe, as did the Puritan fathers, that a knowledge
of and an obedience to the divine government are essential in fitting
each child "to be a citizen of a free and tolerant republic." We
believe in our right to say how and by whom such knowledge shall be
given and such obedience shall be taught, and we also believe that
we are quite as competent to determine our methods and to select
our teachers as is any political party now in being or ever likely
to be. We are quite as strongly opposed to the establishment of any
"state religion" as this self-elected body of political reformers are
or affect to be; and, to quote and apply to this body the words of
"Document No. 4," "we cannot yield one jot or tittle of their demand,
for it involves a principle to us sacred and vital. It means the union
of church and state." And we refer to history for the proof that the
Catholic has never been a state church, but has been more frequently
found in antagonism to the civil power than in alliance with it; always
on the side of liberty and the rights of the people; shielding them
from oppression, even to the deposing of unjust rulers; enforcing
their rights, even to the extent of aiding to make war upon tyrants;
and yet, despite this teaching of history, we are told (on page 8 of
the Document first referred to), under the pretence of saying why we
"make war upon the public schools," as follows: "But a single sect
is taught by its head, a foreign and despotic ecclesiastical prince,
that the civil authorities in a republic have not the right to direct
and control the course of study, and the choice and appointment
of teachers in the public schools, open alike to the youth of all
classes, but that this right belongs to the church." Now, this is
merely a specious falsehood. For, let us ask what is here meant by
"the civil authorities"? Does the phrase mean "the state," which, we
are also told, is a better educator than the church; or does it mean
that aggregation of individuals, each being represented and having
an equal voice, composing "the state"? If the latter is the meaning,
what Catholic American denies the right or asserts it for "the church"
exclusively? We are yet to meet him.
Catholics, and others not Catholics, do deny that "the state" is the
best educator, to the exclusion of the church; and they do their
best to maintain the rights of minorities as against the tyranny of
majorities.
There are certain words and phrases used in this "Document No. 4"
which we do not altogether like; as, for instance: "The state a better
educator than the church"; for, in the light of certain events not
long since occurring here and in Washington, "the state" has come to
be used, and perhaps understood, in a sense of which we are somewhat
suspicious. The doctrine of "centralization" is slowly becoming
something more than _theory_ with a certain class of politicians and
office-holders; and the words, "the state," the "civil authorities,"
and the "government," are beginning to have an ominous ring in our ears.
To be sure, when we are told, in a somewhat dogmatic way, that "the
state is a better educator than the church," we _may_ infer from the
text illustrating the dogma (page 8, Document No. 4) that in this
connection the state is manifest in the persons of the public-school
authorities, and that _they_ are a power in opposition to "a sect" or
to "sects." And when our public schools are "open alike to youth of all
classes," of all creeds, and Catholics are fairly represented among
"school authorities," and are allowed an equal voice in direction and
control, and in the choice of teachers--in short, when they have their
rights as component parts and members of "the state," we shall probably
hear no more about this "war upon the public schools," but until then
probably this clamor for their rights will still be heard.
All this talk, however, about secularizing education means nothing more
nor less than the divorcement of religion from all public education;
and it remains to be seen how far the descendants and the heirs of that
people who asserted that liberty of conscience and freedom to worship
God (even in the school-room) meant something, and are paramount, will
tolerate this "new departure."
The Catholic barons of England wrung from King John at Runnymede the
famous _Magna Charta_, and the Catholic settlers of Maryland gave
the first constitution recognizing equal rights for all men; and the
"Church of Rome," as a British Presbyterian writer has said, "has
always been an 'independent, distinct, and often opposing power'; and
that civil liberty is closely connected with religious liberty--with
the church being independent of the state." Every school-boy might and
ought to be taught these and other like facts, for history mentions
them; and the assailants of the Catholic Church ought to be ashamed to
ignore or deny them. And yet such ignorance and such denials are the
capital in trade of the bigots and the fanatics who fear and affect to
see in the spread of Catholicism a menace to our liberties.
On page 5 of this "Document No. 4" we are told that "the moment the
state takes under its protection any church, by appropriating public
money or property to the uses or support of that church, or the
teaching of its peculiar tenets or practices, it in that act, and to
that extent, unites church and state. The union of church and state, in
all ages and in all countries, has led to oppression and bloodshed."
Now, if this is not arrant nonsense, what is?
The practice of "appropriating public money or property" to churches,
so called, is coeval with our national birth. And in this country
church and state have, according to the logic of this statement,
been very much united--very much married, like Brigham Young and his
multitudinous wives--and yet the "oppression and bloodshed" sure to
follow have not yet come upon us--in fact, "churches" and state have
always in this country been united, and we did not know it! Through
what unknown dangers have we passed!
This "Document No. 4" is not honest in this kind of talk--the union of
church and state means a form of religion established by law, and pains
and penalties inflicted upon dissenters.
Not a great many years ago, in Prussia, of which we hear so much upon
the "educational question," by command of the king, the "Prussian
Calvinist and Lutheran, who had quarrelled for three hundred years
about the real presence and predestination, abandoned their disputes,
denied their faith, and became members of the 'Evangelical Church of
Prussia'"--a church whose simple creed is thus stated: "Do ye believe
in God? then must ye believe in Christ. Do ye believe in Christ? then
must ye believe in the king. He is our head on earth, and rules by the
order of God. The king has appeared in the flesh in our native land!"
This was a state religion--a union of church and state, and is about
as likely to be established here as that the "Document No. 4" is to be
adopted as a text-book in our public schools. This union of church and
state is about as sensible a cry, and quite as malignant, as the old
"No Jews, no wooden shoes!" addressed to the mob in England, and is
framed and uttered in the spirit of the same "sectarian" and bigoted
hate.
Now, one word as to "secular education"--there is no such thing, if
God's work is our work. If his glory requires the dedication of all the
powers he has given us, it is preposterous to talk about an education
from which he and his existence, and the knowledge of him and his
purposes and laws, are excluded. We may endow, and send our children
to colleges where no priest or clergyman shall ever come, and no
creed shall be taught or even mentioned, and call the education there
received secular and unsectarian, as was intended to be done at the
"Girard College" at Philadelphia, and yet we shall find the education
unsatisfactory, and no "state" has yet adopted the plan.
In conclusion, we demand, in the language of the resolutions
"unanimously adopted" and appended to the report in "Document No.
4," "... free of cost, to every child in the state, a generous and
tolerant education--such an education as qualifies him for the duties
of citizenship"; and, moreover, such an education as shall recognize
and protect the first and most important of all the _rights_ of
citizenship--the right of conscience, which is grossly violated by the
system of atheistical education.
CHURCH POSTURES.
Ye would not sit at ease while meek men kneel
Did ye but see His face shine through the veil,
And the unearthly forms that round you steal
Hidden in beauteous light, splendent or pale
As the rich Service leads. And prostrate faith
Shroudeth her timorous eye, while through the air
Hovers and hangs the Spirit's cleansing Breath
In Whitsun shapes o'er each true worshipper.
Deep wreaths of angels, burning from the east,
Around the consecrated Shrine are traced,
The awful Stone where by fit hands are placed
The Flesh and Blood of the tremendous Feast,
But kneel--the priest upon the altar-stair
Will bring a blessing out of Sion there.
--_Faber._
GRAPES AND THORNS
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."
CHAPTER V.
SHADOWS AND LILIES.
Mr. Schöninger came early to the rehearsal that evening, and, in his
stately fashion, made himself unusually agreeable. There was, perhaps,
a very slight widening of the eyes, expressive of surprise, if not of
displeasure, when he saw Miss Ferrier's critics, but his salutation did
not lack any necessary courtesy. He did not lose his equanimity even
when, later, while they were singing a fugue passage, a sonorous but
stupid bass came in enthusiastically just one bar too soon.
"I am glad you chose to do that to-night instead of to-morrow night,
sir," the director said quietly. "Now we will try it again."
And yet Mr. Schöninger was, in his profession, an object of terror
to some of his pupils, and of scrupulous, if not anxious, attention
to all; for not only did he possess notably that exalted musical
sensitiveness which no true artist lacks, but he concealed under an
habitual self-control, and great exactness in the discharge of his
duty, a fiery impatience of temper, and a hearty dislike for the
drudgery of his profession.
"If your doctrines regarding future punishments are true," he once said
to F. Chevreuse, "then the physical part of a musician's purgatory
will be to listen to discords striving after, but never attaining to,
harmony, and his hell to hear sublime harmonies rent and distorted by
discords. I never come so near believing in an embodied spirit of evil
as when I hear a masterpiece of one of the great composers mangled by
a tyro. I haven't a doubt that Chopin or Schumann might be played so as
to throw me into convulsions."
And F. Chevreuse had answered after his kind: "And your spiritual
purgatory, sir, will be the recollection of those long years during
which you have persisted in playing with one thumb, as a bleak monody,
that divine trio of which all the harmonies of the universe are but
faint echoes."
Nothing of this artistic irritability appeared to-night, as we have
said. In its stead was a gentleness quite new in the musician's
demeanor, and so slight as to be like that first film of coming verdure
on the oak, when, some spring morning, one looks out and doubts whether
it is a dimness of the eyes or the atmosphere, or a budding foliage
which has set swimming those sharp outlines of branch and twig.
"He is really human," Annette whispered to Miss Pembroke; and Honora
smiled acquiescence, though she would scarcely have employed such
an expression for her thought. She had already discovered in Mr.
Schöninger a very gentle humanity.
Low as the whisper was, his ears caught it, and two sharp eyes,
watching him, saw an almost imperceptible tremor of the eyelids, which
was the only sign he gave. The owner of these eyes did not by any means
approve of the manner in which their leader had given Miss Pembroke
her music that evening, leaving the other ladies to be served as
they might; still less did she approve of the coldness with which her
own coquettish demands on his attention had been met. It was scarcely
worth while to submit to the drudgery of rehearsing, in a chorus too,
if that was to be all the return. Rising carelessly, therefore, and
allowing the sheet of music on her lap to fall unheeded to the floor,
Miss Carthusen sauntered off toward where Miss Ferrier's two critics
sat apart, talking busily, having, apparently, as she had anticipated,
written their reports of the rehearsal before coming to it.
These critics were a formidable pair, for they criticised everybody
and everything. One of them added to a man's sarcasm a woman's finer
malice, which pricks with the needlepoint. Dr. Porson was a tall,
aquiline-faced, choleric man, with sharp eyes that, looking through
a pair of clear and remarkably lustrous glasses, saw the chink in
everybody's armor. Those who knew him would rather see lightning than
meet the flash of his glasses turned on them, and feel the probing
glances that shot through, and thunder would have been music to their
ears compared to the short laugh that greeted a sinister discovery.
The other was Mr. Sales, the new editor of _The Aurora_, a little wasp
of a man. He had twinkling black eyes that needed no lens to assist
their vision, and a thin-lipped mouth with a slim black moustache
hanging at either corner, like a strong pen-dash made with black ink.
Dr. Porson called them quotation-marks, and had a way of smoothing
imaginary moustaches on his own clean-shaven face whenever the younger
man said any very good thing without giving credit for it.
"A clever little eclectic," the doctor said of him. "He pilfers with
the best taste in the world, and, with the innocence of a babe,
believes everybody else to be original. He never writes anything worth
reading but I want to congratulate him on his 'able scissors.' 'Able
scissors' is not mine," the doctor added, "but it is good. I found it
in _Blackwood's_."
These two gentlemen had arrived early, and, seated apart, in a
side-window of the long drawing-room, crunched the people between their
teeth as they entered. Between the morsels, the doctor enlightened
his companion, a new-comer in the city, regarding Crichton and the
Crichtonians.
"There's little Jones, the most irritating person I know," the doctor
said. "By what chance he should have that robust voice I cannot
imagine. Sometimes I think it doesn't come out of his own throat, but
that he has a large ventriloquist whom he carries about with him. I
shouldn't wonder if the fellow were now just outside that open sash.
Did you see the way he marched past us, all dickey and boot-heels?
A man who is but five feet high has no right to assume six-foot
manners; he has scarcely the right to exist at all among well-grown
people. Besides, they always wear large hats. Not but I respect a
small stature in a clever person," he admitted, with a side glance
at Mr. Sales' slight figure. "We don't wish to have our diamonds by
the hundredweight. But common, pudding-stone men must be in imposing
masses, or we want them cleared away as _débris_."
"Is Mr. Schöninger a pudding-stone man?" the young editor asked, when
that gentleman had passed them by.
Dr. Porson's face unconsciously dropped its mocking. "If you should
strike Mr. Schöninger in any way," he said, "you would find him
flint. The only faults I see in the man are his excessive caution and
secretiveness. He is here, evidently, only to get all the money he
can, and, when he has enough, will wash his hands of us; therefore,
wishes for no intimacies. That is my interpretation. He is a gentleman,
however. A man must have the most perfect politeness of soul to salute
Mme. Ferrier as he did. While they were speaking together, she actually
had the air of a lady. See her look after him. It is an art which
we critics cannot learn, sir, that of setting people in their best
light. Of course it would spoil our trade if we did learn it; but,
for all that, we miss something. Schöninger is a Jew, to be sure, but
that signifies nothing. Each one to his taste. We no longer trouble
ourselves about people's faith. When you say that a man believes this
or that, it's as though you said, he eats this or that. The world
moves. Why, sir, a few years ago, we wouldn't have spoken to a man who
ate frogs any more than to a cannibal; and now we are so fond of the
little reptiles that there isn't a frog left to sing in the swamps."
"But," Mr. Sales objected, "society has established certain rules--"
then stopped, finding himself in deep water.
"Undoubtedly," the doctor replied, as gravely as though something had
been said. "The Flat-head Indians now, who seem to have understood the
science of phrenology, think it the proper thing to have a plateau on
the top of the head. Their reason is, probably, a moral rather than an
æsthetic one. They know that the peaceful and placable qualities, those
which impel a man to let go, are kept in little chambers in the front
top of the brain. They have other use for their attics. So they just
clap a board on the baby's soft head, and press the space meant for
such useless stuff as benevolence and reverence back, so as to increase
the storage for the noble qualities of firmness and self-esteem. That
is one of the rules of their society; and I have always considered it a
most striking and beautiful instance of the proper employment of means
to an end. There is a certain sublime and simple directness in it. No
circuitous, century-long labor of trying to square the fluid contents
of a round vessel, but just a board on the head. That, sir, should be
the first step in evangelizing the heathen--shape their heads. When
you want a man to think in a certain way, put a strong pressure on
his contradictory bumps, and preach to him afterwards. That's what I
tell our minister, Mr. Atherton. There he is now, that bald man with
the fair hair. He is a glorious base. His great-grandfather was a
conceited Anglo-Saxon, and he's the fourth power of him. The reason why
he does not believe in the divinity of Christ is because he was not of
Anglo-Saxon birth."
Here, across the _pianissimo_ chorus which made the vocal accompaniment
of an Alp-song, Miss Ferrier's brilliant voice flashed like lightning
in clear, sharp zigzags, startling the two into silence.
"That wasn't bad," the doctor said when she ended.
The younger gentleman applauded with such enthusiasm that Annette
blushed with pleasure. "She needs but one thing to make her voice
perfect," he said, "and that is a great sorrow."
"Yes, as I was telling you some time ago," the doctor resumed, "we are
a liberal and hospitable people in Crichton. We have no prejudices.
Everybody is welcome, even the devil. We are æsthetic, too. We admire
the picturesque. We wouldn't object to seeing an interesting family
of children shot with arrows, provided they would fall with a grace,
and their mother would assume the true Niobe attitude. In literature,
too, how we shine! We have reached the sublime of the superficial.
There's your Miss Carthusen, now, with her original poetry. How
nicely she dished up that conceit of Montaigne's, that somebody is
peculiar because he has no peculiarities. I've forgotten, it is so
long since I read him. I haven't looked over the new edition that
this poetess of ours has peeped into and fished a fancy out of. But
yesterday I was charmed to see it scintillating, in rhymed lines, in
the Olympian corner of _The Aurora_, over the well-known signature of
_Fleur-de-lis_."
The young man looked mortified. He had never read Montaigne, and had
announced this production as original and remarkable, firmly believing
the writer to be a genius. But he did not choose to tell Dr. Porson
that.
"What would you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and his voice in a
philosophical manner. "I must fill the paper; and it is better to put
in good thought at second-hand than flat originals. How many know the
difference?"
Here Annette's voice stopped them again.
"Strange that girl sings so well to-night," said the doctor, adjusting
his glasses for a clearer glance. "She looks well, too. Must be the
inspiration of her lover's presence. That's the kind of fellow, sir,
that a woman takes a fancy to--a pale, beautiful young man with a
slouched hat and a secret sorrow, the sorrow usually having reference
to the pocket."
Lawrence Gerald sat near his lady, and seemed to be absorbed in
his occupation of cutting a rosebud across in thin slices with his
pocket-knife, a proceeding his mother viewed with gentle distress.
But when the song was ended, he looked up at Annette and smiled,
seeming to be rather proud of her. And, looking so, his eyes lingered
a little, expressing interest and a slight surprise, as if he beheld
there something worth looking at which he had not noticed before. Had
he cared to observe, he might have known already that Miss Ferrier had
moments of being beautiful. This was one of them.
There is a pain that looks like delight, when the heart bleeds into the
cheeks, the lips part with a smile that does not touch the eyes, and
the eyes shine with a dazzling brilliancy that may well be mistaken for
joyousness. With such feverish beauty Annette was radiant this evening,
and the excitement of singing and of applause had added the last touch
of brightness.
The programme for the concert was chiefly of popular music, or a kind
of old-fashioned music they were making popular, part-songs and glees.
They had attained great finish and delicacy in executing these, and the
effect was charming, and far preferable to operas and operatic airs as
we usually hear them. It would have been a bold woman who would have
asked Mr. Schöninger's permission to sing a difficult _aria_. Annette
had once made such a request, but with indifferent success.
"Mademoiselle," the teacher replied, "you have a better voice than
either of the Pattis; but a voice is only a beginning. You must learn
the alphabet of music before you can read its poems. When you are ready
to be a Norma, I will resign you to some teacher who knows more than I
do."
The singing was at an end, and the singers left their seats and
wandered about the house and garden. Only Mr. Schöninger lingered by
the piano, and, seeing him still there, no one went far away, those
outside leaning in at the window.
He seated himself presently, and played a Polonaise. He sat far back,
almost at arm's length from the keys, and, as he touched it, the
instrument seemed to possess an immortal soul. One knew not which most
to admire, the power that made a single piano sound like an orchestra,
or the delicacy that produced strains fine and clear like horns of
fairyland.
When he had finished, he went to ask Mrs. Gerald how the singing had
gone.
"I observed that you listened," he remarked, being within Dr. Porson's
hearing.
Mrs. Gerald had been sitting for the last half-hour beside Mrs.
Ferrier, and the time had been penitential, as all her intercourse with
Annette's mother was. It was hard for a fond mother and a sensitive
lady to listen to such indelicate complaints and insinuations as Mrs.
Ferrier was constantly addressing to her when they were together
without uttering any sharp word in return. To be reminded that Lawrence
was making a very advantageous marriage without retorting that she
would be far more happy to see him the husband of Honora Pembroke,
required an effort; and to restrain the quick flash, or the angry tears
in her fiery Celtic heart when she heard him undervalued, was almost
more than she could do. But she had conquered herself for God's sake
and for her son's sake, perhaps a little for pride's sake, had given
the soft answer when she could, and remained silent when speech seemed
too great an effort.
That coarse insolence of mere money to refined poverty, and the
mistaking equality before the law for personal equality, are at any
time sufficiently offensive; how much more so when the victim is in
some measure in the tormentor's power.
Mrs. Gerald's face showed how severe the trial had been. Her blue eyes
had the unsteady lustre of a dew that dared not gather into tears, a
painful smile trembled on her lips, and her cheeks were scarlet. Had
she been at liberty, this lady could perfectly well have known how to
ignore or reprove impertinence without ruffling her smooth brow or
losing her tranquil manner; but she was not free, and the restraint was
agitating. This rude woman's rudest insinuation was but truth, and she
must bear it. Yet, mother-like, she never thought of reproaching her
son for what she suffered.
"I never heard music I liked so well," she said to Mr. Schöninger's
question. "We are under obligation to you for giving us what we can
understand. The composition you have just played delighted me, too,
though it is probable that I do not at all appreciate its beauties. It
made me think of fairies dancing in a ring."
"It was a dance-tune," Mr. Schöninger said, pleased that she had
perceived the thought; for it required a fine and sympathetic ear to
discern the step in that capricious movement of Chopin's.
The fact that he was a Jew had prevented her looking on this man with
any interest, or feeling it possible that any friendship could exist
between them; but the thought passed her mind, as he spoke, that Mr.
Schöninger might be a very amiable person if he chose. There was a
delicate and reserved sweetness in that faint smile of his which
reminded her of some expression she had seen on Honora's face, when she
was conversing with a gentleman who had the good fortune to please her.
Meantime, Lawrence had been having a little dispute with Annette.
"What's this about the wine?" he whispered to her. "John says there
isn't any to be had."
He looked astonished, and with reason, for the fault of the Ferrier
entertainments had always been their profusion.
"I meant to have told you that I had concluded not to have wine,"
she said. "Two gentlemen present are intemperate men, who make their
families very unhappy, and when they begin to drink they do not know
where to stop. The last time Mr. Lane was here he became really quite
unsteady before he went away."
"But the others!" Lawrence exclaimed. "What will they think?"
"They may understand just why it is," she replied; "and they may not
think anything about it. I should not imagine that they need occupy
their minds very long with the subject."
"Why, you must know, Annette, that some of them come here for nothing
but the supper, and chiefly the wine," the young man urged unguardedly.
She drew up slightly. "So I have heard, Lawrence; and I wish to
discourage such visitors' coming. People who are in the devouring mood
should not go visiting; they are disagreeable. I have never seen in
company that liveliness which comes after supper without a feeling of
disgust. It may not go beyond proper bounds, but still it is a greater
or less degree of intoxication. I have provided everything I could
think of for their refreshment and cheering, but nothing to make
them tipsy. I gave you a good reason at first, Lawrence, and I have a
better. My father died of liquor, and my brother is becoming a slave to
it. I will help to make no drunkards."
"Well," the young man sighed resignedly, "you mean well; but I can't
help thinking you a little quixotic."
"The Ferriers are giving us _eau sucrée_ instead of wine to-night,"
sneered one of the company to Mr. Schöninger, a while after.
"They show good taste in doing so," he replied coldly. "There are
always bar-rooms and drinking-saloons enough for those who are addicted
to drink. I never wish to take wine from the hand of a lady, nor to
drink it in her presence."
The night was brilliantly full-moonlighted, and so warm that they had
lit as little gas as possible. A soft glow from the upper floor, and
the bright doors of the drawing-room, made the hall chandelier useless.
Miss Ferrier's new organ there was flooded with a silvery radiance that
poured through a window. Mr. Schöninger came out and seated himself
before it.
"Shall I play a fugue of Bach's?" he asked of Miss Pembroke, who was
standing in the open door leading to the garden.
She took a step toward him, into the shadow between moonlight of window
and door, and the light seemed to follow her, lingering in her fair
face and her white dress. Even the waxen jasmine blossoms in her hair
appeared to be luminous.
"Yes," she said, "if you are to play only once more; but, if more
than once, let that be last. I never lose the sound and motion of one
of Bach's fugues till I have slept; and I like to keep the murmur it
leaves, as if my ears were sea-shells."
She went back to stand in the door, but, after a few minutes, stepped
softly and slowly further away, and passed by the drawing-room doors,
through which she saw Annette talking with animation and many gestures,
while her two critics listened and nodded occasional acquiescence,
and Lawrence withdrawn to a window-seat with Miss Carthusen, and Mrs.
Ferrier the centre of a group of young people, who listened to her
with ill-concealed smiles of amusement. At length she found the place
she wanted, an arm-chair under the front portico, and, seated there,
gathered up that strong, wilful rush of harmony as a whole. It did not
seem to have ceased when Mr. Schöninger joined her. She was so full of
the echoes of his music that for a moment she looked at him standing
beside her as if it had been his wraith.
He pointed silently and smiling to the corner of the veranda visible
from where they sat. It was on the shady side of the house, and still
further screened by vines, and the half-drawn curtains of the window
looking into it allowed but a single beam of gaslight to escape.
In that nook were gathered half a dozen children, peeping into the
drawing-room. They were as silent as the shadows in which they lurked,
and their bare feet had given no notice of their coming. Their bodies
were almost invisible, but their eager little faces shone in the red
light, and now and then a small hand was lifted into sight.
"It reminds me," he said, "of a passage in the Koran, where Mahomet
declares that it had been revealed to him that a company of genii had
listened while he was reading a chapter, and that one of them had
remarked: 'Verily, we have heard a most admirable discourse.' That
amused me; and I fancied that an effective picture might be made of
it: the prophet reading at night by the light of an antique lamp that
shone purely on his solemn face and beard, and his green robe, with,
perhaps, the pet cat curled round on the sleeve. The casement should be
open wide, and crowded with a multitude of yearning, exquisite faces,
the lips parted with the intensity of their listening. As I came along
the hall just now, I saw one of those children through the window, and
in that light it looked like a cameo cut in pink coral."
"I fancy they are some of my children," Miss Pembroke said, and rose.
"Let us see. They ought not to be out so late, nor to intrude."
"Oh! spare the poor little wretches," Mr. Schöninger said laughingly,
as she took his arm. "We find this commonplace enough, but to them it
is wonderful. I think we might be tempted to trespass a little if we
could get a peep into veritable fairyland. This is to them fairyland."
"That anything is a strong temptation is no excuse for yielding," the
lady said in a playful tone that took away any appearance of reproof
from her words. "We do not go into battle in order to surrender without
a struggle, nor to surrender at all, but to become heroes. I must teach
my little ones to have heroic thoughts."
The children, engrossed in the bright scene within, did not perceive
any approach from without till all retreat was cut off for them, and
they turned, with startled faces, to find themselves confronted by a
tall gentleman, on whose arm leaned a lady whom they looked up to with
a tender but reverent love.
These children were of a class accustomed to a word and a blow, and
their instinctive motion was to shrink back into a corner, and hide
their faces.
"I am sorry to see you here, my dears," she said. "Please go home now,
like good children."
That was her way of reproving.
She stood aside, and the little vagabonds shied out past her, each one
trying to hide his face, and scampering off on soundless feet as soon
as he had reached the ground.
"So you have a school?" Mr. Schöninger asked, as they went round
through the garden.
They came out into the moonlight, and approached the rear of the house,
where a number of the company were gathered, standing among the flowers.
"Yes, I have fifty, or more, of these little ones, and I find it
interesting. They were in danger of growing up in the street, and I
had nothing else to do--that is, nothing that seemed so plain a duty.
So I took the largest room in an old house of mine just verging on the
region where these children live, and have them come there every day."
"You must find teaching laborious," the gentleman said.
"Oh! no. I am strong and healthy, and I do not fatigue myself nor them.
The whole is free to them, of course, and I am responsible to no one,
therefore can instruct or amuse them in my own way. As far as possible,
I wish to supply the incompetency of their mothers. If I give the
little ones a happy hour, during which they behave properly, and teach
them one thing, I am satisfied. One of the branches I try to instruct
them in is neatness. No soiled face is allowed to speak to me, nor
soiled hands to touch me. Then they sing and read, and learn prayers
and a little doctrine, and I tell them stories. When the Christian
Brothers and the Sisters of Notre Dame come, my occupation will of
course be gone."
"I wish I might some time be allowed to visit this school of yours,"
Mr. Schöninger said hesitatingly. "I could give them a singing-lesson,
and tell them a story. Little Rose Tracy likes my stories."
Miss Pembroke was thoughtful a moment, then consented. She had
witnessed with approval Mr. Schöninger's treatment of Miss Carthusen
that evening, and respected him for it. "The day after to-morrow, in
the afternoon, would be a good time," she said. "It is to be a sort of
holiday, on account of the firemen's procession. The procession passes
the school-room, and I have promised the children that they shall watch
it."
They went in to take leave, for the company was breaking up.
"Oh! by the way, Mr. Schöninger," Annette said, recollecting, "did you
get the shawl you left here at the last rehearsal? It was thrown on a
garden-seat, and forgotten."
"Yes; I stepped in early the next morning, and took it," he said. His
countenance changed slightly as he spoke. The eyelids drooped, and his
whole air expressed reserve.
"The next morning!" she repeated to herself, but said nothing.
Lawrence went off with Miss Carthusen; and as Mrs. Gerald and Honora
went out at the same time with Mr. Schöninger, he asked permission to
accompany them.
"How lovely the night is!" Mrs. Gerald murmured, as they walked quietly
along under the trees of the avenue, and saw all the beautiful city
bathed in moonlight, and ringed about with mountains like a wall.
"Heaven can scarcely have a greater physical beauty than earth has
sometimes."
"I do not think," the gentleman said, "that heaven will be so much more
beautiful than earth, but our eyes will be opened to see the beauties
that exist."
He spoke very quietly, with an air of weariness or depression; and,
when they reached home, bowed his good-night without speaking.
The two ladies stood a moment in the door, looking out over the town.
"If that man were not a Jew, I should find him agreeable," Mrs. Gerald
said. "As it is, it seems odd that we should see so much of him."
"I am inclined to believe," Honora said slowly, "that it is not right
for us to refuse a friendly intercourse with suitable associates on
account of any difference of religion, unless they intrude on us a
belief or disbelief which we hold to be sacrilegious."
"Could you love a Jew?" Mrs. Gerald asked, rather abruptly.
Honora considered the matter a little while. "Our Lord loved them,
even those who crucified him. I could love them. Besides, I do not
believe that the Jews of to-day would practise violence any more than
Christians would. We are friendly with Unitarians, yet they are not
very different from some Jews. I think we should love everybody but
the eternally lost. I could more easily become attached to an upright
and conscientious Jew, than to a Catholic who did not practise his
religion."
Mr. Schöninger, as soon as he had left the ladies, mended his pace, and
strode off rapidly down the hill. In a few minutes he had reached a
lighted railroad station, where people were going to and fro.
"Just in time!" he muttered, and ran to catch a train that was
beginning to slip over the track. Grasping the hand-rail, he drew
himself on to the step of the last car, then walked through the other
cars, and, finally, took his seat in that next the engine. Once a week
he gave lessons in a town fifteen miles from Crichton, and he usually
found it more agreeable to take the night train down than to go in the
morning.
In selecting this car he had hoped to be alone; but he had hardly taken
his seat when he heard a step following him, and another man appeared
and went into the seat in front of him--an insignificant-looking
person, with a mean face. He turned about, put his feet on the seat,
stretched his arm along the back, and, assuming an insinuating smile,
bade Mr. Schöninger good evening. He had, apparently, settled himself
for a long conversation.
Mr. Schöninger's habits were those of a scrupulous gentleman, and he
had, even among gentlemen, the charming distinction of always keeping
his feet on the floor. This man's manners were, therefore, in more than
one way offensive, and his salutation received no more encouraging
reply than a stare, and a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head.
Mr. Schöninger seemed, indeed, to regret even this slight concession,
for he rose immediately with an air of decision, and walked forward to
the first seat. The door of the car was open there as they rushed on
through the darkness, and, looking forward, it was like beholding the
half-veiled entrance of a cavern of fire. A cloud of illuminated smoke
and steam swept about and enveloped the engine with a bright atmosphere
impenetrable to the sight, and through this loomed the gigantic shadow
of a man. This shadow sometimes disappeared for a moment only to appear
again, and seemed to make threatening gestures, and to catch and press
down into the flames some unseen adversary. Mr. Schöninger's fancy was
wide awake, though his eyes were half asleep, and this strange object
became to him an object of terror. Painful and anxious thoughts, which
he had resolutely put away, left yet a dim and mysterious background,
on which this grotesque figure, gigantic and wrapped in fire, was
thrown in strong relief. He imagined it an impending doom, which might
at any moment fall upon him.
Finding these fancies intolerable at length, he shook himself wide
awake, rose, and walked unsteadily up and down the car. In doing so,
he perceived that his fellow-passenger had retreated to the last seat,
and was, apparently, sleeping, his cap drawn low over his forehead. But
Mr. Schöninger's glance detected a slight change in the position of the
head as he commenced his promenade, and he could not divest himself of
the belief that, from under the low hat-brim, a glance as sharp as his
own was following his every movement.
In an ordinary and healthy mood of mind he would have cared little for
such espionage; but he was not in such a mood. Circumstances had of
late tried his nerves, and it required all his power of self-control
to maintain a composed exterior. Did this man suspect his trouble, and
search for, or, perhaps, divine, or, possibly, know the cause of it?
He would gladly have caught the fellow in his arms, and thrown him
headlong into the outer darkness.
He returned to his place, and, leaning close to the window, looked out
into the night. If he had hoped to quiet himself by the sight of a
familiar nature, he was disappointed, for the scene had a weird, though
occasionally beautiful aspect, very unlike reality. The moon had set,
leaving that darkness which follows a bright moonlight, or precedes
the dawn of day, when the stars seem to be confounded by the near yet
invisible radiance of their conqueror, and dare not shine with their
own full lustre. Only this locomotive, dashing through the heart of
the night, rendered visible a flying panorama. Groves of trees twirled
round, surprised in some mystic dance; streams flashed out in all
their windings, red and serpent-like, and hid themselves as suddenly;
wide plains swam past, all a blur, with hills and mountains stumbling
against the horizon. Only one spot had even a hint of familiarity.
Framed round by a great semi-circle of woods, not many rods from the
track, was a long, narrow pond, with a few acres of smooth green beyond
it, and a white cottage close to its farthest shore. This little scene
was as perfectly secluded, apparently, as if it had been in the midst
of a continent otherwise uninhabited. No road nor neighboring house was
visible from the railroad. The dwellers in that cottage seemed to be
solitary and remote, knowing nothing of the wide, busy world save what
they saw from their vine-draped windows when the long, noisy train,
crowded with strangers, hurried past them, never stopping. What web
that clattering shuttle wove they might wonder, but could not know,
could scarcely care as they dreamed their lives away, lotos-eating. For
the lotos was not wanting.
Mr. Schöninger recollected his first glimpse of that place as he had
whirled past one summer morning, and swiftly now he caught the scene
between his eyelids, and closed them on it, and dreamed over it. He
saw the varied green of the forest, and the velvet green of the banks,
and the blue and brooding sky. Like a sylvan nymph the cottage stood
in its draping vines, and tried to catch glimpses of itself in the
glassy waters at its feet, half smothered in drifting fragrant snow of
water-lilies.
What sort of being should come forth from that dwelling of peace? Mr.
Schöninger asked himself. Who should stretch out hands to him, and draw
him out of his troubled life, approaching now a climax he shrank from?
His heart rose and beat quickly. The door under the vines swung slowly
back, and a woman floated out over the green, as silent and as gracious
as a cloud over the blue above. The drapery fluttered back from her
advancing foot till it reached the first shining ripple of the pond,
and then she paused--a presence so warm and living that it quickened
his breathing. She stretched her strong white arms out toward him over
the lilies she would not cross, and the face was Honora Pembroke's.
The large, calm look, the earnest glow that saved from coldness,
the full humanity steeped through and shone through by spiritual
loveliness--they were all hers.
He started, and opened his eyes. Their pace was slackening, the great
black figure in its fiery atmosphere was in some spasm of motion, and
walls of brick and stone were shutting them in.
The cars stopped at the foot of an immense flight of stairs that
stretched upward indefinitely, a dingy Jacob's ladder, without the
angels. Mr. Schöninger slowly ascended them, heavyhearted again, and
therefore heavy-footed; and, not far behind, a man with a skulking
step and a mean face followed after. There was nothing very mysterious
in this walk. It led merely through a deserted business street, by
the shortest route, to a respectable hotel. Mr. Schöninger called for
a room, and went to it immediately; the little man lingered in the
office, and hung about the desk.
"That gentleman comes down here pretty often in the night, doesn't he?"
he asked of the clerk.
The man nodded, without looking up.
"Does he always record his name when he comes?" pursued the questioner.
"Can't say," was the short answer, still without looking up.
"Comes down every Wednesday night, I suppose?" remarked the stranger.
The clerk suddenly thrust his face past the corner of the desk behind
which his catechiser stood. "Look here, sir, what name shall I put down
for you?" he asked sharply.
The man drew back a little, and turned away. "I'm not sure of booking
myself here," he replied.
The clerk came down promptly from his perch. "Then it's time to lock
up," he said.
And when he had locked the door, and pulled down the curtains, with a
snap that threatened to break their fastenings, he put his hands in his
pockets, and made a short and emphatic address to an imaginary audience.
"I don't believe there is any redemption for spies," he said; "and I
would rather have a thief in my house than a sneak. You sometimes hear
of a criminal who repents; but nobody ever yet heard of one of your
prying, peeping, tattling sort reforming."
There being no other person present, no one contradicted him, a
circumstance which seemed to increase the strength of his convictions.
He paced the room two or three times, then returned to his first stand,
removing his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back, as
being a more dignified attitude for a speaker.
"If I had my will," he pursued, "every nose that poked itself into
other people's affairs would be cut off."
Bravo! Mr. Clerk. You have sense. But if you had also that sanguinary
wish of yours, what a number of mutilated visages would be going about
the world! How many feminine faces would be shorn of their _retroussé_,
or long, rooting feature, or clawing, parrot beak, and how many men
would be incapacitated for taking snuff!
Having delivered himself of his rather extreme opinion, this excellent
man shut up the house and retired.
Mr. Schöninger looked forward with interest to his promised visit to
Miss Pembroke's school, and was so anxious that she should not by any
forgetfulness or change of plan deprive him of it, that he reminded her
as they came out of the hall, after their concert, of the permission
she had given him for the next afternoon.
"Certainly!" she replied smiling. "But how can you think of such a
trifle after the grand success of this evening?"
For their concert had been a perfect success, and Mr. Schöninger
himself had been applauded with such enthusiasm as had pleased even
him. It was the first time he had played in public in Crichton, and,
respectable as he held their musical taste to be, he had not been
prepared to see so ready an appreciation of the higher order of
instrumental music.
"I never saw a more appreciative audience," he said. "They applauded
at the right places, and it was a well-bred applause. How delicate was
that little whisper of a clapping during the prelude! It was like the
faint rustling of leaves in a summer wind, and so soft that not a note
was lost. I have never seen so nearly perfect an audience in any other
city in this country."
"Do not we always tell you that Crichton is the most charming city in
the world?" laughed Annette Ferrier, who had caught his last remark.
She was passing him, accompanied by Lawrence Gerald. Her face was
bright with excitement, and the glistening of her ornaments and her
gauzy robe through the black lace mantle that covered her from head to
foot gave her the look of a butterfly caught in a web. She had sung
brilliantly, dividing the honors of the evening with Mr. Schöninger,
and Lawrence, finding her admired by others, was gallant to her
himself. On the whole, she was radiant with delight.
"Do not expect too much of my little ones," Miss Pembroke said,
recurring to the proposed visit. "Recollect, they are all poor, and
they have had but little instruction."
Mr. Schöninger did not tell her that his interest was in her more than
in the children, and that he desired to see how she would conduct
herself in such circumstances rather than take any note of the persons
and acquirements of her pupils. To his mind it was very strange that
a lady of her refinement should wish to assume such a work without
necessity. His conception of the character of teachers of children
was not flattering; he thought a certain vulgarity inseparable from
such persons, a positiveness of speech, an oracular tone of voice, and
an authoritative air, which the employment conferred on successful
teachers, if it did not find them already possessed of. It amused him
to fancy these fifty children swarming about Miss Pembroke, like ants
about a lily, and it annoyed him to think that she might receive some
stain from them.
"I like ladies to be charitable," he said to himself, as he went
homeward; "but there are kinds of rough work I would prefer they should
delegate to others."
He was thinking of the physical part of the work; Honora of the
spiritual.
The school-room was the lower floor of a house at the corner of two
streets, and had been used as a shop, the two wide show-windows at
either side of the door giving a full light. The upper floors were
occupied as a dwelling-house. These windows looked out on a wide and
respectable street; but the cross street, beginning fairly enough,
deteriorated as it went on toward the Saranac, through the poorest
section of the city, and ended in shanties and a dingy wharf where
lobsters were perpetually being boiled in large kettles in dingy boats,
and crowds of ragged children seemed to be always hanging about,
sucking lobster-claws, or on the watch for them. Miss Pembroke's charge
were from this class of children, and one of her great difficulties was
to keep her school-room from having the fixed odor of a fish-market.
The room was severely clean and spotless, and, but that the side-walls
were nearly covered with maps, bookcases, and blackboards, would have
been glaring white; for the walls and ceiling were white-washed, the
wood-work painted white, and the floor scoured white. Two rows of
oak-colored benches extended across the room, the backs toward the
windows. The sun shone in unobstructed all the afternoon. Only when it
began to touch the last row of benches were the green worsted curtains
drawn down far enough to keep it within bounds. Miss Pembroke's chair,
table, and piano were in the space opposite the door. On the centre of
the wall behind her hung a large crucifix, and on a bracket beneath
it a marble Child Jesus stretched out his arms to the little ones. On
larger brackets to right and left stood an Immaculate Lady and a S.
Joseph. They were thus in the midst of the Holy Family.
These images were constantly surrounded by wreaths, arches, and
flowers, so that the end of the room had quite the appearance of a
bower; and on all his festivals, and whenever prayers were said, a
candle was lighted before the Infant Jesus, who was the patron of their
school, and the dearest object of their childish devotion. It was
delightful to them to know that they need not always approach their
God in the language, to them, often inexplicable, of the mature and
the learned, but that they could whisper their ingenuous petitions
and praises into the indulgent ear of a holy Child, using their own
language, and asking him to be their interpreter. S. Joseph with the
lily and the white Lady with her folded hands they worshipped with awe;
but they were not afraid of the dear Infant who stretched out his arms
to them.
Fifty little faces, all brown, but otherwise various, looked straight
at their teacher--blue eyes and brown eyes, black eyes and grey, large
eyes and small eyes, bright and dull eyes; and fifty young souls were
at that instant occupied with one thought. The first faint thrilling of
the silence with martial music was heard, and they were eager to take
their places to see the advancing procession. But Miss Pembroke waited
still. She had told Mr. Schöninger to come at three o'clock, and it
lacked five minutes of that. Just as she was thinking that she would
give him two minutes' grace, he appeared.
She went at once to place the children, and he watched with a smile
of pleasure and amusement the soldierly precision of the performance.
The door was opened wide, and two of the largest boys carried out
and placed a bench near the edge of the upper step. At the motion of
a finger, the smallest boys filed out and seated themselves on this
bench, and an equal number of larger ones stood behind keeping guard.
Then the door was closed. At the next silent gesture the smallest
of the boys and girls remaining seated themselves in the low, broad
ledge of the windows, the next size placed a bench across each window
recess for themselves, and the largest again stood behind the benches.
Not a word had been spoken, not a child had turned its head, not the
slightest noise nor confusion had occurred, and all were perfectly well
placed to see.
"What admirable order!" the gentleman exclaimed. "You must have drilled
them thoroughly."
"It did not seem to me wasting time," Miss Pembroke replied. "I wish
to impress on them the necessity of a decorous and reserved manner in
public. They are too prone to presume, and be more than ordinarily
lawless on such occasions. Besides, it teaches them self-control."
The two sat back at a little distance. The children began to stretch
their heads forward, and whisper exclamations to each other. The air
resounded with martial sounds, and a solid front of superb grey horses
appeared, well-caparisoned and well-ridden, the full crimped manes
tossed over their arching necks. Behind them another and another line
pressed, making a living wall.
"I think one feels the influence of such a mass of strong life and
courage," Miss Pembroke remarked. "It seems to me it would invigorate a
weak person to be near those horses."
Mr. Schöninger had been thinking nearly the same thing. "I have fancied
it not unlikely," he said, "that in a bold cavalry charge the horses
may help to inspire the riders. The neighborhood of strong animal life
is, no doubt, invigorating. It would be fine to stand face to face with
a herd of wild cattle, if they could be surely stopped in mid-career,
to feel the air stirring with their breaths, and see their eyes glaring
through heaps of rough mane. There would be something electrical in
it, as there is in a crowd of men; and in both cases it is a merely
physical excitement."
"But a crowd of men may be electrified by some great thought,"
suggested Honora.
"Not unless each had the thought in his single mind before, either
latent or conscious. I do not believe that any crowd or excitement,
however immense, can put a great thought into a little soul. I can
never act with an excited crowd, can hardly look at one with respect."
His lip expressed contempt. "It is true that an eloquent leader may
have the power of inciting people to some good deed; but even so, they
are only a machine which he works. Great thoughts are not vociferous.
They float in air, with no sound, unless it is the sound of wings."
Honora checked the words that rose to her lips so suddenly that a deep
blush bathed her face. She had been thinking of the crowd that roared
"Crucify him!" and had recollected only just in time that they were
this man's remote ancestors. But she recollected also that it was to
him as original sin was to her, an hereditary, but not a personal,
stain, and that baptism could wash both away. Her charity began at
home, in the great Christian family, but it stayed not there: it
overflowed to all living creatures.
"I have almost an enthusiasm for firemen," she said hastily. "They
sometimes perform such wonders, and run such terrible risks for
scarcely a reward. Unlike soldiers, they save without destroying
anything. How beautiful their engines are!"
The procession was a long and very brilliant one, and the companies
had vied with each other in decoration. The engines shone as if made
of burnished gold and silver, and wreaths and bouquets of green and
flowers decked them.
"These processions, more than any others I have seen, remind me of
descriptions of pageants in the old time," remarked Honora, when they
had been silent a while. "There is so much show and glitter in them,
and the costumes are so gay. How I would like to be transported back to
that time for one year!"
Her thoughts had taken a flight between the first and last words, and
she was thinking of mediæval religion, with its untroubled faith and
its fiery zeal.
Mr. Schöninger did not share her enthusiasm. Those had been bitter days
for his people, and perhaps he was thinking so.
"I imagine you would ask to be transported back again before the year
was over," he said quietly. "Those times look very picturesque at
this distance, with their Rembrandt shading. But there was no more
heroism then than there is to-day. I far prefer the hero of to-day. He
is a better bred man, not so blatant as the mediæval. It seems to me
that the admirers of that time are chiefly the poets, who sacrifice
everything to the picturesque; ambitious men, who covet power;
and--pardon me!--devout ladies who have been captivated by legends
of the saints, and stories of ecclesiastical pageantry, but who take
little thought for humanity at large."
"But in those days," said Miss Pembroke, "men had some respect for
authority and law, and now they despise it."
"It is the fault of authority if it is despised," Mr. Schöninger
replied with decision. "License is the inevitable reaction from
tyranny, and is in proportion to it. So long as man retains any vestige
of the image of the Creator, tyranny will always, in time, produce
rebels. The world is now inebriated with freedom; let those whose abuse
of authority created this burning thirst share the opprobrium of its
excesses. Some day the equilibrium will be found. We cannot force it;
it is a question of growth; but we can help. You are helping it," he
added, smiling.
"What you have said sounds just," she replied, thoughtfully; "and I
like justice. Perhaps the abuse of legitimate authority is a greater
sin than rebellion against it, since the ruler should be wiser and
better than the ruled."
They were again silent awhile, the gentleman hesitating whether to
speak his thought, and finally speaking.
"Trust one who has studied the world well," he said earnestly. "Instead
of being determined not to believe, mankind at this time is longing to
believe. But it is determined not to be duped. The sceptic of to-day
was made by the hypocrite of yesterday, and half the scepticism is
affected, as half the piety was affected. Men are ashamed and afraid to
be caught in a trap, and they pretend to disbelieve, when in fact they
only doubt. You must now prove to them that truth itself is true, since
they have so often been deceived by falsehood in the garb of truth.
Let a man or a measure prove to be sincere and honest, and there was
never a period in the history of the world when either would win more
hearty approval than now. It is true that the childlike trustfulness
of mankind is gone, partly from growth, partly because it has been
abused; but the nobler powers are maturing. To believe this, you need
not give up your faith. I have seen the eyes of one of the most bitter
of scoffers fill with tears, and his lips tremble, at a proof of ardent
and pious devotion which was not meant to be known. That man was a
scoffer because his common sense and sentiment of justice had been
insulted by pious pretenders. If he could believe, he would be a saint."
Honora Pembroke's face was troubled. There could be no doubt that the
man was honest and sincere in what he said, and that much of what he
said was true. But was a Jew to teach a Christian? She could not be
sure that his judgment was unbiased, and that one more learned than
she would not be able to refute him. She said the best thing she could
think of.
"False professors do not make false doctrines. And if the human mind is
becoming so adult and strong, it should judge the truth by itself, not
by the person who professes it."
"You are quite right," Mr. Schöninger answered. "And that is precisely
what people are learning to do. It is also what many, who wish truth
to be believed on their own testimony, object to their doing. I
repeat"--he glanced with anxiety into her clouded face--"I earnestly
assure you that I have not uttered a word which conflicts with your
creed, though it is not mine. If I were to-day to become a Catholic, I
should only reiterate what I have said on this subject."
The cloud passed from her face, but still she did not speak. She was
not gifted in argument, and this subject was complex, and, moreover, a
bone of contention.
"It has occurred to me," he said presently, "that the people in
Crichton, though they appear to be very liberal, may still have a
prejudice against me as a Jew. That would be of no consequence to me in
the case of most of them; but there are a few whom I should be sorry to
know had such a feeling. The Jews are much misunderstood and slandered,
though people have an opportunity of learning their true character if
they would. The majority seem to look on every Jew as a probable or
possible usurer and dealer in old clothes, and a person capable of
joining a rabble at any moment, and pursuing an innocent man to death.
I do not, of course, fancy for an instant that you have any sympathy
with such people; but I think it possible that you may misunderstand my
attitude toward your church. I have not the slightest feeling of enmity
against it as long as it does not do violence to me or mine, and while
its members are true to the doctrines of peace and charity which they
profess. As an artist I admire it. Its theology is the only one which
still retains binding and implacable obligations of form, consequently,
the only one that can inspire high art. I do not count the old Jews,
who are rapidly melting away. I am of the reformed Jews."
"You no longer expect the coming of the Redeemer, nor the return to
Jerusalem, nor the triumph of your people?" she asked, looking at him
in astonishment.
"We no longer believe in them," he replied.
"What, then, is left you?" she exclaimed.
He smiled slightly. "I expect and long for the redemption of mankind by
the spirit of God, and I believe that truth and charity will prevail,
though they may not descend from heaven to become incarnate in one
form. The Jerusalem my people will return to is the spiritual city of
the children of God. Is it not nobler than the pretty myths which have
been wasting our energies and dividing the brotherhood of men into
petty clans, all hating each other even while they professed that love
was their prime virtue?"
"But sacrifice," she said, "what did you mean by that?"
"We had truth and error mingled. The sacrifice was merely a remnant
of heathen customs. Peoples who knew nothing of Judaism nor of
Christianity had their offerings and sacrifices. The Jews were the
chosen people, finer and more spiritual than any other; and to the
souls of the chosen among them the Creator revealed his truths. They
renounced all heathenish doctrines, and into the few ceremonies and
customs they retained they infused a spiritual significance. As the
race deteriorated, this spiritual meaning was misinterpreted, and
became more and more literal and gross. The people fell into sin, and
for this the Creator punished them by taking away their power and
pre-eminence, and by scattering them over the face of the earth."
Honora listened intently; and when he had finished, she uttered but
one word. Clasping her hands and lifting her eyes, her heart seemed
to burst upward like a fountain, tossing that one word into air,
"Emmanuel!"
Not the primeval Creator alone, distant and awful, but God with us!
Into this vast and terrible void which had been spread out before her,
she invoked with passion the incarnate, the lowly, the pitiful, the
suffering God.
"We hold that sacrifice is a practice of divine institution retained
from our first parents, not an originally heathen custom," she added
after a moment, regaining her composure. "You are, however, obliged
to give up your belief in it, or be inconsistent. I can see now that
if you hold to the sacrifice, you must hold to the Redeemer; if to
the Redeemer, then you must believe in Christ, since the time is gone
by for expectation; and if you accept the Christ, you must be a Roman
Catholic."
"Precisely!" said the Jew. He had felt a momentary electric shock
at the passion of her first exclamation, and had seen with emotion
the flush and fire in her countenance. Now he smiled at her concise
statement of the case.
Miss Pembroke rose, for the last of the procession was passing. The
children were called back to their seats in the same order in which
they had left them, and a few simple exercises were gone through with
at the request of their visitor. All was well calculated to unfold and
inform their young minds, but nothing was for show.
Mr. Schöninger blushed for the mistake he had made in fancying that
any occupation on earth could be more refined and noble than Miss
Pembroke's, when it was conducted in Miss Pembroke's manner. It seemed
an occupation for angels. She possessed, evidently, in a preeminent
degree, the power to understand and interest children, and she
used that power to perfect ends. There was none of that personal
familiarity which he had dreaded to see, that promiscuous fondness and
caressing by which some women fancy they please children, when, in
fact, the finer sort of children are oftener than not displeased with
it. A kind touch of her fingers was to them an immense favor, and a
kiss would have been remembered for ever. But while they treated her
with profound respect, they approached her with perfect confidence and
delight. They gathered about her, and gazed into her sympathetic face,
bright and transparent with love from a bountiful woman's heart. They
looked at her as a sky full of little stars may look into a smooth
lake, and each saw its own reflection there, and was happy. In her soul
all innocent infantile thoughts and fancies were condensed, as cloud
and spray are condensed into water, and not only could she remember the
process, but she could reverse it at will, could evaporate a thought or
truth too strong for childish intellects, and give it in the form of
rosy clouds to wide, grasping, childish imaginations.
Only one exercise failed at first. The children were shy of singing
before the stranger. All their voices faltered into silence but one, a
rather fair voice of a little boy who was perfectly self-confident, and
who evidently expected applause.
Mr. Schöninger took no notice of the child. Its vanity and boldness
displeased him. "A shallow thing!" he thought; and said, "I see that
I must hire you to sing for me. You like fairy-stories, surely. Well,
sing me but one song, and I will tell you the story."
His voice and smile reassured them. Moreover, a gentleman, no matter
how splendid he might be, who could tell fairy-stories, could not be
very dreadful. They exchanged smiles and glances, took courage, fixed
their eyes on their teacher, and sang a pretty hymn in good time and
tune, and with good expression.
In their first essay the musician had caught a faltering little
silvery note, which had failed as soon as heard. In the second it
came out round and clear, a voice of surprising beauty. He marked the
singer, and called him forward as soon as the hymn was over. The boy
came awkwardly and blushing. He was the ugliest and most dingy pupil
there. Only a pair of melancholy, dark, and lustrous eyes, habitually
downcast, and a set of perfect teeth, redeemed the face from being
disagreeable. Through those eyes looked a winged soul that did not
recognize itself, still less expect recognition from others, but felt
only the vague weight and sadness of an uncongenial life. He gave the
impression of a beautiful bird whose every plume is so laden with mire
it cannot fly.
"You have a good voice, and should learn how to sing," Mr. Schöninger
said to him kindly. "I will teach you, if Miss Pembroke approves, and
will make the arrangements. Of course it will cost you nothing."
"He needs encouragement," the musician remarked when the boy had
returned to his seat; "and he needs to have his position defined before
the others. Do you not perceive that they despise him? He has the voice
of an angel, and he looks remarkable. And now for my story."
The children's eyes sparkled with anticipation, and the teacher leaned
smilingly to listen. Let us listen also, and become better acquainted
with Mr. Schöninger.
"Once upon a time, there was a great wrangle in a certain street,"
the story-teller began. "Five little boys and girls were quarreling,
and two dogs were barking. The neighbors put their heads out their
windows, and the policeman stopped. Mrs. Blake put her two forefingers
in her two ears, for the noise was near her step, and the five boys
and girls were all telling her together what the matter was, and whose
fault it was. Then the mothers called their children home, and two went
into Mrs. Blake's, for they were hers. This was the story she drew from
them: Anne Blake had said a cross word to one of the others, that other
had made a face at the next, the third had slapped the fourth, and it
went round the circle. So it seemed that Anne started the whole by
speaking a cross word.
"'Since you are sorry, I will talk no more to you about it,' her mother
said. 'But I wish you to go up to your chamber and sit alone a little
while, and think over a Chinese proverb which is written on this slip
of paper. You are ten years old, and must begin to think.'
"Anne went slowly up-stairs to her chamber, shut the door after her,
and sat down in a little cushioned chair by the window to read her
proverb. Its being Chinese did not prevent it from being good. This is
what she read: 'A word once spoken, a coach and six cannot bring it
back again.'
"The day was warm, and the curtain at the window swung with a lulling
motion, giving glimpses of blue sky with white clouds sailing over,
and, below, of the top of a grape-vine full of leaves and small green
grapes.
"Anne gazed at the sky till it made her feel sleepy--gazing at bright
things does make one sleepy--then she gazed at the grape-vine.
Presently, she saw something in this vine that looked like a tiny
ladder, hidden among the leaves. It looked so much like a ladder that
she leaned forward and pulled the curtain aside, to see more plainly.
Sure enough! It was the loveliest ladder, or stairway, winding down and
down. Its steps were dark, like vine branches, and there was a railing
at each side of twigs and tendrils, and it wound down and down, in
sight and out of sight. And, more wonderful still, it was no longer a
yard, with the city about, she saw, but a great vine covering all the
window, and glimpses of a moonlighted forest down below.
"'I must go down,' says Anne; and so down she went on the beautiful
stairs.
"Lights and shades fluttered over her, and the leaves clapped together,
and little tendrils caught at her dress in play. And by-and-by she
stepped on to the brightest greensward that could be, full of blue
and white violets. The trees arched over her, the air was sweet, and
there was a smooth pond near by. The water was so very smooth that
she would never have known it was water if the banks had not turned
the wrong way in it, and the trees grown down instead of up. A little
white boat, too, had another little white boat under it, the two keel
to keel. Swans ran down the shore as she looked, and splashed into the
water, dipping their heads under, and making the whole surface so full
of motion that the upside-down trees and banks and boat disappeared.
Words cannot describe how beautiful the place was. There was every kind
of flower, and hosts of birds, and the moonlight was so bright that all
could be distinctly seen. There were also a great many splendid moths
that looked like flowers flying about, and flapping their petals.
"But the most beautiful part was that everything seemed to breathe of
peace and love. The birds sang and cooed to each other, the blossoms
leaned cheek to cheek, the water laughed at the stones it ran over,
and the wet stones smiled back, the gray old rocks held tenderly
the flowers and mosses that grew in their hollows, and the mosses
and flowers held on to the rocks with their tiny roots, like little
children clinging to old people who are fond of them.
"'How beautiful it is to see them so loving,' Anne said. 'They are a
sort of people, too; for they look alive. I wish other folks would
be as good. I'm sure I try; but then somebody always comes along and
says something ugly; and then, of course, I can't help being ugly back
again.'
"'Oh! yes, you can,' said a sweet voice close by.
"Anne looked and saw a charming little lady standing beside her. She
was so beautiful that words cannot describe her, and she carried a
pink petunia for a parasol to preserve her complexion. For she was
exquisitely fair, and the moonlight was really very bright.
"'Oh! yes, you can,' she repeated when Anne looked at her. 'You can
give a pleasant answer, and then people will stop being ugly.'
"'I could do it if everybody else would,' Anne said. 'The beginning is
the trouble. How nice it would be if there were a king over all the
world, and he would say, Now, after I have counted three, all of you
stop being cross, and begin to love each other, and keep on loving a
whole hour. If you don't, I'll cut your heads off!'
"'That would not be love; it would be a make-believe to save their
heads,' the little lady answered. 'But there is such a king, and he has
commanded us to love each other, and....'
"Here she was interrupted by a loud flapping of wings and a terrible
croaking, and a great black bird, something like a bat, flew by; and
wherever it struck its wings other bats flew out, and the air grew
dark with them, and all the beautiful forest was changed. The stones
tried to stop the brook, and the brook tried to upset the stones; the
leaves struck each other, the swans and little birds began to pull each
other's feathers out. All was discord.
"And then there was a rolling of wheels, and a trampling of hoofs, and
a great yellow coach appeared drawn by six horses covered with foam.
The coachman looked as if he were driving for his life, and there was a
head thrust from each window of the coach, telling him to drive faster.
All the heads wore caps like dish-covers, and had long braids of hair
hanging down their necks, though they were men; and their eyes slanted
down toward their noses, instead of going straight across their faces.
"'We are trying to catch a wicked word that is ruining all the place,'
they said, 'but we cannot. A wicked word has wings.'
"'So has a kind word wings,' said the little lady. 'Send a kind word
after the cross one, and perhaps it may bring it back.'
"'You are right, madam,' said one of the Chinamen; and he nodded his
head till the long braid at the back of it wagged to and fro. And he
kept on nodding so queerly that Anne felt obliged to nod too, and so
he nodded, and she nodded, till he nodded his head off. And then she
nodded her head off--no, not quite off; but she nodded so that she
waked herself up. For she had been dreaming.
"Then she jumped up and ran down-stairs and out doors as fast as her
feet would carry her. And in ten minutes she was back again, all out
of breath, and full of excitement. 'Mother,' she said, 'a coach and
six can't do it, but a kind word can. I told Jane I was sorry, and she
told--and we all told each other that we were sorry, and then we were
glad.' The words were rather mixed up, but the meaning was all right."
"I am truly grateful to you for allowing me to come this afternoon,"
Mr. Schöninger said on taking leave. "My visit has been to me like a
drop of cold water to one in a fever, or like the sound of David's harp
to Saul. I am refreshed."
He looked both sad and pleased. "I was about to thank you for coming,"
Honora answered. "You have given me and the children much pleasure."
And so, with a friendly salutation, they separated.
She mused a moment. "If he could believe in the sacrifice, all would
follow," she thought.
Then she called the children to their prayers, but first said a word to
them.
"There is something, my dear children, that I want very much," she
said. "Oh! I long for it. I shall be unhappy if I do not have it. And I
want all of you to ask the Infant Jesus to give it to me for his dear
mother's sake. Ask with all your hearts. I will tell him what I wish
for."
Her wish was that Mr. Schöninger might believe that sacrifice was a
divine revelation, not a heathenish custom.
"That is all he needs from me," she thought. "I trust him. If he has
that to begin with, he will himself ask God for the rest."
ITALIAN CONFISCATION LAWS.
REVIEWED FROM AN AMERICAN STAND-POINT.
BY A LAWYER.
"No state shall pass any _ex post facto_ law, or law impairing the
obligation of contracts."[2]
This is indeed a moral law, and has been recognized as such by all
civilized nations.
Justice Curtis, in his _Life of Webster_ (vol. i., chap. 7, p. 165)
thus notices the decision in the Supreme Court which first gave the
scope and meaning of this clause in regard to charters of private
corporations:
"The framers of the Constitution of the United States, moved
chiefly by the mischiefs created by the preceding legislation of
the states, which had made serious encroachments on the rights of
property, inserted a clause in that instrument which declared that
'no state shall pass any _ex post facto_ law, or law impairing
the obligation of contracts.' The first branch of this clause
had always been understood to relate to criminal legislation,
the second to legislation affecting civil rights. But before the
case of Dartmouth College v. Woodward occurred, there had been
no judicial decisions respecting the meaning and scope of the
restraint in regard to contracts, excepting that it had more than
once been determined by the Supreme Court of the United States
that a grant of lands made by a state is a contract within the
protection of this provision, and is, therefore, irrevocable.
The decisions, however, could go but little way toward the
solution of the questions involved in the case of the college.
They did, indeed, establish the principle that contracts of
the state itself are beyond the reach of subsequent legislation
equally with contracts between individuals, and that there are
grants of a state that are contracts. But this college stood upon
a charter granted by the crown of England before the American
Revolution. Was the state of New Hampshire--a sovereign in all
respects after the Revolution, and remaining one after the federal
constitution, excepting in those respects in which it had subjected
its sovereignty to the restraints of that instrument--bound by
the contracts of the English crown? Is the grant of a charter of
incorporation a contract between the sovereign power and those
on whom the charter is bestowed? If an act of incorporation is a
contract, is it so in any case but that of a private corporation?
Was this college, which was an institution of learning, established
for the promotion of education, a private corporation, or was it
one of those instruments of government which are at all times
under the control and subject to the direction of the legislative
power? All these questions were involved in the inquiry, whether
the legislative power of the state had been so restrained by the
constitution of the United States that it could not alter the
charter of this institution, against the will of the trustees,
without impairing the obligation of a contract. If this inquiry
were to receive an affirmative answer, the constitutional
jurisprudence of the United States would embrace a principle of
the utmost importance to every similar institution of learning,
and to every incorporation then existing, or thereafter to exist,
not belonging to the machinery of government as a political
instrument....
"On the conclusion of the argument the Chief-Justice (Marshall)
intimated that a decision was not to be expected until the next
term. It was made in February, 1819, fully confirming the grounds
on which Mr. Webster had placed the cause. From this decision,
the principle in our constitutional jurisprudence which regards a
charter of a private corporation as a contract, and places it under
the protection of the Constitution of the United States, takes its
date."
We add a passage from Mr. Webster's speech in this case, as quoted by
the same author from a letter of Prof. Goodrich, of Yale College, to
Rufus Choate:
"This, sir, is my case. It is the case not merely of that humble
institution; it is the case of every college in our land. It is
more. It is the case of every eleemosynary institution throughout
our country--of all those great charities founded by the piety of
our ancestors to alleviate human misery and scatter blessings along
the pathway of life. It is more! It is, in some sense, the case of
every man among us who has property of which he may be stripped,
for the question is simply this: Shall our state legislatures be
allowed to take that which is not their own, to turn it from its
original use, and apply it to such ends or purposes as they in
their discretion shall see fit?"
The charitable and religious institutions of Italy and the States of
the Church were founded under guarantees as strong at least as those
which assured the perpetuity of Dartmouth College, and were entitled to
as much immunity from confiscation and intrusion for all coming time.
When a law is in its nature a contract, and absolute rights have vested
under that contract, a repeal of the law cannot divest those rights,
nor annihilate or impair a title acquired under the law. A grant is
a contract according to the meaning given to the word by jurists. A
grant is a contract executed, and a party is always estopped by his own
grant. A party cannot pronounce his own act or deed invalid, whatever
cause may be assigned for its invalidity, and though that party be
the legislature of a state. A grant amounts to an extinguishment of
the right of the grantor, and implies a contract not to reassert that
right. A grant from a state should be as much protected as a grant from
one individual to another; therefore, a state is as much inhibited
from impairing its own contracts, or a contract to which it is a
party, as it is from impairing the obligation of contracts between
two individuals. A grant once made by the ruling or competent power,
creates an indefeasible and irrevocable title. There is no authority
or principle which could support the doctrine that such a grant was
revocable in its own nature, and held only _durante bene placito_.
For no ruling power, be it kingly, legislative, or otherwise, can
repeal a law or grant creating a corporate body, or confirming to them
property already acquired under the faith of previous laws or edicts,
and by such repeal vest the property in others without the consent or
default of the corporators. Such a procedure would be repugnant to the
principles of natural justice. A society or order of religious people
holding property in common or _in solido_, may be considered in the
character of a private eleemosynary institution endowed with a capacity
to take property for objects unconnected with government: it receives
gifts or devises, and other private donations bestowed by individuals
on the faith of its perpetuity and usefulness--such a corporation not
being invested with any political power whatever, or partaking in
any degree in the administration of civil government. It is merely
an institution or private corporation for general charity. It is
established under a charter, which was a contract, to which the donors,
the trustees of the corporation, and the governing power were the
original parties, and it was granted for a valuable consideration--for
the security and disposition of the property necessary for the
existence of the community, order, or society.
The legal interest, in every such literary and charitable institution,
is in trustees, and to be asserted by them, which they claim or defend
on behalf of the society or community for the object of religion,
charity, or education, for which they were originally created, and
the private donations made. Contracts of this kind, creating such
charitable or educational institutions, should be at all times
protected by the state, and their rights maintained by the courts
administered by a pure and just judiciary. Conquests or revolutions
cannot change the rights acquired under such contracts, and no state
should by any act transfer the rights of property theretofore acquired,
nor transfer from the trustees appointed according to the will of the
founders or donors. The will of the state should not be substituted for
the will of the donors, or convert an institution, moulded according
to the will of its founders, and placed under the control of people
of their own selection, into government property. Such action is of
course subversive of the original compact on the faith of which the
donors invested their gifts, donations, or devises, and is, therefore,
repugnant to every idea of honesty and good morals, for enforcing which
governments are instituted.
A grant to a private trustee, for the benefit of a particular _cestui
que trust_, or for any special, private, or public charity, cannot
be the less a contract because the trustee takes nothing for his own
benefit. Nor does a private donation vested in a trustee for objects
of a general nature thereby become a public trust, which a government
may at its pleasure take from the trustee. A government cannot even
revoke a grant of its own funds, when given to a corporation or private
person for special uses. It has no other remaining authority but what
is judicial to enforce the proper administration of the trust. Nor is
such a grant less a contract though no beneficial interest accrues to
the possessor. All incorporeal hereditaments, as immunities, dignities,
offices, and franchises, are rights deemed valuable in law, and
whenever they are the subject of contract or grant they should be held
as legal estates. They are held as powers coupled with interests, and
consequently are vested rights, and of which the possessors should not
be divested by any legislative body without their consent.
Chief-Justice Marshall (in U. S. _v._ Percheman, _7 Peters 86_) says:
It is unusual, even in cases of conquest, for the conqueror to do more
than to displace the sovereign and assume dominion over the country;
and that the modern usage of nations, which has become law, would
be violated; that sense of justice and right which is acknowledged
and felt by the whole civilized world, would be outraged if private
property should be generally confiscated and private rights annulled.
Justice Sprague (Amy Warwick, _2 Sprague 150_) says: Confiscations
of property, not for any use that has been made of it, which go
not against an offending thing, but are inflicted for the personal
delinquency of the owner, are punitive, and punishment should be
inflicted only upon due conviction of personal guilt.
The communities whose rights are now invaded and whose property is
confiscated, ought to be protected under the law of nations. For, by
this law is understood that code of public instruction which defines
the rights and prescribes the duties of nations in their intercourse
with each other. The faithful observance of this law is essential
to national character and the happiness of mankind. According to
Montesquieu, it is founded on the principle that different nations
ought to do each other as much good in peace, and as little harm in
war, as possible. The most useful and practical part of the law of
nations is instituted or positive law, founded on usage, consent,
and agreement. It is impossible to separate this law from natural
jurisprudence, or to consider that it does not derive much of its force
and dignity from the same principle of right reason, the same views of
the nature and constitution of man, and the same sanction of divine
revelation, as those from which the science of morality is deduced.
There is a natural and a positive law of nations. By the former, every
state in its relations with other states is bound to conduct itself
with justice, good faith, and benevolence; and this application of the
law of nature has been called by Vattel the necessary law of nations,
because nations are bound by the law of nature to observe it; and it is
termed by others the internal law of nations, because it is obligatory
upon them in point of conscience.
That eminent jurist, Chancellor Kent, says that the science of public
law should not be separated from that of ethics, nor encourage the
dangerous suggestion that governments are not strictly bound by the
obligations of truth, justice, and humanity in relation to other
powers, as they are in the management of their own local concerns.
States or bodies politic are to be considered as moral persons, having
a public will, capable and free to do right and wrong, inasmuch as they
are collections of individuals, each of whom carries with him into the
service of the community the same binding law of morality and religion
which ought to control his conduct in private life.
The law of nations consists of general principles of right and justice,
equally suitable to the government of individuals in a state of
natural equality and to the relations and conduct of nations; the
conduct of nations should be governed by principles fairly to be
deduced from the rights and duties of nations and the nature of moral
obligation; and we have the authority of lawyers of antiquity, and
of some of the first masters in the modern school of public law, for
placing the moral obligations of nations and of individuals on similar
grounds, and for considering individual and national morality as parts
of one and the same science.
The law of nations, as far as it is founded upon the principles of
natural law, is equally binding in every age, and upon all mankind.
The law of nature, by the obligations of which individuals and states
are bound, is identical with the will of God, and that will is
ascertained by consulting divine revelation, where that is declaratory,
or by the application of human reason where revelation is silent.
Christianity is an authoritative publication of natural religion, and
it is from the sanction which revelation gives to natural law that we
must expect respect to be paid to justice between nations. Christianity
reveals to us a general system of morality, but the application to the
details of practice is often left to be discovered by human reason.
Justice is of perpetual obligation, and is essential to the well-being
of every society. The great commonwealth of nations stands in need of
law, and observance of faith, and the practice of justice.
If the question was one to be decided by the civil courts according to
the American rules concerning rights to property held by ecclesiastical
bodies, the points involved might be presented as follows:
1. Where the property which is the subject of controversy is, by the
express terms of the deed or will of the donor or other instrument
under which it is held, devoted to the teaching, support, or spread of
a specific form of religious doctrine and belief.
2. Where the property is held by a religious congregation, which
by the nature of its organization is strictly independent of other
ecclesiastical associations, and, so far as church government is
concerned, owes no fealty or obligation to any higher authority.
3. The third is where the religious congregation or ecclesiastical body
holding the property is but a subordinate member of some general church
organization in which there are superior ecclesiastical tribunals
with a general and ultimate power of control, more or less complete,
in some supreme judicatory over the whole membership of that general
organization.
Respecting the first of these classes, it does not admit of a rational
doubt that an individual or an association of individuals may dedicate
property by way of trust to the purpose of sustaining, supporting, and
propagating definite religious doctrines or principles, provided that
in doing so they violate no law of morality, and give to the instrument
by which their purpose is evidenced the formalities which the law
requires.
And it is then the duty of a court of law, in a case properly brought
before it, to see that the property so dedicated is not diverted from
the trust which is thus attached to its use. So long as there are
persons qualified within the meaning of the original dedication, and
who are also willing to teach the doctrines or principles prescribed in
the act of dedication, and so long as there is any one so interested in
the execution of the trust as to have a standing in court, it must be
that they can prevent the diversion of the property or fund to other
and different uses.
This is the general doctrine of courts of equity as to charities, and
it is also applicable to ecclesiastical matters.
In such case, where the trust is confided to a religious congregation
or church government, it is not in the power of the majority of that
congregation, however preponderant by reason of a change of views on
religion, to carry the property so confided to them to the support of
new and conflicting doctrine.
A pious man building and dedicating a house of worship to the sole and
exclusive use of those who believe in the doctrines of the Holy Roman
Catholic Church, and placing it under the control of those who at the
time held the same belief, has a right to expect that the law will
prevent that property from being used for any other purpose whatsoever.
The law should throw its protection around the trust, and it is the
duty of courts of law to enforce a trust clearly defined, and to
inquire whether the party accused of violating the trust is using the
property so dedicated as to defeat the declared objects of the trust.
In such cases, the right to the use of the property must be determined
by the ordinary principles which govern voluntary associations.
The same rule prevails as to the class of cases coming within the view
of the third proposition, as to property acquired in any of the usual
modes for the general use of a religious congregation which is itself
part of a larger and general organization, with which it is connected
by religious views and ecclesiastical government, and which appeals
to the courts to determine the right to the use of the property so
acquired. That is, where property has been purchased for the use of
the congregation, and so long as any such body can be ascertained to be
of that congregation, and is under its control and bound by its orders
and judgments, or its regular and legitimate successor, it is entitled
to the use of the property.
In this class of cases, the rule of action which governs the civil
courts of the United States, as enunciated by the highest legal
tribunal, the Supreme Court, is founded upon a broad and sound view of
the relations of church and state, and is, that wherever questions of
faith or of discipline, or ecclesiastical rule, custom, or law, have
been decided by the highest of these church judicatories to which the
matter has been carried, the legal tribunals must accept such decisions
as final, and as binding on them in their application to the case
before them.[3]
In delivering the opinion of the court in that case, the learned Mr.
Justice Miller said:
"In this country the full and free right to entertain any religious
belief, to practise any religious principle, and to teach any
religious doctrine which does not violate the laws of morality
and property, and which does not infringe personal rights, is
conceded to all. The law is not committed to the support of any
dogma, the establishment of any sect. The right to organize
voluntary religious associations, to assist in the expression and
dissemination of any religious doctrine, and to create tribunals
for the decision of controverted questions of faith within the
association, and for the ecclesiastical government of all the
individual members, congregations, and officers within the general
association, is unquestioned. All who unite themselves to such
a body do so with an implied consent to this government, and
are bound to submit to it. But it would be a vain consent, and
would lead to the total subversion of such religious bodies, if
any one aggrieved by one of their decisions could appeal to the
secular courts and have them reversed. It is of the essence of
these religious unions, and of their right to establish tribunals
for the decision of questions arising among themselves, that
those decisions should be binding in all cases of ecclesiastical
cognizance, subject to only such appeals as the organism itself
provides for.
"Nor do we see that justice would be likely to be promoted by
submitting those decisions to review in the ordinary judicial
tribunals.
"The Catholic Church has constitutional and ecclesiastical laws
of its own that task the ablest minds to become familiar with.
It cannot be expected that judges of the civil courts can be as
competent in the ecclesiastical law as the ablest men in the
church. It would therefore be an appeal from the more learned
tribunal in the law, which should decide the case, to one which is
less so.
"These views are supported by the preponderant weight of authority
in this country."
And according to the American rule, where the subject-matter of
dispute, inquiry, or decision is strictly and purely ecclesiastical
in its character, it is a matter over which the civil courts should
not exercise any jurisdiction--a matter which concerns theological
controversy, church discipline, ecclesiastical government, or the
conformity of the members of the church to the standard of morals
required of them, the civil court has not and should not have any
jurisdiction. If the civil courts were at liberty to inquire into
the whole subject of doctrinal theology, usages, and customs, the
written laws and fundamental principles would have to be examined into
with minuteness and care, for they would be the criteria by which
the validity of the ecclesiastical decree would be determined in the
civil court. And that would deprive the authorities of the church of
their proper right and power to construe their own church laws, and
would open the way to the evil of transferring to the civil courts,
where the rights to property were concerned, the decision of all
ecclesiastical questions.[4]
Of all the cases in which this doctrine is applied, no better
representative can be found than that of Shannon _v._ Frost,[5] where
the principle is ably supported by the learned Chief-Justice of the
Court of Appeals of Kentucky, wherein he says:
"This court, having no ecclesiastical jurisdiction, cannot revise
or question ordinary acts of church discipline. Our only judicial
power in the case arises from the conflicting claims of the parties
in the church property, and the use of it. We cannot decide who
ought to be members of the church, nor whether the excommunicated
have been justly or unjustly, regularly or irregularly, cut off
from the body of the church."
The same principle was laid down in the subsequent case of Gibson _v._
Armstrong,[6] and of Watson _v._ Avery.[7]
One of the most careful and well-considered judgments on the subject is
that of the Court of Appeals of South Carolina, delivered by Chancellor
Johnson in the case of Harmon _v._ Dreher.[8] That case turned upon
certain rights in the use of church property claimed by the minister,
notwithstanding his expulsion from the synod as one of its members:
"He stands," says the chancellor, "convicted of the offences
alleged against him by the sentence of the spiritual body of which
he was a voluntary member, and whose proceedings he had bound
himself to abide. It belongs not to the civil power to enter into
or review the proceedings of a spiritual court. The structure
of our government has for the preservation of religious liberty
rescued the temporal institutions from religious interference; on
the other hand, it has secured religious liberty from the invasion
of the civil authority. The judgments, therefore, of religious
associations, bearing on their own members, are not examinable
here; and I am not to enquire whether the doctrines attributed
to Mr. Dreher were held by him, or whether, if held, were
anti-Lutheran, or whether his conduct was or was not in accordance
with the duty he owed to the synod or to his denomination.... When
a civil right depends upon an ecclesiastical matter, it is the
civil court and not the ecclesiastical which is to decide. But
the civil tribunal tries the civil right, and no more, taking the
ecclesiastical decisions out of which the civil right arises as it
finds them."
This principle is reaffirmed by the same court in the John's Island
Church case.[9] And in Den _v._ Bolton[10] the Supreme Court of New
Jersey asserts the same principle.
The Supreme Court of Illinois, in the case of Ferraria _v._
Vascouelles, refers to the case of Shannon _v._ Frost with approval,
and adopts the language of the court, that the judicial eye cannot
penetrate the veil of the church for the forbidden purpose of
vindicating the alleged wrongs of excised members; when they became
members, they did so upon the condition of continuing or not as they
and their churches might determine, and they thereby submit to the
ecclesiastical power, and cannot now invoke the supervisory power of
the civil tribunals.
And in the case of Chase _v._ Cheney, recently decided in the same
(Illinois) court, Judge Lawrence says: "The opinion implies that in the
administration of ecclesiastical discipline, and where no other right
of property is involved, their loss of the clerical office or salary
incident to such discipline, a spiritual court is the exclusive judge
of its own jurisdiction, and that its decision of that question is
binding on the secular courts."
In the case of Watson _v._ Ferris,[11] which was a case growing out of
the schism in the Presbyterian Church in Missouri, the court held that
whether a case was regularly or irregularly before the assembly, was a
question which the assembly had the right to determine for itself, and
no civil court could reverse, modify, or impair its action in a matter
of merely ecclesiastical concern.
The opinion of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, expressed in the
case of the German Reformed Church _v._ Seibert,[12] sets forth that
the decisions of ecclesiastical courts, like every other judicial
tribunal, are final, as they are the best judges of what constitutes
an offence against the word of God and the discipline of the church.
Any other than those courts must be incompetent judges of matters of
faith, discipline, and doctrine; and civil courts, if they should be so
unwise as to attempt to supervise their judgments on matters which come
within their jurisdiction, would only involve themselves in a sea of
uncertainty and doubt, which would do anything but improve religion and
good morals.
In the subsequent case of McGinnis _v._ Watson,[13] this principle is
again applied and supported by a more elaborate argument.
Lord Chancellor Eldon, upon delivering the opinion of the House of
Lords in the celebrated test-case of Craigdallie _v._ Aikman, reported
in 2 _Bligh_, 529 (1 _Dow_, 1), said: That they (the law lords) had
adopted this principle as their rule and guide for cases of dispute
respecting the right to property conveyed for the use of religious
worship--that it is a trust which is to be enforced for the purpose
of maintaining that religious worship for which the property was
devoted, and in the event of schism (the original deed having made no
provision for such cases) its uses are to be enforced, not on behalf of
a majority of the congregation, nor yet exclusively in behalf of the
party adhering to the general body, but in favor of that part of the
society adhering to and maintaining the original principles upon which
it was founded: the exclusive standard or guide by which conflicting
claims are to be decided is adherence to the church itself.
Regarding, therefore, church property, or the property of religious
societies, communities, or orders, in the same manner as the private
property of any other corporation or individual, it may with safety be
assumed as a settled and fundamental law that ought to be recognized
by every Christian and civilized state, that it is bound to make just
indemnity and compensation to the citizen or subject, society, or
corporation, or community, for all property taken under the pressure
of state necessity for the public good, convenience, or safety. The
eminent domain of the state should be so exercised as to work no
wrong, to inflict no private injury, without giving to the party
aggrieved ample redress. This doctrine was not engrafted on the public
law to give license to despotic and arbitrary sovereigns. It has its
foundation in the organization of society, and is essential to the
maintenance of public virtue in every government, whether a republic, a
monarchy, or a despotism. It is of the very essence of sovereignty, for
without it a state cannot perform its first and highest duties--those
required by justice and righteousness. Whenever, therefore, from
necessity a state appropriates to public use the private property of
an individual or of a corporation, lay or religious, it is obliged by a
law as imperative as that by which it makes the appropriation, to give
to the party aggrieved redress commensurate with the injury sustained.
Upon any other principle the social compact would work mischief and
wrong. The state might impoverish the citizen it was established to
protect, and trample on those rights of property, security for which
was one of the great objects of its creation.
All the elementary writers of authority sustain these views of the duty
and obligations of states.
Justice requires, says Vattel, that the community or individual be
indemnified at the public charge.
The taking, says Grotius, must be for some public advantage; as, for
instance, in time of war, the erection of a rampart or fortification,
or where his standing corn or storehouses are destroyed to prevent
their being of use to the enemy, in which case the person injured
should receive a just compensation for the loss he suffers out of the
common stock. The state is obliged to repair the damage suffered by
any citizen out of the public funds. The conversion cannot take place
either to gratify any whim, caprice, or fashion; it must be an actual
public necessity. For, do we not read of an instance where some king,
perhaps of Prussia, was erecting a magnificent palace at his capital,
and, in order to carry out the design of the architect, it became
necessary to remove a small unsightly tenement, the property of a poor
man, who, though so poor, would not sell his place or consent that it
should be removed, and there it remained for years, an eyesore perhaps
to many, and yet the king, as the chief depositary of justice, would
not permit it to be disturbed, although urged by his flatterers and
courtiers to do so, until in lapse of years the owner died, and his
successors consented to sell. The historian recalls the justice of the
king, that all honest and honorable rulers and men might follow such a
noble example of honor and justice. But can any one reasonably praise
such an act, and approve of the confiscation of the houses of religious
and charitable associations in Italy, and the very suppression and
wiping out of the corporation or society itself, without trial, or
charge of offence or crime other than the offence of doing good to the
human race without pay, fee, or reward here, but looking only to heaven
for recompense.
If the Italian government or parliament may to-day confiscate or
escheat the property of Catholic communities, and thus commit a breach
of the pact made by former rulers, emperors, or governments with the
founders of such communities, disregarding all inherent rights of
succession and perpetuity, may it not to-morrow also commit a breach
of its own compacts or implied guarantees, and confiscate or escheat
all the property of churches, school-houses, colleges, of other
denominations who have lately or are now building them within Italian
jurisdiction? For what obstacle is to prevent it doing so? Having
outraged and set aside as nought the moral or human law, styled law of
nations, in this respect, may it not do so again in any other, from
either whim or caprice? Unless there is some power left in public
opinion to restrain it, this is a dilemma from which all the arguments
of theoretical political economists or logicians cannot relieve them.
Therefore, is it not a question now well worthy the consideration
of all honest-thinking men, whether or not they should aid public
opinion in sending forth a note of warning against this doctrine
of confiscation--for else, perhaps, the disease may make a wider
sweep over the earth, and parliaments or congresses be elected for
the purpose of confiscating or escheating other property besides
church property or the property of religious or charitable houses or
communities?
Judging from the tenor and tone of American decisions--upon the
question involved--pronounced by some of our ablest and purest
men, this "confiscation," or, more expressively, this "spoliation"
of the property of the church and of religious orders, by Victor
Emanuel, under color of parliamentary enactments, and tested also by
recognized rules of international law, to say nothing of that higher
law which commands us to "do unto others, etc.," such "confiscation"
is utterly indefensible upon any doctrine other than that set forth
in the nefarious maxim, "To the victors belong the spoils," and
any acquiescence on the part of the Christian nations, Catholic or
non-Catholic, is simply disgraceful, and an act of homage to the prince
of this world which is in itself an act of dishonor towards God.
And as any title so acquired can only be maintained so long as the
usurper has the material power to occupy and defend, it is certain
that with the destruction of that power the true and rightful owners
may revive and assert their rights of ownership and possession, as the
lawful successors of the original grantors and founders, regardless of
any claims or incumbrances whatsoever made or suffered by intervening
holders or intruders.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.
T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C.
[2] Constitution of the United States.
[3] Watson _v._ Jones, _13 Wallace 729_.
[4] See Cardcross case, McMillan _v._ General Assembly of the
Presbyterian Church, 22 _D._ (_Scotch Ct. of Sess._) 270, decided 23d
December, 1859. Attorney-General _v._ Pearson, _3 Merivale 353_; Miller
_v._ Goble, _2 Denio 492_.
[5] _3 B. Monroe 253_.
[6] _7 B. Monroe 481_.
[7] _2 Bush 332_.
[8] 2 Speers' _Equity_ 87.
[9] 2 Richardson's _Equity_ 215.
[10] _7 Halstead 206_.
[11] _45 Missouri 183_.
[12] _3 Barr 291_.
[13] _41 Pennsylvania State 21_.
HOW GEORGE HOWARD WAS CURED.
To give up the battle of life at any age is bad, so long as a flicker
of life is left. It is like deserting the doomed ship whilst the
groaning planks hold together; like refusing to make one in the forlorn
hope, but choosing rather to sit down with closed eyes, and let death
come as it may. But to give up the battle of life at five-and-twenty,
when the battle can scarcely be said to have begun, whilst the future
lies hidden behind an uncertain mist, when the sinews are braced, the
eyes clear, the heart hopeful, the hair unsilvered--to give it up then
is like deserting the ship whilst all is fair sailing, like sneaking
from the ranks at first scent of the enemy. It is as cowardly as for
the sentinel to abandon his post or the ensign to surrender without
a blow the colors which he swore to defend to death; nay, as for the
husband to desert the wife he chose out of all the world before God to
be his until death. Yet this was what George Howard had done.
Of course a woman was in it, as she is in most difficulties here
below. And is it not her province? If she sometimes happen to be "in
it" a little too much, rather in the light of an obstacle than a
helper--well, the best and not the worst must be made of her under the
awkward circumstances. The first man, if Mr. Darwin will excuse the
heresy, set us a good example in this way. It was a pity that Eve did
not turn her ear away from the voice of the charmer; but as she did
the other thing, and so wrought upon her husband that he followed her
example, after all he made the very best of a very bad bargain, and,
like a true man, stuck to his wife. But to return from Adam to his
XIXth century descendant, Mr. George Howard: Why had that promising
young gentleman metaphorically "thrown up the sponge," and drawn aside
like a coward from the broad road of life, to linger on uselessly in
this little out-of-the-way French town where nobody knew him, where
nobody heard of him from the great city at the other side of the ocean,
which he left one fine morning a year or more ago without a word of
warning or a single good-by to the many friends whose kindly eyes had
looked hopefully upon him, and whose friendly lips had prophesied
success? Why had he gone out from this busy heart of the New World,
palpitating with promise and half-defined yearnings, to bury himself
away in this silent nook in an obscure corner of the south of France,
doing nothing, caring nothing, planning nothing, wearily waiting for
life to end?
As is generally the case with despairing five-and-twenty in the
masculine, and despondent seventeen or eighteen in the feminine, sex,
it was one of those peculiar difficulties known as "affairs of the
heart." Nobody ever knew the exact ins and outs of it; how far the
lady was to blame, and how far George had himself to accuse. Like many
a passionate, high-souled young man, where he bestowed his heart he
expected that heart to absorb and fill up the life and soul of the
woman he loved. That effect does follow generally, but by degrees
more or less slow. George was apt to love too fiercely and too fast.
But young, high-spirited girls like to be wooed before they are won.
Though their hearts may have been virtually taken by storm long before
the besieging party so much as suspect that a breach has been made in
the stubborn fortress, still they like to make a show of surrendering
at discretion, and marching out with all the honors of war, rather
than be instantly and absolutely overwhelmed by love. There is such
a thing as a surfeit of happiness. George Howard had probably made
this mistake. Such lovers as he are apt to start at shadows, imagining
them realities. The end of it was that George's fortress surrendered
to somebody else, married the conqueror, and was disgracefully happy.
Whether or not she ever cast a thought back on the bright young fellow
that once loved her so fiercely, who can tell? Probably not. She made a
good match--and contented wives soon drop romance; sooner than husbands
often. It is astonishing how easily the goddess we adore before
marriage descends from the clouds, walks the earth like a sturdy woman,
and becomes a practical, sensible wife. It may be a little unromantic
at first sight, but it is undoubtedly by far the best thing she could
do under the circumstances. But when poor George saw his goddess riding
about smiling and happy by the side of her husband, and that husband
not himself, he could not endure the sight. After lingering a little
in misery, he threw up his connections, and left the city for what
destination nobody knew.
George Howard was alone in the world. His mother had died early; his
father went off when George was twenty, leaving him fortune enough to
help him to make life as pleasant as he chose to make it for himself.
He was advancing rapidly in his profession--law--and had made a host
of friends when the collapse came. As is so often the case, his pride,
instead of sustaining him, sank under the blow. Most probably, if
the truth were told, the wound inflicted on his self-esteem rankled
deeper than that which had killed his love. The thought that another
man could succeed where George Howard had failed would have been gall
and wormwood to him in any case; but when the object of rivalry was a
woman's heart, and George Howard's were the rejected addresses, death
would be a small word to express the consummation of that gentleman's
misery; it was the annihilation of all that made life worth the living.
"Howard the jilted," he seemed to read in everybody's eye, when perhaps
not half a dozen persons knew anything about the affair. Jilted by a
girl! How could a man recover such a blow? What was there in the wide
world to fill up the void left in one when his mighty self shrank to
such insignificant proportions?
Common sense might have suggested that there was more than one woman
in the world, and that there lay a deeper fund of love in the heart
of a man than could be exhausted on the first girl he chanced to meet
and admire. It might have suggested also that failure in love did
not necessarily mean failure in matters which, after all, as far as
the world outside of our little selves is concerned, are of far more
importance than love. Man is not sent into this world for the one
purpose of being "married and done for," as the phrase goes. But when
did common sense find the ear of a lover, particularly of a lover
rejected?
So here was George Howard, clever enough, good-looking enough, and by
no means a bad fellow, self-stranded on the barren sand-banks of life,
with a short five-and-twenty years behind him, a future full of fair
promise still before him, hugging a useless sorrow in silent sadness,
and making that his bride.
He lived on listlessly from day to day. He mixed with no circle;
he knew nobody. He took his meals at his hotel, addressed a few
commonplaces to those he happened to meet, and passed most of his time
in the open air, taking long strolls into the country, walking up and
down the beach by the sea, watching the solitary sails that came and
went and faded out of sight--sadly, it seemed to him sometimes, as
though beckoning him back to a living world. There were few visitors
at the little town, save just during the hottest of the summer months.
Such as did come hurried away again as fast as they could. The train
rushed through it day after day, a crowd of peering faces would show
themselves a few moments at the windows of the cars, strange eyes
would stare curiously at the strange place, and pass on a moment after
as indifferent as before. Something of the instinct which prompts a
wounded animal to seek out a silent covert where it may lie down with
its wound and die alone, must have conducted George Howard to this spot.
Yet to a man who had only gone there for a short holiday, weary awhile
of the rush, and the struggle, and the incessant strain and roar of a
busier life, the little French town, with its quaint look and quaint
ways, might have offered a refreshing relief from the dust, and the
turmoil, and the worry of the world of politics and money, railroads
and trade. Many a one doubtless has at some time or other had the
wish to wake up some morning a century or two ago in a world that had
gone away. To such the placid evenings by the sea, the homely looks of
the inhabitants, the clean blouses of the men, the white caps of the
women, the busy tongues of the children, the long silver hair of M. le
Curé, the dances by the sea as the sun went down, the slow wains drawn
by drowsy oxen, the fuss and bustle of the weekly market-day, the big
_gendarme_ with his clanking sword, the white houses and their antique
gables, with the beat of the surf on the beach for ever, and the fresh
odor of the ocean pervading all places, would have seemed the delicious
realization of many a picture looked on and lingered over in a gilded
frame.
But on the deadened senses of George Howard these simple scenes, and
sights, and sounds fell as you might fancy the roll of the muffled
drums to fall on the one stretched out in the coffin who is being borne
speedily on by the living to his grave. They wake no life in him; he
makes no stir; he is let down into the earth--a farewell roll, and the
grave is closed over him for ever, whilst the bright world above seems
to smile the merrier that another dead man is hidden away.
Of course, this kind of life and mode of thought were rapidly telling
on him and bringing nearer and nearer the consummation he seemed to
desire. The step grew slower, the eyes began to lose their quick
lustre, the cheek its flush, the body its swing and half-defiant
bearing. The simple people round about looked at him silently, shook
their heads, and sighed as he moved by without noticing them. He grew
more and more attached to the beach, where he would stroll up and down
and sit for hours on the yellow sand, staring out blankly at the
broad water, casting a pebble into it from time to time, and watching
the circles that it made. There was something congenial to his nature
in the changeable face and mood, the smile, the frown, the hoarse
breathing, the sob, the sigh, the roar, the rage of the ocean. To all
these changes something within him gave a voice, until the very spirit
of the mysterious deep seemed to creep into his being, and make it an
abode there.
So he lived on, never writing to a friend, never yearning to go back to
the world he had quitted, and which still held out its arms to him. All
ambition, all desire of achievement, all common feeling with the world
into which he had been born, seemed to have gradually oozed out of him.
He had staked his happiness and lost, and now he only wished for the
end to come soon. It never occurred to him that he had possibly staked
his happiness at too low a figure. He only saw before him an empty
life with a dreary existence. At such stages, some men commit suicide.
He was not yet coward enough for that, though not Christian enough to
perceive that this world was not made for one man and one woman only,
but for all the children of Adam.
But happily, however man may reject Providence, and close his eyes to a
Power that shapeth all things for good, Providence mercifully refuses
to reject him without at least giving him plenty of opportunities,
humanly called chances, to come back to the possession of his senses,
and the fulfilment of the mission which is appointed unto every man.
And one of George Howard's chances came about this wise.
A favorite walk of his was along a winding road leading some distance
out of the little town up a lofty hill, from the summit of which the
eye could scan the sweeping circle of the waters, stretching out in
its glittering wonder to the verge of dimness, or, inland, where miles
and miles of fair pasture-land and vineyards spread away in gentle
undulations, with smoke rising from hollows in which hamlets slept, and
church spires clove the clear air, and airy villas crowned the pleasant
hills. Alternate gleams of sea and land shot through the tall poplars
that lined the road as it circled round the hill. At the top, buried
amid trees, and fronted by a garden filled almost the year through with
delicious flowers, was the Maison Plaquet, a sort of _café_, where
visitors could procure a cup of coffee, a glass of _eau sucrée_, or
the good wines _du pays_. This establishment was presided over by Mme.
Plaquet, a buxom dame with a merry eye and kindly voice, whose pleasant
face had become quite a part of the landscape. There was understood
to be a M. Plaquet somewhere, but he did not often show himself to
visitors. He left the whole business to madame, having a strong
suspicion that there was no woman like her in the world, and spent most
of his time trimming the flower-beds, pruning the trees, or tending to
the vineyard.
George was a frequent visitor at the Maison Plaquet. He would spend
hours in the garden dreaming. Madame was won by his handsome face
and the fixed sadness in his eyes, which always lighted up, however,
in response to her genial greeting. She half suspected that it was
something more than a love of nature which sent the _pauvre garçon_,
as she called him, away from friends, and home, and family, to sit
there day after day dreaming in her arbor, beautiful as it was. With
the chatty good-nature which in a Frenchwoman never seems offensive,
she would sometimes try to draw him out of himself, to learn something
about him that might help her to lift the settled cloud off his
handsome face. To Mme. Plaquet it seemed almost a sin against the good
God to wear a cloudy face always. But George was so jealously reserved
that she gave him up, with the secret conviction that it was love alone
that could inflict so deep a wound on so young a heart, and that love
alone could heal it.
One afternoon, whilst George was reclining in the arbor, a riding party
of gay cavaliers and dames showed themselves suddenly in front of the
Maison Plaquet. Exclamations of delight at the beauty of the scene
burst from one and another. One fair young girl stood her horse just
at the entrance to the arbor, and, to those within, completely filled
in the picture. Thus she met the dreamy eyes of Mr. George Howard. The
steed was a little restive, but with a firm though gentle hand she
curbed him until he stood still as death and she upon him. The light
hat she wore was thrown back, showing a shapely head with glossy curls,
around which the sun made a glory under the clustering blossoms. For
a moment horse and rider seemed to stand out startlingly clear from
the sky, and for that moment George allowed his eyes to linger there
as upon a striking picture. A moment after, the party had dismounted,
entered the arbor, and seated themselves at a table opposite to our
friend. As the centre figure of the picture which had attracted his
gaze passed, she glanced at him, and he had a momentary view of a
blooming cheek and a pair of those large, soft, but courageous eyes,
filled with that courage which makes a man reverence a woman--eyes
round, and full, and clear as a child's, that fear no evil without,
because they are conscious of none within. The party was a gay one, and
their gaiety grated on George's ear. He rose and sauntered down the
hill, a little sadder, if possible, than when he had ascended it.
After his departure, one of the gentlemen, an old acquaintance of Mme.
Plaquet's apparently, inquired of her who her strange visitor might be
whom he had met there more than once, and always alone.
Madame, with a sigh and many a shrug, and much amiable volubility,
told the company that she knew nothing at all about him, save that
he lived in the little town _en bas_, that he came there very often,
that he was evidently suffering from some great trouble, that he was a
good gentleman and always gave something to the poor when they asked
him, and that it was a great pity so handsome a young gentleman should
offend the good God by not being happy.
The ladies were quite interested in madame's narrative. Ladies will be
interested about good-looking young men who are suffering from that
romantic complaint, an incurable melancholy. But as madame's narrative,
eloquent and pathetic though it was, left them in much the same state
of enlightenment as before with regard to the interesting stranger, all
they could do was sigh a little, remount, and resume their gay tone.
Just as they were commencing the descent, a hare started and frightened
the horse of the young lady who had attracted George's attention. A
plunge, a rear, and an instant after it was out of sight, thundering
down the steep road at a speed that mocked pursuit.
George was strolling along in his listless way, stopping now at this
turn, now at that, to admire the scenery, pluck a flower or a leaf,
and muse a little. He had almost arrived at the foot of the hill, when
a cry from above and a clatter of hoofs broke on his ear. He stood at
a narrow turn between two high banks opening into the last bend of the
road, to listen and observe. A moment after, a horse with a lady on his
back came tearing down at a mad speed right on him. A glance showed
that the rider stood in imminent danger of her life, and that the only
means of saving her was to stop the animal in the midst of its wild
career. The thought and determination to do something had scarcely
time to flash through his brain, when the horse was on him; and how he
never knew, but he found himself dragging at the reins--a stumble of
the steed against the bank as it swerved, a fainting lady in his arms,
and a moment after a crowd of persons around them. He surrendered her
to the care of her friends, and, seeing her revive whilst they were
engaged in tending her, took occasion to slink away unobserved, as
though he had been guilty of some mean action. And the Maison Plaquet
saw him no more.
About a week after this occurrence, he was taking one of his usual
moody walks along the beach, his hands clasped behind him, and his eyes
following the golden path that led away over the waters down to the
sinking sun. He walked along listlessly, insensible to everything save
the subtle solemnity of the hour, when the brooding calm of the evening
began to settle over the crimson wave and the flushed earth. He did not
observe a figure leaning against a huge boulder that lay rosy-red right
in his path. The leaning figure was that of a young man, who, like
George, was surveying the scene, but with an air of genuine admiration
curiously tempered by the eye of a connoisseur examining a painting
as to the merits or defects of which his oracular opinion might be
called for at any moment by a listening world. Let us look at him as
he leans back there, so contented, to all seeming, with the world in
general, and possibly with himself in particular; for notwithstanding
an occasional touch of what in others would be called impertinence, but
in him was really rather assumed than natural, and, as he was wont to
say, often got him out of difficulties, Ned Fitzgerald was a fellow you
would like.
His slim, well-knit figure, clad in a light summer suit, his pleasant,
animated face surmounted by a straw hat that became him, his bright
eyes glancing around and taking all in in a sweep--the sinking sun, the
mingling colors on the waters, the flush on the hills, the blood-red
glow on the sands, the quiet circles of a solitary sea-bird that turned
and dipped its snow-white wings in the rosy light--to one looking at
him, he made nature seem all the more lovely and enjoyable for having
one who could feel its loveliness so thoroughly and so evidently.
The quick eye did not take long to pick out the slightly stooped
figure that seemed so wrapt in silent thought, and, as it neared
him, never turned its gaze from the dying sun. Mr. Ned Fitzgerald
watched its approach, and, with his usual tendency to be sociable,
evidently contemplated addressing it; when, as it came close enough to
distinguish the features, he started from his recumbent position, took
off his hat and tossed it wildly in the air, never waiting to catch it
again, but, rushing towards George, seized that astounded and miserable
mortal in his arms, and hugged him almost to suffocation before he
could see who it was, whilst the exclamation burst from him:
"Why, George Howard, by all that's impossible!"
Another hug and a longer one, and a hearty laugh, and a shake of both
hands up and down, and a look of genuine pleasure in the bright eyes
that seemed to throw a light over the kindly face--Ned's pleasantry
was contagious, and the first flush of surprise on George's face was
succeeded by a faint smile as soon as he recognized his old friend and
school-fellow, whilst a sort of moisture forced itself into his own
eyes. It was as though he had come back from the grave a moment to find
that after all the hand shaken so vigorously by an old friend--the
best-liked old friend of them all, who had studied with him, and fought
with him, and played with him, and got into all sorts of scrapes and
out of them with him, and built with him those bubble castles that boys
will build at school, destitute of nothing save foundation--was still
real flesh and blood, and that the heart throbbing within him was still
human.
"Why, Ned, old fellow, what in the name of wonder brought you here?"
"Destiny, my boy, destiny, fate--anything you please that may give
a sufficiently solemn turn to a landslip close by which interfered
considerably with locomotion, and forced me bag and baggage out of
my snug _coupé_, to set me down in this unknown corner of the earth,
absolutely without a soul to speak to, for one night. But I do believe
I could have endured a broken head as well as a broken journey for the
sake of dropping on you again, old boy."
Why young gentlemen, supposed to know the meaning of words, should
find such a secret fund of special endearment in the terms which they
so lavishly apply to one another of "old boy," "old fellow," or "old
man," is a mystery whose solution is still to appear. Young persons
of the opposite sex, as it is called--goodness knows why--are not in
the habit of addressing each other as "old woman," "old duck," or "old
maid." Such terms would be esteemed in them as anything but endearing,
although married ladies have been known to speak of their lord and
master as "a dear, good old thing." However, to return from this
digression, which is becoming dangerous, to the "old" men in question:
"Well, Ned, I am really glad to see you," said George, and then added
slowly, as the old chill came back to him, "and that's more than I'd
say to many an old acquaintance--now."
He looked away moodily to where the sun had gone down, as the gray
began to settle over the water. Ned took a quick glance at his friend,
and saw that, as he expressed it to himself, "all was not right
somewhere." He had seen very little of Howard since they left college,
and knew nothing of what had driven him from New York. However, he
determined to take no notice of his last remark for the present, but
said gaily:
"This sea of yours gives one a tremendous appetite. I move dinner.
There's nothing like dinner to liven up a man's wits. Come along,
George. We have had our fill of gorgeous sunsets and scenery for one
day. There's a poetry as well as a glare in the gaslight when it shines
on a well-spread table. What! you have no gas here? Happy people!
One tax the less. But it is to be hoped you find something to eat in
this backbone of the world. Now, come along, and we'll have all the
adventures by flood and field with the cigars."
Ned was at his best during dinner, though, for that matter, he seemed
always at his best. His presence gave a pleasant flavor to dishes which
time after time George had turned away from with disgust. He had an
original remark for everything. And the polite French waiter was rather
astonished as the dinner progressed to see M. O--art, as the domestics
called George, give vent to an occasional laugh, which grew and grew,
until the two old friends became almost as uproarious as a couple of
school-boys out for a holiday.
That delicious after-dinner moment having arrived when the cigars are
lighted and the legs stretched out in lazy contentment, without the
slightest regard for "the proprieties"--nobody but themselves being
present--they began their questionings and cross-questionings. George
was the first to start.
"Well, Ned, what in the name of good fortune brought you down here?
What are you doing? Still writing?"
"Yes. At present I am despatched on a secret diplomatic mission, which
of course it is impossible for me to divulge, by the editor of the
greatest daily in the world. You know what that means."
"Well, I can guess. The particular 'greatest daily' does not matter
much. There are so many."
"Yes; and the fun of it is, I write for them all. The six or seven
special correspondents who keep New York and London on the _qui vive_
with regard to European affairs, and who lay bare to their wondering
vision from time to time the real undercurrent of those affairs,
social, political, and religious, are often one and the same with your
Mephistophelian friend."
"Bohemianizing, eh? Why, I took you to be respectable, Ned. Ah! a
newspaper office is a sadly demoralizing place."
"Pshaw! What will you have? The public wants news, and somebody must
furnish it. People nowadays are much the same as people ever were.
Humanity must have something to talk about, or it could not exist.
Humanity is a woman."
"I agree with you there; that is why I have abandoned it."
"Oh! I see what you would say. There are two sides to that. But what
I mean is, we must talk, or the world will come to a stand-still. The
newspaper man nowadays furnishes the staple commodity on which the
world exercises its tongue."
"Nowadays, yes. Well, it's a poor commodity. Somebody has well called
it the 'cheap and nasty.'"
"Always the same, George; always the same. What was the cry of
the Athenians when S. Paul went amongst them? 'What news? _Quid
novi?_'--and the Athenians were the intellect of their time. To-day we
live too fast for the tongue; hence electricity, hence the daily."
"Hence the Bohemian?"
"Well, Bohemian is a much-misapplied word. It requires a sort of genius
to be a true Bohemian; erratic genius, if you like, but still genius.
Bohemianism is not all boots down at heel, crushed hat, and broken
elbows, five-cent cigars and lager-beer that a friend pays for, with
an occasional bottle of champagne when the pocket happens to be flush.
Look at me, for instance, supplying the six or seven leading dailies
with news. If I tell a lie one day, I contradict it the next. If I
send a false account to the government organ, I send an extra true one
to the opposition, and a trimmer to the free and independent. If the
government is malicious, the opposition is ultra pious; and if the
free and independent is scandalous, both unite in coming down on and
crushing it. To be sure, things get mixed up a little sometimes; but,
on the whole, matters are pretty evenly balanced, and in the end the
truth comes uppermost. Then all along you are supported by the secret
conviction that nobody ever believes a word you say."
"Whose fault is that?" asked George.
"The weakness of humanity, my dear fellow. You must not go too deeply
into things, nor expect a daily newspaper, with its villanous printers,
to be true as gospel. A newspaper correspondent is despatched to find
news; and if he can't find it...."
"He invents."
"Well, what is the use of imagination, unless you exercise it a bit?
But it is the greatest fun in the world to see yourself quoted by
opposite parties for opposite purposes."
"Yes, it must be amusing. Some people--old-fashioned people, to be
sure--might consider it a trifle dishonest, perhaps; but then, they are
behind the age."
Ned rose, laughed, and took a turn round the room. Standing opposite
his friend, he said:
"So, George, I find I have succeeded in giving you an exalted idea of
my character and ability already. Have you forgotten that famous gift I
had of extemporizing yarns at school? Well, to relieve your mind, the
devil--that is to say, Mr. Edward Fitzgerald--is not quite so black as
he has painted himself. Nor, indeed, am I quite so powerful and fluent
a writer as I have imagined. I am on a mission here, though; partly
business, and partly to take my sister back with me to New York. She
has been staying with some of her school friends, convent companions.
I was on my way to join them when this lucky accident tumbled me into
your hermitage. And now, what has brought you here? You seem quite
domiciled. Why, I expected to have heard great things of you by this
time."
"I? Oh! I am doing nothing," said George, with a sigh, coming back to
himself.
"Nothing! Well, that is not such a bad occupation when you only know
how to do it, and can find no other employment."
"Why, what else can a fellow do?"
Ned was fairly taken aback at this question. To ask him what a fellow
could do in this world was like asking him why he had teeth, or hands,
or a head, or life altogether. After an amazed stare at his friend, he
answered:
"Well, I suppose that what a man can do is generally best known to
himself, when, like you, he has life in his veins, brains in his head,
and money in his pocket. At all events, it is scarcely likely that you
were made for the precise purpose of burying yourself alive here."
"Oh! I don't know. It is not such a bad sort of life," said George
wearily. "Here I have no cares, and fuss, and bother, no visitors to
bore, and no bores to visit. Nobody comes to borrow or beg. There is no
necessity for playing at compliments with people for whom you do not
care a straw, and who care for you less. Here is, instead, the sea, and
the shore, and the woods, and the hills, a fair table, a good enough
washerwoman, and people around you who never speak till they are spoken
to. What more can a fellow want?"
Ned made no reply. He was puffing his cigar in silence, and following
the curling smoke with his eye as he blew it against the light--a
favorite fashion of his when thinking to himself. He was thinking
now, rapidly, how changed was his friend in so short a time. He was
wondering where all the ardent spirit and high hopes that fired him a
few years back had gone. Contact with the world, instead of crushing,
had raised his own hopes the more. Why had it not done the same for
Howard? He could find no solution to the difficulty; for life to him
was a glorious battle, and inaction worse than death. His friend must
have encountered some great shock, some bitter disappointment, at
the outset. He was seeking the clew in the smoke apparently. After a
painful pause, he at length asked:
"How long have you been here now, George?"
"On and off, a year or more. I go and come. I make short excursions
round about for a week or so sometimes, but I always return here."
"You entered a firm on the other side, did you not?"
"No; I was about to do so."
"And why didn't you? Were they cheats?"
"No."
"Did they fail?"
"No."
"Did _you_ fail? Did you lose any money in any way?"
"No, what makes you ask?"
"Because I want to find out what the trouble is with you. You are not
in love?"
"Good God! No!" exclaimed George almost fiercely, as he rose, strode to
the window, and stood there looking out at the moon.
The bitterness of his tone, the abruptness of his action, told the
observant Ned that unwittingly he had touched the right chord. He
indulged in a silent whistle to himself, and shook his head as a
good-hearted physician might over a hopeless case. Ned confessed
himself a bad hand at ministering to the love complaint. That was
the only ill for which he would advocate the calling in of a female
physician. For heart disease of this nature, Ned would, on his own
authority, grant a diploma to any suitable lady doctor; for he was
convinced of the utter inability of man to handle such a delicate
affair. So he shook his head despondently.
Whilst these thoughts were passing through the brain of the now
very wide-awake Mr. Fitzgerald, George seemed to have recovered his
usual dead calm, and, leaving the window as he proceeded to light
a fresh cigar, inquired, with a smile that seemed to anticipate a
characteristic answer:
"Ned, have you ever been in love?"
It was now Ned's turn to rise. He tore about the room frantically a
moment, dashed his hand through his hair, and finally, coming to a
stand-still before his amused friend, burst out:
"In love! Have I ever been in love? What a question to ask a man! Don't
you know my name? Did you ever hear of a Fitzgerald or any other of his
race who had not been in love? Why, man, I fall in love every day of my
life. How can I help it when every woman I see for five minutes falls
in love with me. I might say I have lost my heart so often that I don't
think there's a bit of it left to lose now; and still I go on falling
in love by sheer force of habit." And Ned "hove to" with a comic burst
of despair.
"You are a happy man, Ned," said George, laughing.
"Happy?" questioned Ned, half to himself, and as though the idea had
struck him for the first time in his life. "Well, I suppose I am. I
don't see much advantage to be gained by being otherwise."
"Nor I; but, for all that, people differently constructed from your
fortunate self cannot always help being otherwise."
"Bah! Of course they can; particularly in love matters. Love was not
meant to make a man mope, but to stir him up. Those old fogies in the
middle ages had a much truer idea of love, as of many other things,
than we have nowadays, with all our boasting. Ah! love then was the
genuine article. Not all sighs, and tears, and millinery, and newspaper
paragraphs, and mothers-in-law, and the lovers playing cat's-cradle
to each other. No; but the man went about his business, bearing his
love in his heart for a year and a day. He wore his lady's gage on his
helm, and, if his business happened to be the giving and taking of hard
knocks, why, he gave and took, his love and himself against the world.
He rode in the lists under his lady's eye, and proved himself a brave
man for her sake. Love nerved his arm, whilst it purified his heart and
softened his soul. Why did the wife gird the buckler on her lord? Love
was akin to religion then, marriage a sacrament, and not, as it now
is...."
"A social exchange, a trade carried on by the great Mother-in-law
Company, Unlimited--a thing of barter and loss, where dollars are
wedded to dollars by the magistrate, where youth and beauty sells
herself to old age for so much a year and her own carriage. O Ned, Ned!
what a pity we were not born in the middle ages!"
"Hallo!" said Ned, "I did not mean to go quite so far as that, George.
After all, they were men and women then, just as we are; and, though
one cannot help breaking out now and again on modern notions, one thing
is certain--for every true knight there is somewhere a true lady."
"Have you found yours yet, Ned?"
"Perhaps not, perhaps yes," said Ned, dropping a moment his light tone.
"Perhaps because I am not a true knight; perhaps because, though I
found a true lady, she was meant for somebody else. Because I may have
made one mistake, that is no reason why my true lady should not be
waiting for me somewhere, nor why I should fail to rejoice at seeing
two others happy, though my own toes may have been trodden on a little
bit. After all, the world is very wide and full of happy possibilities."
Something unusual in Ned's tone seemed to spring from real feeling
that lay concealed under his usual airy manner; perhaps suffering,
with which his good-nature cared not to trouble the sufficiently
trouble-laden world. For the first time in his life, George Howard
felt a little ashamed of himself, and conscious of something akin
to selfishness in his nature which he had never suspected there
before. It takes a very long time to see ourselves. Self-knowledge
comes piecemeal, and the pieces that go to make the human mosaic are
sometimes very ugly when seen alone, though they may pass muster in the
whole, and merge and be lost in its common symmetry.
When he awoke the following morning, and the thought came to him that
the usually dreary day was to be enlivened for once by the presence of
Ned Fitzgerald, the thought was not an unpleasant one; and when that
gentleman burst into his room with a bundle of sea-weed in his hand,
speckled all over with curious little shells, which he said he would
keep for Mary, the look of young, active, earnest life in his bright
eyes and diffused over his whole person seemed in some indescribable
manner to make the sun brighter and the air clearer. George began to
feel young again, and examined the shells and the slimy weed, over
which Ned gloated and expatiated, with an interest that would have been
a marvel to him yesterday.
"And who is Mary?" he asked, as that name passed Ned's lips more than
once.
"Why, the sister I was telling you about."
"Oh!" said George, and was silent.
That evening, it was arranged that Ned should go the next day, and
bring Mary back with him. As he found the little town so quaint and
quiet, he determined to stay a week or so with his old friend, instead
of going on directly to Paris, as he had intended; and George, to pass
the interval, made his first visit since the accident to his friend,
Mme. Plaquet.
That good dame was as angry as she could be with him. Why had he not
come to see her for so long? What had he been doing? Was he sick from
the dragging that _méchant_, the horse, had given him? How did she know
about it? Why, had not M. de Lorme and the ladies been there almost
every day since, and all on purpose to meet him and thank him for his
brave service? And now, was not mademoiselle going away, and her heart
breaking because she could not see her preserver, and thank him for
saving her life? And there was the card and the letter of M. de Lorme
waiting for him all these days. She would not have it sent, because
she expected monsieur to come every day. Ah! it was cruel!
George opened the letter, and found that it was an eulogium of M. de
Lorme on his gallantry and devotion, to which he was indebted for
the life, probably, of his charming young friend; that her brave but
unknown preserver would confer an honor on her and on M. de Lorme by
favoring them with his distinguished friendship; that it was cruel of
him to escape from them whilst they were all engaged with his charming
young friend; that he hoped he would excuse this mode of addressing
him, as, owing to the peculiarity of the circumstances, he knew of
no other; and that, as his charming young friend was about to leave
them, he would no longer deny them the opportunity, so much desired,
of paying the deep debt of gratitude they owed him, by allowing them
to testify in person their admiration of his admirable courage and
chivalrous devotion.
"Well, and what do you say?" asked Mme. Plaquet, as, with arms folded
and a general air of mistress of the situation, she surveyed her
mysterious young friend, whilst, with a half-amused countenance, he
read M. de Lorme's missive.
"Oh!" said George, "I don't know. What a fuss you French people make
about stopping a horse! There--don't say any more about it. I have a
friend staying with me who knows how to arrange all these matters, and
I will consult him. To-morrow or the day after he shall come to see
you. You will like him. Is the lady quite recovered?"
"Entirely. But she looked so sad when she came, and came, and never
found you. Ah! if I were a handsome young man, how many horses would I
not stop, only to get one such glance from such lovely eyes!"
The next morning, Ned was to return with his sister, and George went
down to the railway station to meet them. If he showed himself a trifle
more careful than he had been lately in his selection of a tie and
in his dress generally, and if anybody had entered at the time and
told him so, George would probably have been angry at the idea of his
returning to such weaknesses. There was Ned's pleasant face at the
window; there he is waving his hat; and here he is now introducing
Miss Mary Fitzgerald to his old friend, Mr. George Howard, to the
mutual astonishment and evident confusion of that lady and gentleman,
who blushed and turned pale by turns like guilty things. Even Ned
was dumfoundered a moment, and argued to himself, from these silent
but unmistakable signs of recognition between the parties, that his
ceremony of introduction was quite a superfluous piece of etiquette.
He broke the awkward silence in his characteristic fashion:
"Well, if you people know each other already, you had better say so at
once, and not let me make an ass of myself by going through a formal
introduction--a thing I always hate. Mary, do you know George, or don't
you?"
There were tears in Mary's large eyes, as, clinging a moment to her
brother, she sobbed rather than said:
"O Ned! this is the gentleman I told you of, ... to whom I owe my
life, ... of whom we were all speaking...." And then, turning the
luminous and still tearful eyes full on George, who could scarcely
stand up against the rush of mingled feelings that oppressed him, said,
with a genuine simplicity and native grace which were most moving, as
she took his hand in her own with an action at once gentle and natural:
"Sir, it was a bitter thought to me that I should be compelled to
leave France without knowing and thanking the brave gentleman who
risked his life to save mine. I had hoped to see you at M. de Lorme's,
and had so much to say to you. But now that I meet you," glancing
at Ned, "in this ... in this way, my heart is so full I can say
nothing...." And the gathering tears began to fall.
It was time for Ned to intervene:
"Oho! So you are the unknown knight whom M. de Lorme and the ladies
have been raving about; who goes around in sable sadness, rescuing
charming young ladies from perilous situations, and disappearing as
mysteriously as you come. Faith, my friend, there is a nice romance
concocted over you. But, George, my boy, I could say a great deal more
than my eloquent sister has done on this subject, only I know it would
be distasteful to you. However, we shall have it out together on the
quiet some day. But what a shame!" Ned rattled on as they made their
way to the hotel. "Here is all my nice little plot spoiled. Mary, I
gave him such a description of you. Let me see, George, what was she
like? Red-haired, freckled, middle-aged, and stout; short of breath and
tall of body; weighing one hundred and seventy pounds after dinner, and
a trifle less before." George looked disgusted, and Mary was laughing.
"You took snuff, Mary, and wore your carroty curls in little whisks of
brown paper half through the day. You had a vixenish temper, a liking
for toddy, and would insist on speaking French to the servants with
a beautiful Galway accent, and swore at them like a trooper for not
understanding you. It was only out of pure regard for your handsome
brother and for the sake of 'auld lang syne' that my friend George
would tolerate your presence at all. And here you are the whole time
old and valued friends, under mutual obligations to each other--you
for saving my middle-aged relative from being run away with and dashed
to pieces by a vicious brute, and my middle-aged relative for being
gracious enough to allow you to do anything of the kind. I declare it
_is_ shameful, and almost makes one take the rash oath of never telling
a good-natured lie again."
This harangue of Ned's set them both at their ease as though they had
known each other all their lives.
"And may I ask, Miss Fitzgerald, if this conscientious brother of yours
gave an equally accurate description of his old school-fellow?" said
George, laughing.
"Mary, don't tell.... He'll murder me...."
"I was instructed all the way along to be particularly kind and
attentive to a dapper...."
"No, not dapper ..." interjected Ned.
"Yes, dapper, Mr. Howard; I remember the word distinctly. A dapper
little old gentleman with a bald head and only one eye, who was as deaf
as a post, but would not allow any one to consider him so. I was led to
understand that he made excellent company at table, only that he simply
followed out his own train of thought, and his remarks consequently
were generally rather _mal-à-propos_; and in fact quite a lot of other
things that I cannot remember, save that I was to take him his drops
every morning at half-past eleven precisely, and always put six lumps
of sugar in his coffee, and none in his tea."
There was a merry dinner-party that evening at the hotel, and a long
ramble by the beach afterwards under the moon.
Mary had a great deal of Ned's happy nature in her, and between the
two, what with sailing, and riding, and long strolls, George could not
well help throwing off his despondency. The light soon came back to the
eye, the color to the cheek, the spring to the step, the gaiety to the
young heart, the belief that, after all, life was not such a bad thing,
and that there were pleasant places even in this miserable world for
those who sought them in the right spirit.
"Your friend George is getting quite gay," remarked Mary one evening,
as brother and sister sat alone, during the temporary absence of the
subject of that young lady's remark.
"Yes, poor fellow. He was in a sad way when I dropped on him. Going to
the dev--I mean the grave, fast."
"Why, what was the matter with him?"
"Oh! I don't know. Put his foot in it somehow."
"Put his foot in what?"
"In the wrong box, of course. How stupid you women are!"
"But what wrong box, Ned?"
That gentleman looked ineffable disgust at his beautiful sister, whose
eyes were fixed a little anxiously on his. Then taking the peachy
cheeks between both hands, he drew her face up to his own and kissed
her, saying, "There, Mary.... There are only two women in the world to
whom I would do that.... You are one--"
"And the other?" asked Mary, a little bewildered.
"Is to come," answered Ned enigmatically. "It will take some time
perhaps to find her. One makes a mistake sometimes among so many. When
he does, he puts his foot in the wrong box."
"And you think he--that is, Mr. Howard has quite recovered now?" asked
Mary, after a pause.
"Well, it looks as though he were very near it; but here he is to
speak for himself," said Ned, as George half bounded into the room,
flushed with exercise, and looking as handsome as any young lady could
wish.
But why give the stages of what all know so well and have heard
thousands of times told and retold? One morning, some months after,
the little French town looked very gay. There were green rushes strewn
at the door of the hotel, and all the towns-people turned out in gala
attire. There was the carriage of M. de Lorme, and an enormous bouquet
in the coachman's button-hole. There were more carriages, and more
coachmen, and more bouquets. Soon the church was filled with a buzzing
and excited crowd that hushed into silence as a bridal party moved up
the nave and stood at the steps of the altar, whilst the venerable
_curé_ in the name of God joined the hands together which no power on
earth may sunder. The sunlight fell softly on them through windows of
pictured saints. Mme. Plaquet was there, wiping her eyes, and weeping
silently, as she praised the good God, who had saved the _pauvre
garçon_ and brought it all about so wonderfully. M. Plaquet was there,
more convinced than ever that his wife was a wonderful woman; for had
not she made the match? Old women, and tender girls wept as the sweet
bride passed out a wife, amid showers of blossoms strewn in her path
by little white-robed children. They blessed her for an angel, and
her handsome husband, whom they all knew so sad, and who now looked
so happy. There was another happy face, with bright eyes and a sunny
smile, that attracted many an eye--the face, the eyes, and the smile
of Mr. Edward Fitzgerald. If the reader would know more of George's
history, it is being made. He has found his true lady-love, and is
proving himself a true knight. Ned, gay Ned, is as merry as ever. He
is called uncle now by a chubby-cheeked youngster with sturdy legs and
the large eyes of his mother, into whose innocent face his father often
gazes half anxiously, wondering will he ever come to imitate him in his
short-lived folly. Ned has not put his foot in the right box yet; so he
says, but rumor tells another tale. He may meet us again some day.
RECENT POETRY.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
We looked for peach and grape-bunch drenched in dew:--
He serves us up the dirt in which they grew.
CRIME--ITS ORIGIN AND CURE.
It is no exaggeration to say that there is scarcely a man or woman in
the community who, upon taking up a morning newspaper, is not prepared
to find recorded in its pages at least one case of wilful murder or
some other atrocious infraction of the law, human and divine. Whether
it be homicide or uxoricide, attempt at either, or the criminal
indulgence of the baser passions; whether the result of artificial
excitement or the wilful premeditation of bad or diseased minds,
the effect is the same on the public, and the dreadfully frequent
recurrence of such offences--that the lives of the most harmless among
us are put in jeopardy equally with those of the most belligerent;
while the law, the first office of which is to protect the life, honor,
and property of the citizen, is practically ignored and defied.
This terrible prevalence of crime has been a fruitful subject of
comment, and while the supineness of the legal guardians of the general
welfare and the unaccountable stupidity or weak sentimentality of
jurymen have been unsparingly denounced, very little has been done in
the way of intelligent legislation to check the ever-flowing stream
of criminality. It is true that the common and the statute laws
have long ago prescribed death as the penalty for the commission of
murder, arson, treason, and one or two other high crimes, long terms
of imprisonment in state-prisons and penitentiaries for felonies, and
shorter terms in local prisons for minor offences, but all these wise
enactments do not appear to check the onward march of outrage and
lawlessness. The result is that abroad the good name of the Republic
suffers, while at home the very familiarity with deeds of violence and
dishonesty created by the sensational and minute newspaper reports is
debasing the youth of the country, and, by throwing a halo of romance
over their commission, robs them of half their repulsive and disgusting
features.
Still, while much indignation and more apprehension have been
manifested at the growth of crime and the apathy and ignorance of those
entrusted with the duty of repressing it, very little has been done
either to remove the causes which lead to its perpetration, or to visit
it with condign punishment when all other efforts have failed. This
mere theorizing over what is a tangible evil is deeply to be deplored.
Surely nothing can be more worthy of the attention of the statesman
and the philanthropist than the study and analysis of this frightful
social phenomenon, with a view of limiting its growth, even though
it were found impossible to lesson appreciably its present gigantic
proportions. It is well recognized that it is the primary duty of
all civil governments to protect the lives, liberties, and property
of their subjects, and our own national and state organizations,
clothed as they are with such ample powers and supported by popular
approbation, ought to be the foremost in discharging this trust.
Under arbitrary or usurping governments, such as those which dominate
Poland, Ireland, and Italy, it is generally difficult to execute what
is called the law, for the oppressed people are at enmity with their
oppressors, and take every opportunity to oppose and thwart what is
styled the administration of justice. They feel, and properly feel,
that "the world is not their friend, nor the world's law;" but with us
it ought to be far different. Here the laws are made by the people,
and it is understood for the people, and hence every good citizen
should feel a personal interest in the rectitude and exactitude of
their administration. He is not only injured in person and property by
imperfect and ignorant legislation, through his own carelessness, but
he violates his obligations to his fellow-man when through neglect, or
from unworthy motives, he does not do all in his power to prevent it.
However, to act intelligently as well as conscientiously in matters
of such gravity, the study of the origin of the evils which afflict
and disgrace our country, and the sources from whence they generally
spring, requires more attention than has usually been given, even
by those who most deplore their existence. It will not do to throw
down your newspaper after perusing accounts of three or four cases
of murder, and ask to what is the world coming? It is almost equally
useless to occasionally hang a criminal, or to send another to prison
for life. For the one so punished, a score at least escape, and the
demands neither of retributive nor distributive justice are satisfied.
The evil-disposed gratify their revenge by the commission of these
crimes, while their chances of punishment are no more than one in
twenty. Thus the plague that infests society daily becomes more noxious
and, as it were, epidemic.
Crime has its latitude and longitude, its nationality, classes, and
castes, its peculiar inciting causes, as well as the great vital
cause--the absence of true religious faith and practice. For instance,
it might be easily demonstrated that the many-nationed people of the
United States are addicted to special classes of crime, as distinct
and almost as obvious as their language, habits, and intellectual
idiosyncrasies. We speak now of the more flagrant violations of the
social compact, not with the intention of discriminating against any
class or race in the community, nor with the object of holding the mass
of any people, no matter what their origin or country, responsible for
the acts of a few among them--for after all the criminals are in a
small minority, fortunately, among all nations--but to point out the
nature and peculiar motives for the commission of offences against the
law as they exist among different classes of our population, so that
suitable remedies may be applied to the respective cases.
Outrages against law and justice depend to a certain extent on locality
for their distinctive character. The desperate hand-to-hand encounters
which have so long characterized a certain class of society in the
border states, are as different in motive from that of the cool
Connecticut poisoner, as the assassin of our aristocratic circles is
dissimilar to the ruffian of the slums.
When we ascribe homicide to the criminal classes of America, we do not
assume it to be a national sin, for though of late we have read of some
cases in New England and the West, and know of many deliberate ones
in this vicinity, we refer specially in our analysis to the remote
Southern and Southwestern states, where the bowie-knife, the rifle,
and the revolver are considered much more efficacious and prompt in
the settlement of disputes than the slower and less exciting appeal
to the courts. It may be said that this is the natural consequence
of the war, the termination of which has thrown out of employment
many desperate men habituated to the use of arms; but this is only
partially true, for the same state of society existed in New Orleans,
Arkansas, and along the banks of the Mississippi many years anterior
to the late internecine contest. Lawless men of every grade, gamblers,
horse-thieves, the idle, and the debauched, have for nearly two
generations infested those and neighboring localities; deadly quarrels
were constantly springing up, and were decided in a moment by the
death of one if not of both disputants; and the public authorities,
whenever they dared to interfere, were sure to be set at defiance, if
not maltreated. The same state of affairs exists to this day, but in a
modified form, and there seems to have been no way discovered to alter
it.
Still, the American people as a whole are not responsible for what
might be called a local disorganization of society, grown out of
their rapidly-extending settlements, whence flock naturally many
outcasts, vagabonds, and reckless men, anxious to escape the odium of
public opinion and the chastisement that awaited them in the older
and more thickly settled communities of the East. But our country,
with a better show of reason, may be accused of condoning, if not of
actually encouraging, a widespread system of political and commercial
dishonesty, an offence which, though not by any means as bad as the
taking of human life in its direct consequences, indirectly encourages
and promotes the commission of the greater crime. A legislator or a
judge who can be guilty of taking bribes, is sure, the one to make bad
laws and the other to execute good ones corruptly. Criminals who have
political or moneyed influence are allowed to escape with impunity,
with a _carte blanche_ to continue their nefarious business. Whoever
has read the proceedings of the several investigating committees in
Washington during the last session of Congress, and of our State Senate
acting as a court of impeachment during the summer of 1872, will hardly
doubt the truth of this assertion.
This spirit of bribery, false swearing and peculation we find
prevailing, among some of the most prominent members of the national
Congress, who, these investigations have shown, are not above the
acceptance of paltry bribes for the use or abuse of their high
delegated authority; we find it in many of our state legislatures,
particularly when a United States senator is to be elected or the
interest of a railroad company, a corporation, or a wealthy private
individual is to be subserved by forcing or retarding legislation; and
it is a matter of public notoriety that among the officers of municipal
corporations, notably our own, where integrity, if in any place, should
find a home, the most unblushing robbery, swindling, and false swearing
have prevailed for years. Again, let us look at the history of our
large banks and insurance companies. There is scarcely a week passes
but we hear of defaulting officers and clerks who, after years of
secret, continuous stealing and false entries, finally decamp, leaving
it to be discovered that the aggregate amount of their individual
abstractions reaches tens and hundreds of thousands. What makes this
"respectable" species of larceny so heartless and reprehensible is,
that the money so stolen does not actually belong to the institutions
themselves, but to the public, and generally the poorer classes, who
are depositors or policyholders. It is significant that in proportion
to the number of counting-houses superintended by their owners to the
number of banks and insurance companies the trust-funds of which are in
keeping of paid officials, the number of defalcations in the former are
as a mere nothing compared with those of the latter. Why? In one case,
the merchant is liable to lose his own money by negligence; in the
other, the president and directors lose only that of other people, and
thus a criminal betrayal of trust is added to swindling.
Now, these blots on the national escutcheon are of comparatively
recent date, and are the result mainly of two causes: the late war,
which suddenly elevated an ignorant and ignoble class to enormous
wealth, and the corruption of politics and politicians by the unguarded
and unchecked abuse of universal suffrage. The shoddyites and the
politicians, having no claim on the respect or esteem of honest men,
commenced a career of extravagance and vulgar display, which, if it did
not win the approbation of the judicious and refined, certainly was
well calculated to dazzle the moral vision of the vain and unstable.
Palaces, diamonds, and resplendent equipages became the order of the
day, and their effect on the integrity of the staid men of business
was marked and deleterious in the highest degree. Mrs. A., whose
husband before the war was doing a thriving little business and was
content with an occasional drive in a hired light-wagon, now enjoyed
the luxury of a private carriage and liveried servants; consequently
Mrs. B., whose husband was cashier in a bank at two or three thousand
a year, must have one similar. Mr. C., who was a resident of the Sixth
or Seventh Ward previous to his election to office, and occupied part
of a comfortable house, now lived in a handsome mansion on Madison
or Fifth avenues; hence Mr. D., who was confidential clerk in a
large importing house, abandoned his cosy cottage in the suburbs and
followed his old friend's example. Now, how are B. and D. to support
this luxury? Clearly, not out of their salaries. Having control of the
funds and enjoying the confidence of their employers, they abstract the
money and rush into Wall or New Streets to gamble in gold or stocks.
They are not common thieves--oh! no; they only borrowed from time to
time large sums of cash from the true owners, intending to return it;
but they never do so! For a short time they are lucky, and are able to
keep place in a course of wild dissipation with A. and C., but sooner
or later a crisis arrives, there is "a panic in the street," and they
lose all. Then follow flight, detection, and public exposure--in any
well-regulated community, we might add dishonor. But it is not so; for,
you see, this is the age of progress and enlightenment. The public
think very lightly of such matters, probably from their very frequency,
and soon forget them; the "knowing ones" condemn the fugitives only
for not having been "smart" enough; the bank or insurance authorities
compromise the felony for a consideration, for it is only the public,
not themselves personally, who have suffered; and, after a brief
sojourn in Europe or Canada, the criminals return to the bosom of their
families prepared to enter on some new field of peculation.
As for the political rogues, no one seems to heed their depredations.
Public opinion has become so vitiated that it is expected every man
in office will steal; in fact, some persons go so far as to say they
ought to steal, holding it a trivial affair to appropriate large
amounts of the people's money, while they would hesitate long before
advising any one to rob a till or strip a clothes-line. We recollect
an official in this city who for a wonder was so honest that he was
poorer when he resigned than when he accepted office. Upon being met
on an occasion by a friend and congratulated on having been able to
purchase one of the largest hotels in New York out of the "spoils," the
gentleman indignantly resented the insult in no measured terms. His
acquaintance laughed quietly, and walked away with an expression of
mingled pity and contempt on his countenance.
Now this lust for gain, this inordinate love of display, which leads
the inexperienced and weak-minded into so many unworthy actions,
should be abated, if we hope to preserve anything like commercial
honor and political purity. They are eating into the very vitals of
society, infecting the very highest as well as the lowest class in
the community; and though the consequences to which they lead may
not appear so heinous as other crimes, they are so far-reaching and
so general that they might well be classed with those to which the
law attaches its severest penalties. There was a time, not very far
distant, when the idea of attempting to bribe a senator, or what is
called "buying up" a state legislature, would have been considered
preposterous, and when the counting-house and the banker's desk were
considered the temple and altar, as it were, of honesty and integrity.
Why is it that so lamentable a change has taken place, and in so short
a time? Clearly, because an insatiate longing for the acquisition of
wealth, speedily and with as little labor as possible, has taken
possession of the present generation, and in a headlong pursuit of
fortune, honor, reputation, and conscience are too often cast aside and
forgotten. This should not be so in a country like ours of unlimited
resources, and where industry and ability need never look in vain for a
competency.
But a more diabolical crime against all law, natural, human, and
divine, is the system, so prevalent in some sections of this country,
of mothers depriving their inchoate offspring of existence even on
the very threshold of their entrance into the world. So unnatural is
this offence that it is beyond the power of language to reprobate it
adequately, and in charity we hope that the guilty votaries of ease
and fashion, who perpetrate such horrible atrocities, do not realize
the full turpitude of their acts. We had long refused to believe that
such a violation, not only of God's law, but of the strongest and
most beautiful instincts of our nature--the parent's love for her
child--existed to any great extent, but we have been so often assured
of it by physicians and other reputable persons conversant with such
matters, that we have been forced to admit as true the existence
among us of a crime that would disgrace the veriest savage. We are
assured that in certain localities, which we shall not particularize,
the evil is not only widespread but is growing into a custom, and
this extraordinary fact is adduced as one of the reasons why the
children of native-born parents are so few in proportion to those of
foreigners. If we were to look for a primary cause for such barbaric
criminality in merely human motives, we should fail to find one at
all commensurate with the enormity of the guilt. The wish of married
women to be freed from the care of young children, so that they, being
unincumbered by household duties and cares, may participate in outdoor
pleasures, attend the opera, the theatres, concerts, and ball-rooms,
has been advanced with some force as one of the reasons; but this is
not sufficient, for we find the heinous practice prevailing in remote
towns and villages where no such attractions are presented. The laws of
civil marriage and of divorce, as recognized in most of the states of
the Union; that curse of what is called modern civilization; that fatal
legacy handed down to us by the "Reformers," has much to answer for
in this respect. Protestantism has reduced the holy sacramental bond
of matrimony beneath the level of a limited co-partnership, degraded
the nuptial contract below the most trivial commercial obligation,
annihilated its responsibilities, destroyed its safeguards, and even
wishes to go further--to ignore the very shadow of marriage, from
which it has long since taken the substance. The purchase of a piece
of land or the delivery of a bale of goods is now attended with more
ceremony than that sacred rite at which our Saviour himself attended
in Galilee and at which he performed his first miracle! How deeply
has humanity been made to suffer for the bestiality of Henry Tudor
and the apostasy of the monk of Augsburg! Is it any wonder then that
a link, so thoughtlessly accepted and so lightly worn, should be as
unceremoniously sundered, and that the woman, who does not know but on
the morrow she may be either plaintiff or defendant in a divorce suit,
should be adverse to bringing into the world children which either
parent may claim or disown?
But the grand motive cause is to be found still deeper. If the truth
must be told, the masses of the people of this noble country are fast
sinking into intellectual paganism, beside which that of imperial
Rome was harmless and innocuous. Protestantism, as has often been
predicted, has nearly reached its logical conclusion--infidelity.
Read the sermons of the prominent sensational preachers, their
newspapers and periodicals, and what do you find in them? No stern
lessons of Christian morality; no appeals to the moral conscience or
exposition of the beauties of the cardinal virtues; no dogma, as befits
heaven-appointed guides; no doctrine such as only the ordained of God
can preach and teach; but, instead, stale tirades against Catholicity,
rehashed lyceum lectures, and fragments of stump-speeches delivered
before the last election and interlarded with pious ejaculations
to suit the occasion, apologies for being Christians at all, and
occasional efforts to explain away Christianity itself--all covered
over with a thin veil of cant and mock philanthropy.
Do we find these so-called ministers telling their congregations that
marriage is an indissoluble tie, which no man can burst asunder; that
the object of it is to enable husband and wife to live together happily
and to bring up their children in the love and fear of God; that to
take the life of an infant ante-natal is a dark, deadly, mortal sin;
that no living human being who has not received baptism can ever see
the face of God; and that whoever wilfully deprives her helpless babe
of that ineffable delight will have to account for that lost soul
to its Maker? Oh! no; that might shock the sensibilities of their
audiences, and might lead to their own expulsion from their livings. Is
it surprising, then, that a vice so much in harmony with the working
of human passions, as apparently devoid of all moral responsibility
as it is free from civil punishment, should be so frequently and so
freely indulged in by those whose base inclinations are unchecked and
unregulated by anything like true Christian teaching?
But what most surprises us is the appearance in the public prints
for the past two or three years of numerous cases of suicide. This
"self-slaughter" was a crime, we thought, confined to the older
nations of Europe almost exclusively. The Americans are neither a
despondent, an impoverished, nor a sentimental people; and yet we have
been exceedingly pained to read of men well-to-do in the world, many
of them being comfortable farmers and most of them advanced in years,
deliberately taking that life which God gave them for wise and useful
purposes, and voluntarily going before the judgment-seat of their
Maker with the crime of murder on their souls. The policy of the old
common law was to consider every suicide insane, but that was merely
a fiction to save his goods from confiscation by the crown; we would
fain believe that the numerous instances among ourselves were the
result of aberration of mind--doubtless some of them were; but others
have been planned and executed with such forethought as to preclude
the possibility of such a supposition. As we write, we have before us
a copy of a New York journal in which no less than four suicides of
Americans in various parts of the country are recorded.[14]
It has been debated whether the act of a suicide is, humanly speaking,
one of courage or cowardice: we are inclined to the latter opinion, but
the question is immaterial. Whatever be its character in that respect,
it is sure to originate in the absence of any belief which affirms a
hereafter, or in that morbid form of idiocy known as spiritualism,
which runs into the other extreme. In either case, it can only be
prevented by moral suasion, for the civil law is of course utterly
powerless in the matter; yet of all known crimes it is the most
seductive, and even might be called contagious.
Let us now turn to another class of our people--the adopted citizens,
and consider the peculiarities of their criminal classes. The largest
proportion of our immigrant population is from Ireland, and, coming
from a misgoverned and plundered land, many of them, indeed we think
a large majority, are very poor indeed, so destitute that they have
not means to bring them to the West, or into the rural districts, and
consequently remain in the large cities for life. We have observed that
deeds of violence committed by a certain class of Irish-Americans are
disproportionately large, when compared with the native population or
with those of other countries. We regret to be obliged to say so.
We yield to none in our respect, nay affection, for the children of
long-suffering and persecuted Ireland, but we would be untrue to
ourselves and unjust to the bulk of our fellow-citizens of Irish birth
were we to ignore or deny that but too many of them allow themselves to
be led into the commission of acts of violence not unfrequently ending
in deadly quarrel.
This should not be. As a rule, an Irishman is social, humorous,
and kind, affectionate in his family relations and disinterested
in his friendships. In this country he has all the advantages that
religion can afford, the churches are open to him every day, he is
not restricted in his attendance at divine service on Sundays, he
has always, particularly in cities and large towns, an opportunity of
hearing good, practical, and instructive sermons and discourses on
the duties of life, at least once a week; and the strength to resist
temptation, which the sacraments alone can give, is always within his
power to obtain.
Whence, then, originates this ungovernable passion, this desperate
recklessness that resists all control, and, disregarding consequences,
rushes madly into sin, makes man an outlaw among his fellows, and drags
him to the dungeon and the scaffold? We must not attribute it to his
defective education, the result of a jealous and tyrannical system of
government in his native country, though it may have something to do
with it; neither will the fact that many who had golden dreams before
they reached our shores failed to realize them, and so became heedless.
Poverty and destitution have been pleaded in extenuation, but they are
more a result than a cause; for no able-bodied man, if well-conducted,
need be in that sense either poor or destitute in this country, where
labor is ever in demand. No; the secret, if it be a secret, lies in
one word--intoxication, and, as a consequence, in the neglect of
the religious duties taught and performed in their younger days.
Intoxication is the demon that creeps into their souls, fires their
heated blood, plunges his victims into an abyss of crime and transforms
man, the noblest work of the Creator, into a ferocious brute. We are
aware that instances of forgery, arson, swindling, and premeditated
homicide--in fact, all offences requiring skill and deliberation--are
exceedingly rare among our Irish-born population, but that is no
reason why a few men born and baptized in the church, as little
children taught the great truths of religion in the simple words of the
catechism, and as adults weekly and almost daily within reach of moral
instruction and a participation in the benefits of the sacraments,
should by their neglect of religion, and their insane desire for
deleterious stimulants, disgrace the race from which they have sprung
and bring obloquy on the religion they profess to respect, but never
practise. Who ever heard of an Irish adopted citizen, a teetotaler or
even a uniformly temperate man, committing an atrocious crime or a
deliberate breach of the laws of his adopted country?
No better illustration can be given of the beneficial effects of
temperance on the Irish character than the following official
statistics taken from the _Life of Father Mathew_. The author says:
"As a conclusive proof that the diminution of crime [in Ireland]
was one of the necessary consequences of the spread of temperance
among those classes of the community most liable to be tempted to
acts of violence or dishonesty, some few facts from the official
records of the time may be quoted here. They are taken from the
returns of 'outrages specially reported by the constabulary,'
from the year 1837 to the year 1841, both included. The number of
homicides, which was 247 in 1838, was only 105 in 1841. There were
91 cases of 'firing at the person' in 1837 and but 66 in 1841. The
'assaults on police' were 91 in 1837 and but 58 in 1841. Incendiary
fires, which were as many as 459 in 1838, were 390 in 1841.
Robberies, thus specially reported, diminished wonderfully from
725 in 1837 to 257 in 1841! The offence of 'killing, cutting, or
maiming cattle' was also seriously lessened; the cases reported in
1839 being 433, to 213 in 1841! The decrease in cases of 'robbery
of arms' was most significant; from being 246 in 1837 there were
but 111 in 1841. The offence of 'appearing in arms' showed a
favorable diminution, falling from 110 in 1837 to 66 in 1841. The
effect of sobriety on 'faction fights' was equally remarkable.
There were 20 of such cases in 1839 and 8 in 1841. The dangerous
offence of 'rescuing prisoners,' which was represented by 34 in
1837, had no return in 1841.
"Without entering further into details, the following returns of
the number committed during a period of seven years, from 1839 to
1845, must bring conviction home to the mind of any rational and
dispassionate person that sobriety is good for the individual and
the community:
Total
Year. No.
1839 12,049
1840 11,194
1841 9,287
1842 9,875
1843 8,620
1844 8,042
1845 7,107
"The number of sentences of death and transportation evidenced the
operation of some powerful and beneficial influence on the public
morals. The number of capital sentences in eight years, from 1839 to
1846, was as follows:
No. of
Year. Sentences.
1839 66
1840 43
1841 40
1842 25
1843 16
1844 20
1845 13
1846 14
"The sentences to transportation during the same period, from 1839 to
1846, exhibited the like wonderful result:
No. of
Year. Sentences.
1839 916
1840 751
1841 643
1842 667
1843 482
1844 526
1845 428
1846 504
"The figures already quoted are most valuable, as they prove, beyond
the possibility of a doubt, that national drunkenness is the chief
cause of crime, and that sobriety is, humanly speaking, one of the best
preservatives of the morals of a people."[15]
When we recollect that during the years above reported the consumption
of ardent spirits had decreased one-half, though the population had
increased by at least a quarter of a million, the inexorable logic
of the figures above quoted becomes irresistible--intemperance is a
greater enemy of the Irish race than even her hereditary foe, England.
With the Germans it is different. They are by no means given to
indulgence in violent stimulants, though they, too, are a social
people, fond of enjoyment and of their national beverage, beer; yet
crime, and that of a very serious character, is not unusual among
them, particularly the killing of females. And here again we have the
evidence of the terrible havoc which the great rebellion of the XVIth
century against the church and her authority has wrought in the social
relations of mankind. Germany was the originator, the centre, and the
main supporter of that revolt on the Continent of Europe, and, having
been violently wrested from the seat of Catholic unity, has ever
since been groping in the dark, oscillating between heathenism and
transcendentalism, without stability or any sort of fixed principles.
The blight of the Reformation, so called, has eaten into the very
marrow of their family relations, and what would be deemed infamous for
women of other countries to do, is considered among a certain class of
this people, limited, it is true, a matter of course.
Once again, let us not be misunderstood. In ascribing this species of
offence to the Germans in the United States, we do not mean to say
that it is general to the whole body; on the contrary, we are happy
to know that it is confined to a few, for, as a whole, the people
from the north of Europe are perhaps the most law-abiding portion of
our citizens. We are well aware that in this city, and in the West
and South, there are many learned professors, devoted priests, and
devout congregations, all of German birth, as well as many reputable
merchants, mechanics, and professional men of the same nationality, who
worship God according to their hereditary customs; but we think we do
not go too far in saying that the majority of German-Americans have
practically no religion, that they never enter a church, say a prayer,
or perform any of the ordinary duties of a Christian. Some years ago,
the writer was introduced into a Germania society in a neighboring
city which consisted of over three hundred members, all gentlemen of
education and wealth. He subsequently visited it three or four times on
various Sundays, and always found its spacious suite of rooms crowded.
Upon enquiring where those persons went to church, his friend placidly
replied: "I don't think there is one of us ever goes to church; you
know I do not." If such an example is set by the "higher classes," what
can we expect from those in the lower scale of social life?
We often have had occasion to admire the way in which the Germans enjoy
themselves on week-days and Sundays; the order and good-fellowship
which prevail at their gatherings, their songs and instrumental music,
and the fact that they always bring with them their wives and children
to partake of their enjoyment. But our satisfaction at seeing them go
to the rural retreats on a Sunday morning, and return peaceably in the
evening after a long day of rational pleasure, has been considerably
lessened by the knowledge that no portion of the day, set apart
as a day of prayer as well as of rest, has been devoted by those
pleasure-seekers to the service of the great Giver of all blessings,
of happiness here and hereafter. Such practical defiance of God's law,
such ingratitude towards our common Father, such complete disregard
of the simplest requirements of religion, must necessarily blunt the
moral sense, more especially as it affects and weakens the sanctified
tie that binds husband and wife. It is therefore with more sorrow than
surprise that we read of so many cases among our German fellow-citizens
of men and women living with other persons' wives and husbands. Such
conditions are unlawful and short-lived, the fruitful source of anger,
jealousy, and discontent, and not unusually culminate in ill-treatment,
blows, and even death.
While we also ascribe the crime of the destruction of offspring to
the Germans, we do not mean to say that it is practised to any extent
among them, but that the foul crime is perpetrated in this and other
large cities almost exclusively by German quack doctors, male and
female; their victims being generally from other nationalities. For
this the German people are not so much to blame as our own press,
which publishes the advertisements of those miscreants and scatters
them broadcast on the world for a paltry consideration; and our state
legislatures, which have neglected until lately to enact proper
laws; and our prosecuting attorneys, who have failed to enforce such
enactments as we have on our statute-books against this class of rank
murderers.
Offences against property are almost exclusively in the hands of our
English criminals, if we except the horse-stealing of the Southwest.
Our most expert pickpockets, our most dexterous sneak-thieves, daring
highwaymen, and scientific burglars come from London, many of whom have
served her Majesty for a term of years in her penal colonies, and are
so well known to the detectives of the British metropolis that they
have sought new fields of enterprise in this country. They have been
preceded or accompanied by prize-fighters, gamblers, and keepers of
low dens called concert-saloons. The former they make the partners in
their labors and gains, and in the latter hot-beds of infamy they find
shelter and concealment. It may be said that this class of crimes is
far less reprehensible than those above enumerated, and so they would
be were it not that highway robbery and burglary sometimes terminate
in the taking of human life. Still, it must be said in justice that
we hear of very few cases of wilful homicide being perpetrated by the
English among us, though, like the French, suicide is not unknown
to them, but arises from different causes. The Briton "shuffles off
this mortal coil" through moroseness and despondency; the Gaul gaily
prepares to smother himself with carbonic acid gas from a morbid
sentimentality, and a contempt for the precious gift of life which he
is about to throw away.
Now, if all these offences were simply infractions of the municipal
law, we would naturally look to our legislatures, our courts, juries,
and sheriffs for their prevention or punishment, but they are not only
that, but breaches of the divine law, and we must depend likewise on
the efficacy of moral suasion to prevent if not to correct them. Public
opinion can do much to repress crime, the legislative, administrative,
and judicial branches of our various local governments, each in its
sphere, might effect far more good; but it is on the teachings of true
Christianity alone, and all the consequences that flow from it, that
we must rely if we wish to stem the tide of misery, vice, and outrage
which are fast surging over every portion of our fair land. The strong
arm of the civil power is potent to punish when the crime has been
committed, but weak indeed to prevent its perpetration. This higher
and nobler duty is reserved for religion, and for religion alone.
It is well enough to make concise and exact punitive laws, though
this is not always done; and to administer them fearlessly, honestly,
and intelligently, though the reverse is generally the case; still,
experience has taught us that wise enactments and impartial judges
have very little power to stay the promptings of bad hearts or repress
the temptations ever presenting themselves to men of vicious habits or
defective moral training. The church, and only the church, can rule
the mind and heart of man, can train him from his infancy, before he
knows or is responsible to any civil law, can strengthen him with the
graces of the sacraments, arm him with the most potent of all weapons
against sin--prayer--place constantly before his eyes the certainty of
everlasting bliss or eternal damnation, keep him in the "narrow path,"
and thus prevent the possibility of his being an enemy to society and
an outcast of heaven.
Next to the church comes the school. The importance of education to the
well-being of society can never be overstated. It may be well said that
it is in the school-room the seeds of vice or virtue are first sown, it
is there that the future benefactor or the enemy of his kind commences
his career in life, and it is upon the proper or vicious method of
teaching which he receives as a boy depends mainly his future course in
the world. No wonder, then, that the Catholic Church is so desirous of
superintending the training of those little ones who by the sacrament
of baptism have been made children of God and heirs to the kingdom of
heaven; that the zealous parish priest should mourn over the loss of
hundreds of the youth of his congregation, who, taught in Protestant
or infidel schools, have fallen away from the faith to plunge into
sin and vice. Is he to be blamed if he exhausts every resource and
strains every nerve to establish for his people a school where their
offspring will be guarded from worldly contamination, and trained in
all the beautiful morality of Catholic doctrine? Few seem to understand
the comprehensive meaning of the word education. The mere acquisition
of worldly knowledge is not education, the development of the highest
intellectual powers is not education, but only a part, and a secondary
part at that, of a complete education; for without inculcating
morality, justice, a high sense of honor, a noble disregard for self,
and a sympathy for the suffering and unfortunate, you curse man with a
disposition that is its own Nemesis, with unlawful desires that "make
the food they feed on," and simply enlarge his capacity for doing evil.
That this is the result of our present common-school system cannot well
be gainsaid in view of the general spirit of peculation and corruption
which prevails in those very portions of the country where such schools
are most numerous and best attended and supported. And this view is not
ours alone. Already we find the secular press, hitherto the strongest
opponents of denominational education, clamoring for a reform in our
method of public instruction. "We must have," says a leading daily
paper of this city, "a higher system of morals taught in our public
schools"; though the writer does not condescend to say how morals can
be taught without religion, or who are to be the teachers. Is it the
fagged-out teacher who tries to earn his salary by the least possible
labor, and who perhaps, in this respect, is as deficient as the
children themselves; or is it the trained priest or the lowly Christian
Brother, who has devoted himself heart and soul to the service of God
and of his creatures, and whose reward is not of this world?
Our common schools, with some modifications, are decidedly a New
England invention, but none the worse for that, for the early settlers
of that much-abused region, whatever may have been their other faults,
were neither an irreligious nor an immoral people. On the contrary
they were deeply imbued with a sense of the dignity of religion
and a reverence for its ministers, according to their limited and
erroneous but honestly entertained ideas; and being all of one way of
thinking, they established schools, at the public expense it is true,
but they took care that their peculiar theological notions should go
hand-in-hand with secular teaching. The minister, the elder, or the
deacon generally united with his clerical office that of schoolmaster,
and the morals as well as the intellectual qualities of the pupils
were sedulously developed and cultivated. Now all this is changed. The
foundation upon which the public-school system was built has crumbled
into dust, and the superstructure cannot and ought not to stand
longer. Our country is now composed of many nationalities, believing
in various creeds, and the task of educating the rising generation
should be remitted to each denomination to take care of and instruct
its own members. If we want to inculcate true lessons of morality and
integrity, to stop bribery, forgery, perjury, dishonesty, infanticide,
and homicide, we must change our system of education, or it is possible
that society, laboring under so heavy a burden of sin and dishonor,
will in the near future be crushed to pieces.
But for the adult immigrants who have never felt the baleful
influence of our public schools, what is the remedy? For the Germans
we would say, a more general attendance at divine service. They are
pre-eminently an organizing people: why do not those good German
Catholics who are so constant in their devotions establish more
societies, with a view to induce their erring compatriots to give up
at least a portion of that time now wholly devoted to pleasure to the
worship of God? This would be a work of great charity, and if earnestly
undertaken would doubtless be successful. The panacea that lies before
our Irish fellow-citizens is temperance--that observed, we venture to
say that they will be found among the most moral and orderly portion of
our population. In this connection we are glad to observe the untiring
energy exhibited by prominent laymen to organize and unite temperance
societies, and the encouragement given them by priests and bishops. Our
Irish friends must not forget that not only the honor of their native
land and the prosperity of their children in that of their adoption
depend on their good conduct and sobriety, but that, to a great extent,
the Catholic Church in America is contemned or revered in proportion
as they act against or in harmony with her doctrine and discipline. If
woe be denounced against whosoever gives scandal, a blessing is also
promised to those who, by their actions, glorify the name of God.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] New York _Times_, May 13, 1873.
[15] _Father Mathew: A Biography._ By John Francis Maguire, M.P. New
York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1871.
THE TROUVERE.[16]
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
I make not songs, but only find:--
Love, following still the circling sun,
His carols casts on every wind,
And other singer is there none!
I follow Love, though far he flies;
I sing his song, at random found
Like plume some bird of Paradise
Drops, passing, on our dusky bound.
In some, methinks, at times there glows
The passion of a heavenlier sphere:
These, too, I sing:--but sweetest those
I dare not sing, and faintly hear.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] The Greeks called the poet "the Maker." In the middle ages, some
of the best poets took a more modest title--that of "the Finder."
MADAME AGNES.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.
CHAPTER XXIV.
LOUIS IS DISMISSED.
Such, then, was the state of affairs when Louis, after an absence of
ten days, returned to his usual occupation. The evening was somewhat
advanced when he arrived. Mr. Smithson, who was not in the habit of
doing anything hastily, thought it better to defer the interview till
the following day. The order to the porter was therefore countermanded,
and a servant sent to inform Louis that Mr. Smithson wished to see him
the next morning. Louis was quite startled at receiving so unexpected a
summons.
"What has happened?" he said to himself. "Can Mr. Smithson be
displeased at my long absence?... Has he heard of Adams' intended
conversion?... Perhaps Albert has obtained my dismissal." There was
nothing cheering whichever way he turned. He therefore passed a
restless night. Fortunately, he had a support that was once wanting: he
trusted in God, and could pray. Prayer does not remove our fears, but
it calms them. Besides, whatever misfortune threatens the Christian, he
feels it will never befall him unless it is the will of God. However
rude the blow, it is even changed into a blessing to him that turns
with confidence to the Hand that chastens. God is ever merciful,
especially toward those who truly hope in him.
Eugénie, better informed than Louis as to what had taken place, but
less pious, was at that very hour tormented by a thousand apprehensions
really justified by the circumstances. She saw the storm approaching,
and was sure it would overwhelm the one she loved. But what could
she do? She had already got into trouble by undertaking his defence.
She could only await in silence the result which was at hand. Then,
perhaps, she could decide on something, or wait still longer before
deciding. Thwarted affection more than any other sentiment in the world
relies on the help of time.
The next morning, Louis went to Mr. Smithson's office at the appointed
hour. They had not had a special interview for a long time. Louis
appeared as he usually did at that period--easy in his manners, but
cold and taciturn. Mr. Smithson, on his side, had recovered his usual
calmness. He ceremoniously offered the engineer a chair, and thus began
the conversation:
"Monsieur, I have thought it proper to have an immediate explanation
with you. Your long absence has been unfortunate on many accounts.
Moreover, a fact has recently come to my knowledge, or rather, a series
of facts which have occurred in my manufactory, by no means agreeable
to me."
"I acknowledge, sir," replied Louis, "that my absence was long--much
longer than I could have wished. But you would regard the motives that
kept me away from the mill as a sufficient excuse, if you knew them."
"I am already aware of them, monsieur, and admit that they were
reasonable. But as you had a sufficient excuse for absenting yourself,
you did wrong not to communicate it before leaving."
"It would have been better to do so, I acknowledge; but I was sent for
in haste, and obliged to leave without any other notice than a note. I
have since been so absorbed in care as to hinder me from thinking of
anything else."
"Very well, monsieur, we will say no more about that. There remains
the other occurrence that has vexed me. You have excited religious
doubts in the mind of a poor fellow of my own belief who is young and
inexperienced--considerations that should have checked your propensity
to make proselytes."
"Excuse me, sir, if I beg leave to correct an inexactness--quite
involuntary, I am sure, but a serious one--in the expressions you have
just made use of. I made no effort to induce this man to abandon his
religion. He first came to me, and said...."
"What he said was prompted by certain things in your evening
instructions. You dwell on the necessity of the Catholic faith; you
infuse doubts in the minds of the workmen who do not partake of your
convictions."
"I have never directly attacked any religion."
"Your indirect attacks are more dangerous."
"What could I do?"
"Your course was all marked out beforehand. Employed in an
establishment the head of which belongs to a different faith from
yours; exercising an influence perhaps beneficial to the workmen by
means of your evening-school, your library, and your visits to their
houses, but exercising this influence in my name and under my auspices,
you ought not to have allowed yourself to wander off to religious
subjects."
"Excuse me, sir, I did not and could not. Have the goodness to listen
to my reasons. Morality without religion is, in my opinion, merely
Utopian. That the Anglican religion sanctions morality I do not deny.
Nor can you deny that it is supported in a most wonderful manner by the
Catholic Church--indeed, my conscience obliges me to say the faith is
its most efficient support. In talking to the workmen, who are nearly
all Catholics, I give them moral instructions in the name of the belief
they practise, or ought to practise."
"That was a grave error, as it soon proved. In consequence of your
imprudent course, a weak-minded man was led to the point of changing
his religion. As I am of the same faith, this was an insult to me. Such
a thing could not occur in my establishment without my consent, and it
was inadmissible. If Adams had persisted, I should have discharged him.
Toleration has its limits."
"Ah! he has not persisted?"
"No; his fears were imaginary, and only needed calming. I have used
no other means of leading him back but persuasion. Friendly reasoning
brought him back to the point where he was a month ago. Nevertheless, I
do not wish a similar occurrence to take place. We must decide on the
course you have got to pursue. My wishes may be summed up thus: either
you must give up attempting to exercise any influence over my workmen,
apart from your official duties, or you must bind yourself by a promise
never to touch on religious subjects before them, either in public or
in private."
"Does this prohibition apply equally to the Catholic workmen and those
of other religions?"
"To all indiscriminately. I must say to you, with my habitual
frankness, that you manifest a zeal for proselyting that displeases me
and excites my fears."
"What fears, monsieur?"
"I fear that, knowingly or unknowingly, you are the agent of the
priests. They always seek, I know, to insinuate themselves everywhere,
and to rule everywhere. I will not tolerate it on my premises."
"You have a wrong idea of the Catholic priesthood, monsieur. The love
of power imputed to the clergy it would be difficult to prove. I am not
their agent, for the reason that they have no agents. If I desire to
do some good to those around me, this wish is inspired by the Gospel,
which teaches us in many places to do all the good we can. Now, to
bestow money or food on the poor, to instruct the ignorant in human
knowledge merely, is but little. We should, above all, give spiritual
alms. The alms their souls need is the truth.... For me, the truth is
Catholicism."
"I suppose, then, monsieur, with such sentiments, you cannot accept the
conditions I propose?"
"No, monsieur, I cannot. Doing good in the way you wish would have but
little attraction for me. I had the serious misfortune to live for many
years as if I had no belief. Now I have returned, heart and soul, to
the faith, I wish to make myself truly useful to others, and to repair,
if possible, the time I have lost. I wish, therefore, to take the stand
of a Catholic, and not of a philanthropist--to be useful, not to appear
so."
"Monsieur, I have always had a high respect for people of frankness
and decided convictions, and they entitle you to my esteem; but, your
convictions being opposed to mine, we cannot live together."
"I regret it, sir, but I am of your opinion."
"I assure you, monsieur, that my regret is not less than yours.
But though forced to separate for grave reasons, there need be no
precipitation about it."
"Just as you please, monsieur."
"Well, you can fix the day of your departure yourself."
Mr. Smithson and Louis then separated. Mme. Smithson had succeeded! A
quarter of an hour later, she imparted the agreeable news to Albert.
"We are rid of him!" said Albert. "Well, for lack of anything better, I
will content myself with this semi-victory. I shall never forget, aunt,
the service you have done me on this occasion. I have no hope now of
marrying Eugénie, but I am sure the other will never get her, and that
is a good deal!"
"You give up the struggle too readily," said Mme. Smithson, in a
self-sufficient and sarcastic tone. "I am more hopeful about the future
than you."
Eugénie was likewise informed that very morning of all that had taken
place. Her mother took care to do that. The news, though anticipated,
agitated her so that she came near betraying her feelings. But she saw
in an instant the danger to which she was exposing herself. Making
an energetic effort to recover herself, she laughed as she said: "My
cousin ought to be quite satisfied. Poor fellow! if he undertakes to
rout all he looks upon as rivals, he is not at the end of his troubles.
There are a great many men I prefer to him!"
While this was taking place at Mr. Smithson's, Louis was so distressed
that he shut himself up in his chamber to recover his calmness. He came
to see me that very evening, and related all that had occurred.
"I cannot blame Mr. Smithson," he said. "Every means has evidently
been used to prejudice him against me. There is some base scheme at
the bottom of all this. I have quietly obtained information which has
convinced me of Adams' hypocrisy. He never intended to change his
religion. His only aim was to get me into inextricable difficulty. He
has succeeded. It remains to be discovered who prompted him to do all
this.... I have tried in vain to get rid of a suspicion that may be
wrong, for I have no proofs; but it is continually recurring to me."
"And to me also. Yes, I believe Albert is at the bottom of it all."
"Well, that is my idea. But what can I do? Unmask him? That is, so to
speak, impossible. Even suppose I succeeded, it would not destroy the
fact that Mr. Smithson regards me with distrust, and has people around
him who depict me in odious colors. And in the end, how could I confess
my love for his daughter? I have lost my property through my own fault.
I am not sure that Mlle. Eugénie loves me. Even if she cherished a
profound affection for me, I have reason to believe her parents would
regard it with disapprobation. Whichever way I look at things, I cannot
hide from myself that my hopes are blasted!... It is the will of God: I
submit; but the blow is terrible."
"Poor friend! you remained too long with me. It was your prolonged
absence that has endangered everything. Allow me, by way of consoling
myself for my regret, to give you my advice. I feel as if it were
Victor himself who inspires me: he loved you so much!... Remain at
Mr. Smithson's some days longer. Instead of manifesting any coolness
towards him, appear as you used to. Everything is not lost as long as
you retain his esteem. If you meet with Mlle. Eugénie, do not avoid
her. The time has come when she ought to know you as you are. Yes, we
have at last arrived at the decisive hour which Victor spoke of the
night before he died. Mlle. Eugénie must now be enabled to appreciate
you as you deserve. She must pity you.... She must love you! If this
is not the case, however sad it will be to give up an illusion without
which it seems impossible to be happy, renounce it, and acknowledge
without shrinking: 'She does not love me; she never will love me; she
is not the wife God destines me.' But do not act hastily. Believe me,
if she is intended for you, whatever has been done, nothing is lost.
But it is my opinion she is intended for you."
These words did Louis good. "I hope you are not deceived," said
he, "and this very hope revives me. I will try to believe you are
right. We will do nothing hastily, therefore. But do you not think I
could now venture to disclose my sentiments to Mlle. Eugénie, if I
have a favorable opportunity, and see it will give no offence? One
consideration alone restrains me--I fear being suspected of seeking her
hand from interested motives."
"The time for such suspicions is past. If Eugénie still cherishes them,
it will lower her in my estimation. She is twenty-two years of age.
She has a good deal of heart and an elevated mind, and is capable of
deciding her own destiny. I therefore approve of your plan. If she
loves you, she will have the courage to avow it to her parents. If she
does not love you, she has sufficient courage to make it evident to
you."
"How I wish the question already decided!"
"No youthful impulsiveness! You need more than ever to be extremely
cautious while feeling your way. Your situation is one of great
delicacy. Act, but with deliberation."
Such was pretty nearly the advice I gave Louis, often stopping to give
vent to my grief, which was as profound as ever. He left me quite
comforted. Though he did not say so, for fear of being deceived, he
thought Eugénie loved him, and believed, with her on his side, he
should triumph over every obstacle. When a person is in love, he clings
to hope in spite of himself, even when all is evidently lost.
CHAPTER XXV.
ALL IS LOST!-THE PROSPECT BRIGHTENS.
Louis spent several evenings in succession with me. He briefly related
how the day had passed, and afterwards took up the different events,
and enlarged upon them. He often found enough to talk about for hours
upon the sometimes ungrateful theme. I can still see him sitting
opposite my mother and myself in the arbor in the little garden behind
our house. Everything was calm and delightful around us in those
beautiful autumn evenings. Louis alone was troubled. In vain we tried
to restore peace to his soul: it was gone!
I never comprehended so thoroughly all the power of love as then. The
profound sadness in which I was at that time overwhelmed rendered me
inaccessible to such passionate outbreaks--such fits of elevation
and depression as Louis was then subject to. I gazed at him with a
cool, dispassionate eye, but with the affectionate compassion with
which we regard a friend who is trying to make himself unhappy. I was
astonished; sometimes I was even--yes, I acknowledge it--irritated to
see how utterly he gave himself up to the passion he had allowed to
develop so rapidly in his heart. Doubtless my poor friend remained
resigned to the will of God, but not so completely as he thought. It
is true, even when his mind was apparently the most agitated, we felt
that piety was the overruling principle; but then, what a struggle
there was between the divine Spirit, which always seeks to infuse
calmness, and the gusts of passion that so easily result in a tempest!
Ah! I loved my husband too sincerely, and I recall other loves too
pure, to dare assert that love is wrong. But believe me, my young
friend, I do not exaggerate in adding that, if love is not always
censurable, it is in danger of being so. We are told on every hand
that love ennobles the heart and tends to elevate the mind; that it is
the mainspring of great enterprises, and destructive of egotism. Yes,
sometimes; ... but for love to effect such things, what watchfulness
must not a person exercise over himself! How much he must distrust his
weakness! What incessant recourse he must have to God! Without this,
the love that might ennoble is only debasing, and to such a degree as
to lead unawares, so to speak, to the commission of acts unworthy, not
only of a Christian, but a man.
Allow me, my friend, continued Madame Agnes, to make use of a
comparison, common enough, but which expresses my idea better than any
other. Love is like generous wine. It must be used with sobriety and
caution. Taken to excess, it goes to the head, and makes a fool of the
wisest. You are young. You have never loved. Beware of the intoxication
to which I allude! If you ever do love, watch over yourself; pray with
fervor that God will give you the grace of self-control. The moment
love becomes a passion--an overruling passion--ah! how its victim is to
be pitied! When reason and conscience require it, you can--I mean with
the divine assistance--banish love from the heart where it reigns; but
believe me, it will leave you as an enemy leaves the country it has
invaded--with fearful destruction behind. And first of all, it destroys
one's peace of mind. The soul in which passion has reigned continues to
bear marks of its ravages a long time after its extinction!...
Louis had arrived at this deplorable state; he had not full control
over his heart; his happiness depended on the success of his love.
Eugénie's image beset him everywhere. The word is hard, I confess, but
it is true. He attached undue importance to whatever had the least
bearing on this predominant thought. One day, he announced he had
seen Albert walking with a melancholy air. He was sad, then. But why
should he be sad unless his cousin had treated him coldly? And Louis
hastily added by way of conclusion: "Mlle. Eugénie knows all I have to
annoy me; she follows me in thought, she participates in my sorrows,
she repays me for them...." Another day he had really seen her. She
passed by his window, lovelier than ever, but more thoughtful. She was
doubtless as anxious as he to be freed from the suspense in which they
both were.
At last he came with important news. He had had the unhoped-for
happiness of meeting Eugénie. She was advancing towards him, blushing
with embarrassment, and was the first to greet him, with an expression
so friendly as to leave no doubt of her sentiments. He returned her
salutation, but was so overpowered with emotion that he could scarcely
speak. After some words of no importance, he said: "I am going to leave
you, mademoiselle."
Eugénie replied that she should regret to see him go. Then, as if to
intimate he had enemies in the house, she added: "More than one--I wish
I could say all--will be as afflicted as I at your departure. I refer
to those you have benefited, and to whom you might continue to do good."
"Yes," said Louis, "it is hard to have to leave my work incomplete.
However limited it is, my soul is in it. But I must not make myself out
a better Christian than I am. It is not my work I shall leave with the
most regret...." He dared not complete the expression of his thought.
Eugénie, generally so self-restrained, was visibly affected and
intimidated. She was about to reply, when Mme. Smithson suddenly made
her appearance. It looked as if she kept watch over her daughter. When
she saw her talking with Louis, she could not conceal her annoyance.
Saluting him in a freezing, insolent manner, she said: "Eugénie, what
are you doing here? Your cousin is hunting everywhere for you to go to
town with him!"
"There is no hurry," replied Eugénie, resuming her habitual coolness
and dignity. She went away, taking leave of Louis with a visible air of
decided sympathy.
This brief interview was sufficient to render Louis' hopes legitimate.
I agreed with him that Eugénie would have behaved very differently if
she regarded him with antipathy, or even with indifference.
"There is no doubt she knows all that has taken place," said I to my
friend. "If there is any plot against you, she cannot fail to be aware
of it, or, at least, suspect it. Under such circumstances, the very
fact of her showing you unmistakable sympathy is a sufficient proof
that she loves you."
At this time, an occurrence took place that had an unfortunate effect
on me, and created new difficulties in Louis' path. It was then in
the latter part of the month of September. The summer had been rainy
and unpleasant. The rains increased in September, and soon caused
an alarming rise in all the rivers. I was then at the end of my
stay in the little village of St. M----, where I lived unknown to
the Smithsons. Faithful to my request, Louis had told no one of my
temporary residence in the vicinity.
Excuse me for giving you here some topographical details, perhaps
somewhat difficult to comprehend, but necessary for you to know in
order to understand what follows.
St. M---- is situated in a charming valley. In ordinary weather, the
current of the Loire is below the level of the valley through which
it winds with a majestic sweep. When a rise occurs, the plain would
at once be inundated were it not protected by a dike which the water
cannot cross. This dike did not extend to Mr. Smithson's manufactory,
though but a short distance from St. M----. When, therefore, the
river got very high, the mill ran the risk of being inundated. The
dwelling-house alone was out of danger, being on an eminence beyond the
reach of the waters of the Loire, even when it joined, swelled by the
junction, the small stream that drove Mr. Smithson's machinery.
Having given you some idea of that region, I will now resume my story.
One evening, then, towards the end of my stay at St. M----, Louis told
me the Loire was rising fast. He assured me, however, before leaving,
that there was no danger. "No matter how strong or high the current,"
he said, "the dike secures you from all danger. It is as firm as a
rock."
My friend was mistaken. The bank had certain weak places which the
water had undermined without any one's being aware of it.
Towards eleven o'clock, there was a tremendous noise in every
direction. People were screaming and rushing around the house: the
dike had given way! The water had reached the ground floor. My mother,
my sister, and myself were lodged on the first story. The proprietor,
beside himself, and frightened enough to alarm every one else, came up
to tell us we must make haste to escape; his house was not solid; we
were in danger of being carried away.
"The water is only rising slowly," he said. "By wading two or three
hundred yards, we can reach the causeway. There we shall be safe;
for the ground is firm, and the causeway extends to St. Denis. The
inundation cannot reach that place, for it is built on a height."
I did not lose my presence of mind in the midst of the alarm. Victor's
death had destroyed all attachment to life. If my mother and sister had
not been in danger as well as myself, I should have remained where I
was, trusting in God, not believing I was under any moral obligation to
escape from a house which might withstand more than was supposed; as it
did, in fact. But my mother and sister lost all reason, so to speak.
Wild with terror, they fled, and I followed them. When we got down to
the ground floor, we found the water had risen to the height of about
six inches. There was a mournful sound in every direction which made us
tremble. We sprang towards the causeway. I was at that time in delicate
health. I had been suddenly roused from sleep. The distance I had to
wade through the cold water had a fearful effect on me. When we reached
the causeway, they had to carry me to St. Denis: I was incapable of
walking.
While we were thus flying from danger, Louis committed a series of
generous but imprudent acts which became a source of fresh difficulties
to him. He was sitting alone in his chamber, when, about half-past ten,
he heard a dull crash like a discharge of artillery at a distance.
He hastily ran down into the court, entered the porter's lodge, and
inquired where the noise came from that had alarmed him.
"I do not know, monsieur," replied the man, "but I have an idea that
the levée has given way. At a great inundation twenty years ago, the
Loire made a large hole in the dike, which caused a similar noise. I
know something about it, for I was then living near...."
This was enough to alarm Louis, and just then a man passed with a torch
in his hand, crying breathlessly: "The dike has given way at St. M----!
Help! Quick! The village will be inundated!"
These words redoubled Louis' terror. St. M---- would be inundated;
perhaps it was already.... I was there ill, and knew no one!
"Is there any danger of the water's reaching us?" asked Louis of the
porter.
"The mill? Yes, ... but not Mr. Smithson's: that is impossible. The
house stands twenty feet above the river."
Eugénie and her parents, then, had nothing to fear. I alone was in
danger--in so great a danger that there was not a moment to be lost.
"Go and tell Mr. Smithson all that has happened," said Louis. "I am
going away. I am obliged to. I shall be back in half an hour, or as
soon as I can."
Of all the sacrifices Louis ever made, this was the most heroic. In
fact, had he remained at his post, he might have saved the machinery,
that was quite a loss to Mr. Smithson. Instead of that, he hurried
off without any thought of the construction his enemies might put on
his departure. To complete the unfortunate complication, Mr. Smithson
had an attack of the gout that very day. When I afterwards alluded to
his imprudence in thus risking his dearest interests, as well as life
itself, Louis replied: "I knew Eugénie had nothing to fear; whereas,
you were in danger. I had promised Victor on his death-bed to watch
over you as he would himself. It was my duty to do as I did. If it were
to do over again, I should do the same. Did Victor hesitate when he
sprang into the water to save me? And he did not know who I was."
The house I had just left was about half a league from the mill. The
water was beginning to reach the highway, though slowly. Louis kept
on, regardless of all danger, and arrived at our house in feverish
anxiety. I had been gone about fifteen minutes, and the water was
much higher than when we left. Louis learned from a man who remained
in a neighboring house that I was safe: we had all escaped by the
causeway before there was any danger. He added that I must be at
St. Denis by that time. Louis, reassured as to my fate, succeeded in
reaching another road, more elevated, but not so direct to the mill.
This road passed just above the Vinceneau house. When Louis arrived
opposite the house, he saw the water had reached it. He heard screams
mingled with oaths that came from the father, angry with his wife and
daughter. Having returned home a few moments before, the drunken man
was resisting the efforts of both women to induce him to escape. Louis
appeared as if sent by Providence. He at once comprehended the state
of affairs. His look overawed the drunken man, who left the house.
They all four proceeded toward the mill. There was no nearer place
of refuge. The first people they saw at their arrival were Durand,
Albert, and some workmen. An insolent smile passed over Albert's
face. He evidently suspected Louis of having abandoned everything for
the purpose of saving Madeleine Vinceneau. But he did not dare say
anything. Louis intimidated him much more than he could have wished.
He resolved, however, to make a good use of what he had seen. Louis at
once felt how unfortunate this combination of circumstances was, but
the imminent danger they were in forced him to exertion. It was feared
the walls of the manufactory might give way under the action of the
water, if it got much higher, and it was gradually rising.
Louis set to work without any delay. The workmen, who had hastened
from every part of the neighborhood to take refuge at Mr. Smithson's,
began under his direction to remove the machinery that was still
accessible. They afterwards propped up the walls, and, when these
various arrangements were completed, Louis, who had taken charge of
everything, occupied himself in providing temporary lodgings for the
people driven out by the inundation.
Mme. Smithson and her daughter had come down to render assistance. The
refugees were lodged in various buildings on a level with the house.
Louis would have given everything he possessed for the opportunity of
exchanging a few words with Eugénie at once, in order to forestall
the odious suspicions Albert would be sure to excite in her mind.
But he was obliged to relinquish the hope. Mme. Smithson and Albert
followed her like a shadow. Louis could not approach her without
finding one or the other at her side. Overcome by so fatiguing a night,
he went towards morning to take a little repose. He felt sure fresh
mortifications awaited him in consequence of what had just taken place,
and he was right.
When he awoke after a few hours' sleep, his first care was to go and
see Mr. Smithson. He related what he had done, without concealing the
fact of his abandoning the mill to go to my assistance. Mr. Smithson
was suffering severely from the gout. He was impatient at such a time
to be on his feet, and was chafing with vexation.
"I cannot blame you, monsieur," he said. "The life of a friend is of
more consequence than anything else. Whatever be the material loss
I may have to endure at this time in consequence of your absence, I
forbear complaining. But it was unfortunate things should happen so.
If I had only been able to move!... But no.... You will acknowledge,
monsieur, that I am the victim of misfortune.... Did you succeed, after
all, in saving the person whose fate interested you more than anything
else?..."
"She had made her escape before my arrival. I hurried back, but, on the
way, a new incident occurred. An unfortunate family was on the point of
perishing. I brought them with me, as there was no nearer asylum."
"Are these people employed at the mill?"
"The woman works here; her husband elsewhere."
"What is their name?"
"Vinceneau."
"I think I have heard of them. The father is a drunkard; the mother is
an indolent woman."
"You may have learned these facts from Mlle. Eugénie, who takes an
interest in the family, I believe. I recommended them to her."
"Was that proper?... I have every reason to think otherwise.... But it
is done. We will say no more about it. And since I am so inopportunely
confined to my bed, I must beg you to continue to take charge in my
place, watch over the safety of the inundated buildings, provide for
the wants of the people who have taken refuge here, and, above all,
have everything done in order."
Louis was uneasy and far from being satisfied. There was a certain
stiffness and ill-humor in Mr. Smithson's manner that made him think
Albert had reported his return to the mill with the Vinceneau family.
He attempted an explanation on this delicate subject.
"_Mon Dieu!_ you seem very anxious about such a trifling affair,"
said Mr. Smithson. "It appears to me there is something of much more
importance to be thought of now.... It is high time to try to remedy
the harm done last night...."
Louis felt that, willing or not, he must await a more propitious time.
He went away more depressed than ever.
The whole country around was inundated. I was obliged to send a boat
for news concerning my young friend, and give him information about
myself. The unfortunate people who had taken refuge at Mr. Smithson's
were at once housed and made as comfortable as possible. It happened
that Durand and some others were put in the same building with the
Vinceneau family. Nothing occurred the first day worth relating.
Louis watched in vain for an opportunity of seeing and speaking to
Eugénie. He only saw her at a distance. The next morning--O unhoped-for
happiness!--he met her on her way to one of the houses occupied by the
refugees. She looked at him so coldly that he turned pale and his limbs
almost gave way beneath him. But Eugénie was not timid. She had sought
this interview, and was determined to attain her object.
"Whom have you put in that house?" she asked, pointing to the one
assigned to the Vinceneaus, which was not two steps from the small
building occupied by Louis himself.
"The Vinceneau family and some others," replied Louis.
At that name, Eugénie's lips contracted. An expression of displeasure
and contempt passed across her face. Then, looking at Louis with a
dignity that only rendered her the more beautiful, she said: "Then you
still have charge of them? I thought you gave them up to me."
"I have had nothing to do with them till within two days, mademoiselle.
It was enough to know you took an interest in their condition." He then
briefly related all that had taken place the night of the inundation,
and ended by speaking of the letter I had written to relieve his
anxiety. He finished by presenting the letter to Eugénie, under the
pretext of showing her the reproaches I addressed him. I wrote him
that, before troubling himself about me, he ought to have been sure he
was not needed at Mr. Smithson's.
Eugénie at first declined reading the letter. Then she took it with a
pleasure she endeavored to conceal. Before reading it, she said:
"Why did you not tell me your friend was at St. M----?"
"I have been greatly preoccupied for some time, and I seldom see you,
mademoiselle. It was in a manner impossible to tell you that my poor
friend had come here to be quiet and gain new strength in solitude."
"I should have been pleased to see her." So saying, Eugénie, without
appearing to attach any importance to it, read my letter from beginning
to end.
Thus all Albert and Mme. Smithson's calculations were defeated. There
is no need of my telling you the inference Louis' enemies had drawn
from the interest he had manifested in the Vinceneau family.
"He left everything to save them, or rather, to save that girl," said
Mme. Smithson. "He would have let us all perish rather than not save
her."
My being at St. M----, and my letter, threw a very different light
on everything. Thenceforth, Louis, dismissed by her father, and
calumniated by her mother and Albert, was, in Eugénie's eyes, a victim.
And he had risked his own life to save that of his friend. It is said
that noble hearts, especially those of women, regard the _rôle_ of
victim as an attractive one.
When Eugénie left Louis, there was in the expression of her eyes, and
in the tone of her voice, something so friendly and compassionate
that he felt happier than he had for a long time.... To obtain this
interview, Eugénie had been obliged to evade not only her mother's
active vigilance, but that of her cousin and Fanny. This vigilance,
suspended for a moment, became more active than ever during the
following days. It was impossible to speak to Louis; but she saw him
sometimes, and their eyes spoke intelligibly....
The water receded in the course of a week. Louis profited thereby to
come and see me, and make me a sharer in his joy. I was then somewhat
better. I passed the night of the inundation in fearful suffering,
but felt relieved the following day. My dreadful attack of paralysis
did not occur till some weeks afterwards. I little thought then I had
symptoms of the seizure that has rendered my life so painful.
The refugees were still living at the manufactory, the Vinceneau family
among them. Louis had scarcely returned to his room that night, when
he heard a low knock at his door, and Madeleine Vinceneau presented
herself before him.
TO BE CONTINUED.
THE NAPOLEONIC IDEA AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
FROM THE CIVILTA CATTOLICA.
I.
For several weeks past, we have heard much of Louis Napoleon
Bonaparte.[17] Nothing less than his mournful physical death, on the
9th of January, 1873, was needed to draw him from the oblivion to
which Italian liberals consigned him after his political death of
September 2, 1870. It would seem that from the imperial grave opened
at Chiselhurst went forth a bitter reproach against the unexampled
ingratitude of those who saw the tombstone of Sedan close over his
empire with mute impassibility and secret joy. Now to the cowardly
silence of two years succeeds an uproar of elegies and praises. Remorse
for having left the conqueror of Solferino in the mire of the Meuse
is lulled to sleep by the wailing of hired mourners; as if the shame
of basely forsaking him could be masked behind a block of unblushing
marble.
No man was ever more fatal to himself than Napoleon III. All which was
his by usurpation or right turned against him in the end. His worst
humiliations were the work of his own hands. He destroyed himself,
and the words of the Christian Demosthenes were truer of him than of
others: _Nemo nisi a se ipso læditur_.
Now, by a final mockery of fortune, he is punished after death by
having bier and tomb dishonored with the apotheosis of the Italian
party who laud to the skies the weapon that worked his ruin--the ruling
idea of his reign.
This idea, which necessarily failed because it was impracticable, and
in its failure reduced him to nothing, is his sole title to compassion
or glory in the opinion of this faction. But as the cruel irony
contains a historical lesson, useful for the present and the future, we
will study it by the light of facts, incontestable except to the blind.
II.
Such were the contradictions, perplexities, and duplicity of Louis
Napoleon Bonaparte upon the throne, that he was often believed to be
a prince reigning at hap-hazard. Indeed, it is said, now that he has
left the earth, that the history of his incomprehensible reign will be
the most difficult work ever undertaken. This seems to us a mistake,
if a distinction be made between the man and the prince, his life and
his reign. The man and his life will always seem inextricable, for he
used all means that suited his convenience, and in their choice gave
preference to no moral rule or principle of honesty; following openly
or hiddenly the mutable interest of each day. But the prince and his
reign, in spite of apparent contradictions, are easily understood by
the simple study of the political end which he invariably proposed to
himself.
This end is not hidden. His youthful writings, and the series of
his imperial documents, read by the light of the actions of his
administration, make it plain. He aimed at reestablishing and
consolidating in his dynasty the power of the First Empire, and at the
elevation of France to the headship of Europe, reorganized in its
territorial divisions according to the law of nationality, and in its
institutions in accordance with the forms of Cæsarean democracy.
An author who has read his books, and confronted them with the
achievements of his reign, thus sums up the new _Napoleonic idea_
constantly pursued by Louis in his youth, middle life, and old age, in
exile, in prison, and on the throne:
"Peoples distributed according to their needs and instincts, belonging
each to a self-elected country, provided each with a constitution fixed
yet democratic; devoted at their choice to works of civil industry
destined to transform the world; Europe, free in her various nations,
consolidated almost into a federated republic, with France as its
centre; France aggrandized and forming the clasp in the strong chain
of free intercourse; universal exhibitions to encourage nations in the
exchange of reciprocal visits; European congresses, where governments,
laying aside arms, could compose their differences; Paris, the imperial
city _par excellence_, wonderfully embellished, raised to the honors of
capital of the world, metropolis of wealth and wisdom, under the wing
of the Napoleonic eagle, offering to the two hemispheres the rarest
discoveries in science, masterpieces of art, exquisite refinements of
luxury and civilization."[18]
_Divisum imperium cum Jove Cæsar habet!_
Such was the intoxicating dream of the life and reign of Napoleon III.,
the idea which he believed himself created to carry out--a combination
of the designs of Henry IV. and the aspirations of Augustus, mounted on
the frail pedestal of the principles of 1789.
In fact, proceeds our author, "Within and without the confines of
the Empire, this idea was reduced to two words: reconstruction
and reconciliation, based upon the principles of the French
Revolution. Here was to be the general synthesis of all external and
internal politics in France and Europe: Reconstruction of nations
founded on national will within and without; effected by a single
instrument--_universal suffrage_--applied to the determination of
the nationality as well as of the sovereign and the government;
reconciliation of nations among themselves, and of the divers classes
composing them, thanks to an equal satisfaction of the rights and
interests of all."[19]
That nothing might be wanting to the enchantment of his fair dream, the
young prisoner of Ham contemplated a double mission of giving peace and
glory to France. "War was to consolidate peace, imperial battles were
to give repose to the world. Thus the famous device, _The Empire and
Peace_, came to bear a sublime significance."[20]
In short, the Napoleonic idea had for its ultimate aim the
aggrandizement and European omnipotence of France under the dynasty of
the Bonapartes, through the universal means of popular suffrage with
_plébiscites_, forming a basis of a new national and international
right, opposed to the old historical right of peoples. The other
three principles of territorial compensation, non-intervention and
accomplished facts, were special means and passing aids to be used
according to opportunity for carrying out intentions.
III.
Louis Napoleon received his political education from his uncle exiled
in the Island of St. Helena, and from the Carbonari, among whom Ciro
Menotti enrolled him in Tuscany, in the year 1831.[21] In these two
schools he acquired the fundamental idea of reconstructing European
countries according to nationality. But he did not see that, in the
hands of Napoleon I. and of the Carbonari, this idea was a strong
weapon of destruction, not a practical or powerful argument for
reconstruction. Bonaparte, gaoler of European potentates, and the
Carbonari, persecuted by them, wished to use it to destroy the order
of things established by the Holy Alliance in the treaty of Vienna
of 1815, upon the right, more or less defined, of legitimacy. On the
pretext of restoring political nationality to peoples, the first
Napoleon bequeathed to his heirs the command to excite Italy and
Hungary against Austria; Poland against Russia and Prussia; Greece and
the Christian principalities against Turkey; Ireland, Malta, and the
Ionian Isles against England; hoping that the changes originating in
this movement, and the gratitude of these nations, would make easy to
his heirs the extension of French boundaries and the recovery of the
imperial crown.
The Carbonari worked with the same pretext to overthrow princes and
substitute themselves, with a view of introducing into states their
anti-Christian and anti-social systems.
The so-called principle of nationality resolved itself, then, with
Napoleon I. and the Carbonari, into a pure engine of war--into a
battery which, after destroying the bulwarks of the opposite principle
of legitimacy, should give into their hands nations and kingdoms.
That Louis Napoleon, in prison, a fugitive, a conspirator, should
support himself with this flattering principle, and dexterously dazzle
with it the eyes of those who could help him to recover the sceptre
of France, can be easily understood; but that, after obtaining this
sceptre by a network of circumstances wholly foreign to the principle
of nationality, he should adopt that principle as the final aim of
his empire and the corner-stone of his own greatness and of French
power--this, in truth, is hard to understand.
But that it was the case is only too clear. He spent the twenty years
of his dominion over France in coloring the design which he had puzzled
out twenty years before, dreaming over the memories of St. Helena, and
plotting in the collieries of the Carbonari.
IV.
To a sagacious mind which had well weighed the true worth of the
Napoleonic idea, even before the new emperor attempted its fulfilment,
terrible dangers and obstacles must have presented themselves.
After a succession of wars and successful conspiracies had led nations
to an independent reconstruction within natural frontiers, what
increase of territory could have accrued to France?
Suppose Italy, Poland, Hungary, and Iberia adjusted on this principle,
would their power have remained so equalized as to leave France secure
of preponderance?
If Germany had been so reconstructed, to the certain advantage of
Prussia, was there not a risk of exposing France to a shock which might
have proved fatal?
According to the theory of natural limits, the aggrandizement which
France could have demanded in compensation for protection and
successful warfare would have been reduced to some additions towards
the Alps, the Pyrenees, and in Flanders; to a few thousand square
kilometres, and perhaps three or four millions of inhabitants. Towards
the Rhine, we cannot see what the Empire could have claimed without
contradicting the theory itself. Germany has maintained that Alsace
and half of Lorraine, incorporated with French soil, are German, and
has forced them to a legal annexation to her territory. Now, were
these slender acquisitions, so disproportioned to the acquisitions of
neighboring countries, worth the cost of turning Europe upside down,
and subjecting France to a chance of political and military ruin?
Louis Napoleon rejoiced in the thought of one day resuscitating the
fair name of Italy, extinguished for many years, and restoring it
to provinces so long deprived of it. This sounds well; but was this
resurrection to end in a united kingdom, or in the simple emancipation
from foreign rule? And granted that unity could not be prevented,
and that it should prove equal to the imaginary union of Spain and
Portugal, was it really advantageous to create alongside of France,
from a platonic love of nationality, two new states of twenty-five
millions of souls each, capable of supplanting her later in the
Mediterranean.[22] And if Prussia, taking advantage of the loss
of Italy and Hungary to her rival Austria, had united in a single
political and military body the scattered members of Germany, would it
have been useful and hopeful for France to feel herself pressed on the
other side by a kingdom or empire of fifty millions of inhabitants, a
military race of the first order?
Moreover, what would have become of the Roman Pontiff in this
renovation of countries, governments, and juridical laws. The Pope is a
great moral power, the greatest in the world. If his independence were
to give way before the principle of nationality, what would become of
his religious liberty, so necessary to the public quiet of consciences.
Could a pope, subject to an Italy constructed in any way soever,
increase the light, peace, and tranquillity of France and the rest of
Europe? Would the palace of the Vatican, changed into a prison, have
accorded with the imagined splendors of the Tuileries?
Finally, a new international and national right, which should have
sanctioned, in accordance with popular suffrage, the obligation of
non-intervention and accomplished facts, far from reconciling nations
and various classes of citizens among themselves by superseding the
inalienable right of nature, would have become a firebrand of civil
discord, an incentive to foreign wars, and a germ of revolutions which
would have plunged Europe into the horrors of socialism.
An eagle eye was not needed to see and foresee these weighty dangers.
However affairs might have turned, even if they had succeeded according
to every wish, it is indubitable that the ship of Napoleonic politics,
following in its navigation the star of this idea, must eventually have
struck on three rocks, each one hard enough to send ship and pilot to
the bottom: the Papacy, Germany, and Revolution. The Papacy, oppressed
by the Italy of the Carbonari, would have taken from France her
greatest moral force. Germany, in one way or another, strongly united
in her armies, would have tried, as in 1813, to overwhelm the Empire.
Revolution, kindled and fed from without, would have gathered strength
in France to the ruin of the Empire.
These rocks were not only visible, but palpable to touch. Napoleon III.
saw them, felt them, and used all the licit and illicit arts of his
administration to avoid them. In vain; it was impossible. He should not
have followed the guidance of his enchantress, his idea; following it,
perdition was inevitable.
V.
Perhaps history offers no other example of a man who has grasped the
sceptre under conditions so propitious for good and so opposed to evil
as those under which Louis Napoleon Bonaparte began his reign; or of
one who has so pertinaciously abused his advantages to his own ruin and
that of others.
The vote of the better and larger portion of the French nation had
raised him to the throne, that he might save them from the hydra of
socialism, and stop the course of political changes in France. Europe,
just recovering from terrible agitations, welcomed his elevation as a
pledge of order and peace. Catholics of every country rejoiced over
it almost as the reward of the uncontested restoration in Rome of the
principality of S. Peter. Interest and conscience seemed to unite in
inducing him to take the triumphal road of justice which must lead to
certain glory.
But _cum in honore esset non intellexit_.[23] He seemed to wish to take
this path. But, in fact, he showed that he was preparing to follow
another by the ephemeral light of that _idea_ which he worshipped on
the imperial throne with the same devotion which he had professed in
prison and in exile.
The Crimean war, to a participation in which he invited little
Piedmont, predestined by him to enjoy the benefits of Italian
resurrection, helped him to cut the knot of the Holy Alliance, to
humble Russia and set her at enmity with Austria, to create by a
_plébiscite_ the first of his national unities--that of the Roumanian
Principalities--and to introduce at the Congress of Paris that
subalpine diplomacy which, endorsed by him, sowed the seeds of the
contemplated Italian war.
Meanwhile, the daggers and bombs of the Pianori, Tibaldi, and Orsini
came to remind him that, before being Emperor of the French, he had
been an Italian Carbonaro, and that he was expected to keep his oaths.
It is said that, after the explosion of Orsini's bombshell, a friend of
the assassin, to whom Napoleon complained confidentially of this party
persecution, replied: "You have forgotten that you are an Italian."
"What shall I do?" asked his majesty.
"Serve your country."
"Very good. But I am Emperor of the French, a nation hard to govern.
Can I sacrifice the interests of my people to accommodate those of
Italy?"
"No one will prevent you from studying the interests of France when
you have promulgated the independence and secured the unity of your
country. Italy first of all."[24]
But he had less need of spurring than was supposed.
After the secret negotiations of Plombières, he attacked Austria in
the plains of Lombardy, and, having subdued her, he inaugurated the
resurrection of Italy according to his idea, which, presiding over the
work, showed itself unveiled, with all the magnificence of territorial
compensation, universal suffrage, non-intervention, and accomplished
facts, as we all know.
VI.
But the Napoleonic ship got lost irreparably among the three rocks
above named. Between the Mincio and the Adige it met Germany in
threatening guise; in Rome, the betrayed pontiff rose up; and in Paris
revolution lifted her savage head. For eleven years Bonaparte struggled
to save the ship from the straits into which his Italian enterprise
had driven it; but the more earnest his efforts, the worse became the
entanglement, until the tempest of 1870 split the vessel in the midst
with awful shipwreck.
His crimes towards the Pope, the ignoble artifice of insults couched in
reverential terms, of perfidy, lies, and hypocrisy, alienated from him
not only Catholics, but all those who honored human loyalty and natural
probity. The so-called Roman question, a compendium of the whole
Italian question, ruined the credit of Napoleon III., unmasked him, and
made him appear as inexorable history will show him to posterity--a
monster of immorality, to use the apt expression of one of his former
sycophants.[25]
Prussia, after checking him at the Mincio in 1859, cut short in his
hands the thread of the web woven in 1863 to regenerate Poland on the
plan of Italy. God did not permit a good and noble cause like that of
Poland to be contaminated by the influence of the Napoleonic idea; and
this seems to us an indication that he reserves to her a restoration
worthy of herself and of her faith. Prussia also held him at bay during
the Danish war, into which he threw himself with closed eyes, in the
mad hope of conquering Mexico, and making it an empire after his own
idea. This whim cost France a lake of blood, many millions of francs,
and an indelible stain; it cost the unfortunate Maximilian of Austria
his life, and his gifted wife her reason. Prussia solemnly mocked at
him in the other war of 1866, when, leagued with Italy by his consent,
she attacked the Austrian Empire.
It was the beginning of that political and military unity of Germany
which was destined to make him pay dear for the work of unity
accomplished beyond the Alps by so many crimes.[26]
Lastly, Prussia, choosing the occasion of the vacancy of the Spanish
throne, and seconded by him in the promotion of an Iberian unity like
that of Italy, and prepared by a subalpine marriage, drew him into the
toils where he left his crown and his honor.
Step by step with the barriers opposed by Prussia to the foolish
policy of Napoleon III. in Europe went the anxieties caused in the
empire by revolution. Losing gradually the support of the honest
Catholic plurality of the French, he thought to reinforce himself by
flattering his enemy, demagogism, and by unchaining gradually passions
irreligious, anarchical, destructive to civilization. Taking all
restraint from the press, he removed every bar to theatrical license,
gave unchecked liberty to villany, free course to nefarious impiety and
a Babylonish libertinism, and finished by opening the doors to public
schools of socialism. But as outside France his duplicity and cowardly
frauds had drawn upon him the hatred and contempt of accomplices and
beneficiaries, so at home they excited discontent and distrust among
all parties.
On the 2d and 4th of September, 1870, he reaped at Sedan and in Paris
the crop sowed by him in 1859. Germany broke his sword, and the
Revolution his sceptre. The Napoleonic idea touched the apex of its
triumphs.
VII.
The old Prince Theodore of Metternich, after 1849, predicted of Louis
Bonaparte, then only President of the French Republic, that he would
restore the Empire, and ruin himself as revolutionary emperor in Italy.
Donoso Cortès, Marquis of Valdegamas, predicted a little later that
Bonaparte, after becoming emperor, would work very hard, but the fruits
of his labors would be enjoyed by another; by whom he could not say.
Both these shrewd statesmen knew Louis Napoleon, the secret chains
which bound him to his party, and the idea which clouded his mind, and
both hit the mark; for Napoleon III. made every effort throughout his
reign to play the revolutionary emperor in Italy; and, with all his
refined policy, he worked for no one but the King of Prussia. Thanks
to this policy, William enjoys the vassalage of the only two national
unities created by the Napoleonic idea: the Roumanian, whose head is a
Prussian prince, and the Italian, whose kingdom has become a Prussian
regiment of hussars. He enjoys the German Empire reared on the ruins of
that of France; and, moreover, he enjoys European supremacy, taken from
France with the keys of Paris, and five _milliards_ poured by her into
the Prussian treasury, to pay expenses. In his own good time we shall
see for whom Bismarck has made and still makes the King of Prussia work.
Such are the weighty consequences of that idea whose execution
Bonaparte believed was to make the world over again, and raise his race
and France to the summit of power--a political calamity, military ruin,
and a dynastic downfall the most terrible which history has to record.
In conclusion, the dogma of nationality for which French liberalism
played the fool with Napoleon has caused the loss to France of two
provinces as opulent as those which Bonaparte took from Italy in homage
to the same dogma. The principle of non-intervention, so carefully
guarded by Bonaparte at the cost of the Roman Pontiff, and so loudly
applauded by French liberalism, has borne fruit to France in her hour
of sorest need, in the desertion of all those states, and especially of
Italy, who owed their existence to French blood, and gold, and honor.
The new right of 1789, perfected by Napoleonic Carbonarism, of which
Bonaparte, with the approval of French liberalism, made himself the
apostle in Europe to the disturbance of the best-ordered countries,
has sprung up for France in the joys of Sept. 4, 1870, in the delights
of the Commune of 1871, and in the comfort of her present peace and
security.
Thus has Bonaparte's idea crushed him and reduced him to nothing.
The unhappy man has had not only the anguish of suffering historical
dishonor while yet alive, but also that sharpest pang of seeing all
the most celebrated works of his reign destroyed. The destruction,
military, moral, political, and in part material, of France, which
he hoped to raise to the summit of greatness; the destruction of the
palaces of Saint Cloud and the Tuileries, embellished by him with
Asiatic magnificence; the destruction of popular votes, those wings
which bore him from exile to the throne; of the treaty of Paris, that
crowned his Crimean victories; of the glory of the French name in
Mexico with the empire founded by him; of the treaty of Prague, for
which he well-nigh sweated blood in opposing the union of Germany under
Prussia: in short, all his enterprises have resulted in smoke. Only
one remains--the subalpine kingdom of Italy, for whose formation and
support the wretched man staked crown and honor. But before closing his
eyes for ever, he tasted the sweetness of his last treachery in seeing
that kingdom pass from his bondage to that of the conqueror of France.
If God still allows it to his soul, he may now see his beloved Italy,
with a Prussian helmet on her head, bend over his tomb, and shed two
crocodile's tears--the only kind of tears which he deserved. Let us
see what the Napoleonic idea has lavished upon her blind idolater--the
defeat at Sedan, the burning of Paris, the lonely tomb at Chiselhurst.
It was an idea conceived without God and his Christ, and against them,
and therefore unable to bring forth anything but ruin and death. And
certain ruin and death it will bring on him who shall hope to live and
grow great under its influence.
FOOTNOTES:
[17] This was written soon after the death of Louis Napoleon.
[18] "La politique du second empire, essai d'histoire contemporaine,
d'après les documents, par M. Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu"--_Revue des Deux
Mondes_, April 1, 1872, pp. 552-53.
[19] _Revue des Deux Mondes_, p. 554.
[20] Ibid. p. 552.
[21] _La Reine Hortense en Italie, en France, en Angleterre, pendant
l'année 1831; fragments extraits de ses mémoires inédits, écrits par
elle même_, pp. 55-56. Paris, 1834.
[22] _Idées Napoléoniennes_, p. 143.
[23] Psalm xlviii. 21.
[24] _Univers_, Jan. 21, 1873.
[25] He was in science a phenomenon, in history an adventurer, in
morality a monster (_Le Siècle_, Jan. 12, 1873). Amid the labyrinth of
contradictions in which Bonaparte enveloped his thoughts concerning
the political condition in which he meant to place the Roman Pontiff,
it is impossible to decide what was his true conception, or whether he
had formed any fixed and definite plan. In 1859, when he dreamed of
three kingdoms in Italy, one subalpine, a second for his cousin Jerome,
and a third for his cousin Murat, Napoleon III. traced upon the map
of the Peninsula with his own hand a small circlet enclosing the new
Pontifical state, including Rome, and five provinces. At the end of
that year, the dream vanished through the opposition of Lord Palmerston
in the famous _opuscule, The Pope and the Congress_, where he showed
a wish to restrict the dominion of the Holy Father to Rome, converted
into something like a Hanseatic city. In Sept., 1863, according to
the revelations of Marquis Carlo Alfieri (_L'Italia Liberale_, p.
83), who declares himself well informed, Bonaparte consented to the
"gradual withdrawal of French troops from Rome, so arranged that, on
the departure of the last French battalion, the territorial dominion
of the Pontiff should be reduced to the city of Rome, the suburban
campagna, and the road and port of Cività Vecchia." So the Pope would
have remained king of a city, a road, and a port. In 1867, when the
nation obliged Bonaparte to go to the aid of the Pontiff, assailed
by the _irregolari_ of Italy, he wished the state to remain as it
was left after the dismemberment of 1860, and commanded the Italian
regulars to withdraw from Viterbo and Frosinone, which they did with
military punctuality. In that year, and during the perplexities (says
_l'Armonia_ of Jan. 12, 1873), there came to visit him in Paris an
illustrious Italian who enjoyed his confidence, and had been decorated
by his imperial hand with the cross of the Legion of Honor. This
gentleman, engrossed with the position of the Pope, was lamenting it
with Napoleon III., and remarked that, unless reparation were made, the
Revolution would enter Rome. The ex-emperor replied: "So long as Pius
IX. lives, I shall never permit it. After the death of Pius IX., I will
adjust the affairs of the church." If we question whether after his
dethronement the unhappy man approved the accomplished fact of Sept.
20, 1870, _l'Opinione_ of Jan. 18, 1873, removes all doubt. It tells
us that an individual (generally supposed to be Count Arese, a great
friend of his), visited him at Chiselhurst, and, when the conversation
turned to Rome, where the Italian government was established, Napoleon
III. said with entire frankness that he had personal engagements with
the Pope, to which as emperor he could never have proved faithless; but
that, since his dethronement, Italian politics had passed beyond his
action. And he added: "This was to be foreseen as being in the order
of facts, and it is not an occasion for turning back." From which we
may infer that he wished the temporal power of the popes to cease with
Pius IX., without caring to substitute for their necessary liberty any
other guarantee than that of chance. This will be enough to convince
posterity that Napoleon III. was not a statesman of the first order.
[26] A partisan or well-wisher has tried to represent Napoleon as an
edifying Catholic. The _Univers_ of January 25, 1873, has a curious
panegyric, in which it is affirmed that he loved our Lord Jesus Christ.
In the Gospels, our Lord has taught us a rule for judging those who
love him and do not love him: _By their fruits you shall know them_
(Matt. vii. 16). Now, the long and crafty war of Bonaparte against
Christ in his vicar, and the unbridled license given to Renan and to
irreligious papers to blaspheme at will the divine majesty of Jesus
Christ, while he severely punished those who offended his own imperial
majesty, give the true measure of his love for Jesus Christ. By the
argument of facts constant, public, and notorious, Napoleon III. is
judged. He has been for the church and for Christian society a great
scourge of God, one of the worst precursors of Antichrist. We shall
believe in his pretended conversion when we have seen a single action
which shall disclaim and make amends for the immense scandal of his
Julianic persecution of Catholicity. His repentance at the hour of
death, of which we have no solid proof, we leave to the infinite mercy
of God, who certainly could inspire him with it. But it is not out of
place to remember the words of S. Augustine about similar conversions:
Of certain examples we have but one--the good thief on Calvary. _Unus
est ne desperes_, but _solus est ne præsumas_.
MY FRIEND AND HIS STORY.
I had been spending the winter with a friend in poor health in the
South of France. I will not name the place, but it was one of the
loveliest spots on the northern Mediterranean coast. Perhaps I shall
have something to tell of it at another time.
After prolonging our stay till we began to feel that a change would be
beneficial, we travelled on along the glorious old Cornice road into
Italy, and sat ourselves down among the palms and olives of a region
that, on account of its eastern vegetation and general likeness to
the Holy Land, is often called "the Jericho of the Riviera."[27] For,
in truth, when the traveller climbs the steep slopes and staircases
of that old town, pierced by narrow, winding troughs of streets, tied
together, as it were, by old crumbling bridges and arches, built as a
protection against continual earthquakes; and after groping through
what is more like a labyrinth of subterranean caves than a town of
civilized build, he gains the crest of the hill, and looks down from
the sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin which is its crown, the actual
Holy Land itself seems spread below his feet. There are the very
outlines of Palestine: The stony slabs and tilted strata of crag and
ridge; the aromatic shrubs; the wealth of sad olives, fruit-bearing
to an extraordinary degree; the vast tanks, haunted by bright-green,
persistently serenading frogs; the lizards darting in the hot glare;
the flat-topped, low houses, and the women carrying jars of the
identical Eastern forms on their heads. The very dark-skinned men and
women themselves have the like sad, sweet, mournful Eastern eyes; for
throughout the Riviera there is a large admixture of Arab blood, as
many Arab words are crystallized in the strange, rough _patois_ of the
speech.
In this wild, bright, solemn country, I found and made the friend whose
story I am going to tell; and, if it is disappointing at first to the
expectant, I shall ask them to wait till they near the end.
We lived in a not very comfortable boarding-house outside the town,
chosen on account of its position, and being quite removed from the
noise of the sea, which those acquainted with the Mediterranean will
thoroughly understand; for there is no noisier or more aggravating
sea-shore than that which is poetically the tideless, waveless,
sapphire-like mirror of the old Tyrrhenian. In this house I soon made
out my friend--a white dog with black points, shaven to the shoulders,
and of Spitz breed, as his tail, put on very high up, and twisted with
a jaunty, self-asserting _swirl_ over his back, denoted, but with an
undoubted bar sinister in his shield--some English spaniel or terrier
"drop," which, strange to say, gave him a power of persistence, a
dauntless courage, and loving faithfulness, such as I never saw in any
dog before; and yet I know about dogs and dog ways, too.
The first thing my friend did--his name was Cicarello, abbreviated to
Cico, and anglicized to Chick--was to lift himself up very high on his
toes, erect every hair into a wire, and growl so as to show all his
beautiful young white teeth at my approach and outstretched hand.
"Chick! how dare you, sir? Come along, be a good little dog, and let me
scratch your back; you don't know how nice it is, dear!"
But the growling and defiant looks continued, as Chick lay down on his
own chosen step of the stairs. I pushed him with my foot, and said
emphatically:
"Chick! you're a _nasty_ little dog!" At which candid opinion, Chick,
sulkier and crosser than ever, settled himself to sleep.
It was not long, however, before Chick, like all other dogs, succumbed
to the dog mesmerism of that hearty good-will and affection in which
dogs are apt to trust with a much more generous confidence than men. He
began by licking my hand, then came to my room for water, and at last
was won from his disreputable habits of straying from one wine-shop
to another about the town, into which he had fallen from not being
made happy and comfortable at home. One day, he condescended to offer
himself for a walk, and we went through sundry tortuous lanes to some
olive-terraces above the town. Once there, the dog's unbounded delight
was pretty to see. He rolled among the fresh grass and hop-clover,
thickly sprinkled with lovely red _gladioli_; he careered in and out
of the olive-trees, as if weaving some mystic, invisible witch-web;
and then, rushing back to me, barking sharply in a high falsetto, he
sprawled at full length on the ground, wagging his bushy plume over his
back, and saying, in the clearest speech of his wonderful brown eyes,
"I am not a nasty little dog _now_. Thank you for making me so happy!"
My friend, whom I had long loved with all my heart, was easily made
happy. The one thing necessary to him was some sort of master whom he
could love. With any such, his queer, sullen temper brightened, his
thoroughly obstinate will grew docile, his eyes watched every motion
and indication showing his master's wishes, and, if anything were
given into his charge, no amount of tempting or frightening could win
or scare him from his trust. His chiefest delight was running after a
stone or cork, in which also his ways were special to himself. When the
stone was found or dug up--that very stone and no other--Chick would
stand with one paw placed upon it, looking down at it with crest and
tippet erect, and exactly as if it were some sort of live game. If no
notice were taken of his dumb appeal, he would snatch up the stone,
and carry it on, but always with appealing looks to have it thrown
again. On the olive-terraces, among the grass and wild flowers, where
he always became intensely excited, he would run round the stone,
growling, roll upon it in a kind of frenzy, and snap at every one who
came near. When I gravely called or spoke to him, he would relinquish
this _Berserk_ mood, and, wagging his brush, lick my hand as if to
beg pardon for such childishness, and return to the decent sobrieties
of ordinary life. I need scarcely say that it was only because the
over-excitement was bad for himself that he was ever controlled in his
fancies and conceits; for dogs, even more than children, should be
allowed to express their own character and make their own happiness, in
unimportant things, in their own way.
Chick attached himself to me in the most persistent way. He took walks
with me, scratched at the room doors to be where I was, ran up and down
stairs after me on every errand, used my room, like the dogs at home,
as the "United Dogs' Service," and slept on a chair at the foot of my
bed. Even when left at the church door during daily Mass, when I vainly
thought him securely pent within gates and rails, the padded door would
be shoved open, and Chick, with his ears and twisted tail
"Cocked fu' sprush,"
and his whole bearing that of "the right man in the right place," would
scuttle over the stone pavement, scent me out, and ensconce himself
beside my chair. At meals he took his seat beside me, in which he would
rear himself up unbidden in the drollest way, lolling back with perfect
ease, and gracefully holding one forepaw higher than the other, as if
addressing the party. Sometimes he would even emphasize his remarks by
bringing one paw down on the table, and, amid the shouts of laughter
he occasioned, would look us steadily in the face, as if enjoying the
joke as well as the rest. He learnt to sit up with a shawl round him, a
napkin-ring on his nose, and one crowning his head; to hold biscuit on
his nose untouched till bidden to eat, and even to stand quite upright
in the corner, watching with the gravest intelligence till he was told
to come out. In short, as I said before, if the one motive-power of
love were found, Chick's genius seemed to know no limit.
But, meanwhile, the day was drawing near when the deep and most real
grief must be suffered of leaving my friend. Our temporary rest was
over, and our faces were bound to be turned towards home. Chick, also,
took good note of the preparations for departure, and I read in his
eyes that he guessed their import, and knew that our separation was
drawing near. Never for an instant would he let me move out of his
sight, except for Mass, when I locked him up in my room. His exceeding
joy at my return was one of the most touching things I ever felt. When
every other demonstration had been made, he would get up on his hind
legs, and gently lick my face, not as a dog usually does, but just
putting out his tongue, and touching my cheek. This special act always
seemed to say, "_Can_ you go away and leave me behind? Why not take me
with you?"
The consciousness of this feeling wrought so strongly that the question
was seriously mooted between my friend and me of buying Chick and
carrying him with us to England. But there were great difficulties in
the way. The expense was no small addition, besides the anxiety and
added fatigue of another fresh thing to lead about and struggle for in
stations and waiting-rooms, being, as we were, only a party of women,
neither strong nor well, and already burdened with a superfluity of
luggage and _impedimenta_. So the mournful decision was come to that
it could not be. Our last walks were taken, our last gambols on the
olive-terraces played out, and it seemed to me as if every hour Chick's
eyes became more tenderly loving and more devotedly faithful. And
soon I should be far out of reach and ken, while he must be left in
the careless, indifferent, _dog-ignorant_ hands to which he belonged.
Doubtless the many well-read and cultivated people who are in the habit
of reading this periodical have already set me down as a remarkably
foolish person; but what will they say when I confess there were
moments when the very thought of leaving Chick without certain bed and
board, water at will, and sympathy in his ways and love, made me weep
real, scalding tears, and not a few?
Out of the very abundance of thoughts and pain some light appeared; and
one fine day, when the heat was fierce, I put on my hat, Chick took up
a stone, and we both made our way to a large villa in the neighborhood,
occupied by a family from Wales, whose acquaintance we had happily
made: what sort of people they were the story of my friend will show,
at least to those, in my eyes, the truest aristocracy of the world--the
people who have an inbred love of dogs! On this visit, I remarked that
Chick, instead of walking on his toes and wiring his hair as he usually
did with strangers, accepted the whole party as friends, and showed off
all his stock of accomplishments with as much docility as if we had
been at home by ourselves. On the other side, Mr. and Mrs. Griffith--as
I shall call them--thoroughly appreciated the dog, and, seeing this,
I made my proposition--an unblushing one, considering that they had
already rescued two other dogs from ill usage--that they should also
possess themselves of Chick. Having once broken the ice, I launched
into a moving description of his wretched plight, and greater misery
when we should have gone, as well as the reward they would reap from
Chick's delightful ways. They laughingly took it all in good part, and
said, if they had not already an Italian Spitz which they had sent
home, and a dancing dog just brought on their hands, they might have
thought of Chick. I took poor Chickie home, therefore, with a heavy
heart, though I did not yet give up all hope; and, because I did not,
I put him under S. Anthony's care, and asked _him_ to suggest to these
dear people to buy Chick and give him a happy home.
The eve of our departure was a few days after this, and, when Chick
followed me up-stairs to bed as usual, I took him in my arms, and told
him I was going away; that nothing on earth should ever have made me
leave him but the being obliged to do so; that I had put him under S.
Anthony's care, who I was sure would find him a friend; and that he
must be a good, brave little dog, and hold on for the present without
running away. Chick licked away my tears, looking at me with his brave
brown eyes full of trust, as I kissed him over and over again before
going to bed. But afterwards I could never tell how many more tears I
shed at leaving Chick friendless and alone.
The next morning very early, I wrote a last appeal to Mrs. Griffith,
which I carried out to the post myself, that it might be sure to reach
her; and then the carriage came to the door, and we drove away, seeing
Chick to the last on the door-step, sorrowfully looking after us with
his steady brown eyes.
It was a long time before I myself learnt the second chapter of my
dear friend's story. Mrs. Griffith duly got the note, and, being
much touched by it, she went to the boarding-house to call on me,
thinking that I had been left behind for a week, not yet recovered
from an illness, and also wishing to get another view of Chick.
Neither of these objects being gained, she returned home with a strong
feeling "borne in" upon her mind that Chick must be rescued at any
inconvenience to themselves. Not long afterwards, she and her husband
were asked by the owner of the boarding-house to go and look at it,
as she wished to sell or let it on lease. They both accordingly went,
chiefly with a view to seeing Chick. After a long visit and much
conversation, Mrs. Griffith did at length see the poor little dog lying
panting in the sun in the garden, where there was not an atom of shade.
She called the attention of the owner to him, and told her that the
dog was suffering and in great want of water. His mistress made some
careless reply as usual, and passed on, still talking, down the stairs,
when, at the front door, Mrs. Griffith chanced to look down into the
court, and there saw poor little Chick stretched on his back in the
violent convulsions of a fit. She hastily summoned her husband, who,
after one glance, vanished into the lower regions, instinctively found
a pump and a large pan, and reappeared to drench the poor little dog
with a cold-water bath, strongly remonstrating with his owner the while
that any one with eyes or ears could have seen how suffering the animal
had been from heat and thirst.
Ah! Chickie! Chickie! did any thought cross your dog's mind then of
the "United Dogs' Service" of my room? Alas! when I heard of it, how
did I not feel for my dear little friend, proclaiming by every mute
appeal his urgent need, and bravely suffering on in silence near to
death, while not a hand was lifted to give him even the cup of cold
water which brings with the gift its reward! By dint of much bathing
and rubbing for nearly an hour from Mr. and Mrs. Griffith, while his
owner looked on in stupid amazement at this waste of time and trouble
on "only a dog," Chick recovered breath and life and was able to take
some physic administered by the same kind hands. And then, at last,
an agreement was entered into that he should be made over to these
generous friends on certain conditions, one of which was that he should
be left to guard the house where he was for the present; for though
much was not given to my poor little friend, much was required from him
by his wretched masters.
A few days afterwards, Mrs. Griffith felt restless and uneasy, and
told her husband she should like to have Chick in their possession
before the time stipulated; for she felt afraid he might come under the
fresh police regulations for putting an end to all stray dogs during
the raging heat. Mr. Griffith laughed at her "fidgets," but went to
the boarding-house, nevertheless, to comply with her wishes. He was
met at the door with the announcement that Chick had run away, and
had not been heard of for two days! Grieved and completely disgusted
at the heartless neglect which had again driven the poor dog from his
so-called home, Mr. Griffith hurried back to his wife with the news,
and she, like the true woman and mother she is, sat down and burst into
tears. Mr. Griffith caught up his hat, and hurried out to the police,
set several Italian boys whom he taught, and who loved him well, to
search everywhere for the missing Chick, and did not return to his own
house till late, completely worn out with the heat and worry.
Some time later, he was told that one of his Italian boys had come, and
was asking to see him; and, as soon as he was ordered in, the boy, who
knew what pain he was giving, sorrowfully told his news that the police
had seized upon the "bravo Cico"--the half-shaven dog whom everybody
knew and loved--"and...."
"Well, and where is he?" cried Mrs. Griffith, her husband, and the
child in one breath.
"Ah! signora, Cico è morto!" (Cico is dead).
"Dead! How do you know? Where?"
"Signora, the police take the dogs they find to the Mola (breakwater),
and, if they are not claimed before the next night, they make away with
them. Ah! Cico was a bravo, bravo canino!" (a brave little dog).
Looking at his wife's face, Mr. Griffith quickly despatched the boy,
and, once more taking up his hat, this brave and good man again sought
the police office, where the news was confirmed that Chick was dead.
Still hoping against hope, Mr. Griffith said, "There are many white and
black dogs; I should like to see his dead body."
This, backed by other _arguments_, admitted of no demur. The foreign
English lord must be humored in his whim, and he should be conducted to
the poor dead Chickie's dungeon. On the way, Mr. Griffith amazed his
wife by rushing into their house like a "fire-flaught," calling out for
a piece of cold meat and a roll and butter "as quick as possible!"
"But Chickie's dead--the poor dog's dead!" she began. But he waved his
hand and vanished, running down the street with his coat flying in
the wind. He, too, almost flew across the reach of sand and driftwood
to the Mola, and up to the prison door of the dark, airless, filthy
hole into which poor little Chick had been thrust, like a two-legged
criminal guilty of some horrible crime, from the last Saturday
afternoon till this present Monday night. Not a single drop of water
had been vouchsafed him; but the fiendish cruelty which characterizes
people ignorant of the habits and sufferings of animals, while denying
the dog this one necessary, had instigated the police to leave him a
large piece of poisoned meat.
"Signore," said a magisterial voice from among the idle crowd which
had gathered to see what miracles the English lord was going to
work--"signore, if the dog will not eat, he is mad, and you must not
take him away!" And a lump of hard, mouldy black bread was thrown down
before the seemingly lifeless body of poor little Chick, who of course
made no sign.
"E matto! E matto!" (he is mad) cried many voices.
"Chickie! Chickie! dear little doggie, come and speak to me!" cried
Mr. Griffith, who was nearly beside himself at the bare sight of what
the bright, happy little creature had become, and the thought of what
his sufferings had been. Chickie heard the voice, recognized his kind
helper, opened his eyes, and, feebly dragging himself up from the
ground, came forward a step or two towards the door, which caused a
general stir of dread and horror among the spectators, and made the
police half close the door, lest the terrible monster should break
loose upon them. Mr. Griffith forced himself into the opening, and
threw his bit of cold meat to Chick; but he had suffered too much to
be able to eat it, and turned from it with disgust, though he feebly
wagged his brush in acknowledgment to his kind friend. Almost in
despair, but calling the dog by every coaxing, caressing name he could
think of, Mr. Griffith then held out to him a morsel of well-buttered
roll, and, again wagging his brush, Chick smelt at it, took it, and ate
the whole of it in the presence of the august crowd.
Mr. Griffith felt that he could throw up his hat, or dance for joy, or
misbehave in any other way which was most unbecoming to a staid country
gentleman; but all he actually did was to pull a piece of cord quickly
out of his pocket, and say, "I can take the dog home with me now,
can't I?"
"You can take him to the owner, signore. And on payment of ten francs
to the police" (for the poisoned meat?), "and with the owner's consent,
the dog will be yours."
The prison door was then opened a little wider for the cord to be
tied round Chick's neck, when, behold! he spied the moment of escape,
and, refreshed with his morsel of roll, and not knowing what more the
cruelty of man would devise, the plucky little dog rushed through
the crowd, and raced along the shore to the town as hard as he could
go, Mr. Griffith after him at the top of his speed, to a certain
low wine-shop, where also Chick had a true friend. And there Mr.
Griffith found him, after drinking nearly a bucketful of water, in
the convulsions of another and most terrible fit! His generous friend
carried him home in his arms, tucked up his sleeves and gave him a warm
bath, physicked him, nursed him, washed and combed the vermin of his
loathsome prison-hole from him, and, with untiring pains and a love
that never wearied, brought the brave little doggie back to life and
health.
* * * * *
The story of my friend is told. Chick's last appearance in his native
town was when making a triumphal progress through it in a carriage
with his master and mistress; he sitting up on his hind legs in his
old fashion, lolling back against the carriage-cushion with one paw
raised, while every man and boy they met saluted the English lord and
lady with lifted hats and delighted cries of "Cico! Cicarello! Bravo!
bravo canino!" Chick was eventually brought home to England by that
best of masters whom S. Anthony had found for him, to whom he has
attached himself so devotedly that nothing but force will induce him to
leave him by night or day. And that master and I are of one mind--that
a braver, cleverer, more loving, or more faithful dog could never be
found.
FOOTNOTES:
[27] The Riviera "di Ponente" and "di Levante" is the Mediterranean
coast from Nice to Genoa and beyond.
THE LOVE OF GOD.
The chief thing that is to be regarded in him that doth anything, is
the will and love wherewithal he doeth it. O Redeemer of the world!
although thou has done much for us, and given us great gifts, and hast
delivered us from many mischiefs, and hast promised us thy eternal and
everlasting bliss, yet is all this, being so much that it maketh one
astonished and afraid, far less than the love that thou bearest us.
For love thou gavest thyself unto us: thou camest down from heaven,
thou tookest flesh, and diest; and through the unspeakable love that
thou borest us, thou hast created and redeemed us, and gavest thyself
unto us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist, and deliveredst
us from so many evils, and promisest us so great goods. Thy love is
of such force towards us, that the least favors that thou doest us,
coming polished with such singular fine love, we are never able to be
sufficiently thankful for it, nor to requite, although we should thrust
ourselves into flaming furnaces for love of thee.--_Southwell._
A FRENCH POET.[28]
It is often said among those who assert much and investigate little
that the control of science, of literature, and of art has passed
beyond the domain of the ancient church, that her children have given
up the contest, and that she no longer produces distinguished men.
It seems to be an understood thing that sound Catholicism is not
consistent with proficiency in any branch of the higher pursuits,
and that every artist, scientist, and _littérateur_ ceases to be a
good Christian in proportion as he is successful in his profession.
There has been some apparent excuse for such an impression gaining
ground, but it is none the less an erroneous impression. Especially
of late years has it been triumphantly refuted, and nowhere with
more _éclat_ than in the very stronghold, the _sanctum sanctorum_
of free thought and private judgment--England. There has arisen in
that land of successful and jubilant materialism, that citadel of
rationalism in matters of religion, a knot of men formidable for
their learning, their eloquence, their taste, and their wit. But if
even in England, under the shadow that was yet left hanging over the
church from the effects of three hundred years of repression, the
vitality of the old "olive-tree"[29] was amply proved by the grafting
in and prosperous growth of so many new branches, still more was the
fruitfulness of the ancient mother and mistress of all knowledge
shown forth in Catholic France. That country has suffered sorely; it
has been the experimental plaything of the world, it has been torn
by unchristian politicians, gagged by Cæsarism, drenched in blood by
demagogism; it has been deluged with a literature as shameless as it
was attractive, until the name of France has become identified in
the minds of many with deliberate and organized immorality. It is
asserted that the names of her most famous novelists are synonymes
of licentiousness; that her philosophers openly preach the grossest
materialism; and that those of her _littérateurs_ who are not absolute
libertines are undisguised Sybarites. Never was country so thoroughly
and deplorably misrepresented as this Catholic land, whence have come
three-fourths of the missionaries of the world, armies of Sisters of
Charity, the most impetuous and the bravest of the Pope's defenders,
the most indefatigable scientific explorers, the purest of political
reformers. If France must be judged by her literature, she can point
to Montalembert, Ozanam, Albert de Broglie, Eugénie de Guérin, Louis
Veuillot, Dupanloup, Rio, Lacordaire, Mme. Craven, Pontmartin, La
Morvonnais, as well as to Balzac, Dumas, Eugène Sue, George Sand, and
Alfred de Musset. If by her art, De la Roche, Ary Scheffer, Hippolyte
Flandrin, vindicate her old Catholic historical pre-eminence; if by her
science and her philosophy, there are Ampère, Berryer, Villemain, even
Cousin. Everywhere the old sap is coursing freely, and in the ranks of
all professions are champions ready to do battle for the old faith
that made France a "_grande nation_." But those we have mentioned,
especially the distinguished and brilliant cluster, Montalembert, de
Broglie, Lacordaire, and Dupanloup, had eschewed the old legitimist
traditions, and, without detracting from their fame, we may say that
they were eminently men of the XIXth century. The charm and poetry
of chivalry, fidelity to an exiled race, the spell of the white flag
and the golden _fleur-de-lis_, were in their minds things of the
past; noble and beautiful weapons, it is true, but useless for the
present emergency, like the enamelled armor and jewelled daggers which
we reverently admire in our national museums. The old monarchical
traditions needed a champion in the field of literature where their
conscientious and respectful opponents were so brilliantly represented,
and this they found in Jean Reboul, the subject of this memoir.
One would have thought that the legitimist poet would have arisen from
some lonely castle of Brittany, and have borne a name which twenty
generations of mediæval heroes had made famous in song. One would have
pictured him as the melancholy, high-spirited descendant of Crusaders,
orphaned by the Vendean war, inspired by the influence of the ocean and
the majestic solitude of the _landes_.[30]
He would be likely to be a Christian Byron, a modern Ossian, far
removed from contact with the world, almost a prophet as well as
a poet. But as if to render his personality more marked, and his
partisanship more striking, the champion of legitimacy was none of
these things. Instead of being a noble, he was a baker; instead of
a solitary, a busy man of the world--even a deputy in the French
Assembly in 1840. Who would have dreamt this? Yet when God chose a king
for Israel, he did not call a man of exalted family to the throne,
but "a son of Jemini of the least tribe of Israel, and his kindred
the last among all the families of the tribe of Benjamin."[31] So it
fell out with the representative who, among the constellation of more
than ordinary brilliancy which marked the beginning of this century in
France, was to uphold the old political faith of the land. There was
doubtless some wise reason for this singular and unexpected choice.
Reboul was a man of the people, a worker for his bread, that it might
be known what the people could do when led by faith and loyalty; he was
from Nîmes, in the south of France, not far from Lyons and Marseilles,
that his attitude might be a perpetual protest against the wave of
communism and revolution which had its source in the south; he was,
so to speak, a descendant of the Romans--for Nîmes was a flourishing
Roman colony and its people are said to retain much of the massiveness
of the Roman character--that he might rebuke the mistaken notion of
those who make of the old republic a type of modern anarchy, and
desecrate the names of Lucretia and Cornelia by bestowing them on
the _tricoteuses_[32] of 1793, or the _pétroleuses_ of 1870. It must
have been a special consolation to the exiled representative of the
Bourbons, the object of such devoted and romantic loyalty, to follow
the successes and receive the outspoken sympathy of so unexpected and
so staunch an adherent. Uncompromising in his championship of the
"_drapeau blanc_," Reboul was politically a host in himself, and,
untrammelled as he was by the traditions and prejudices that hedged in
the nobles of the party, he was able to mingle with all classes, speak
to all men, treat with all parties, and yet to carry his allegiance
through all obstacles, unimpaired and even unsuspected.
Jean Reboul was born at Nîmes on the 23d of January, 1796. His father
was a locksmith and in very modest circumstances. His mother was early
left a widow, with four young children to provide for. Jean, who was
the eldest, and of an equally thoughtful and energetic character,
soon contrived to relieve her of the anxieties of her position, by
establishing himself in business as a baker. Whatever ambitious and
vague longings he might have had even at that early period we do not
know, but can easily guess at, and his sacrifice of them already
endears the future poet to our hearts. How he ever after preferred
the claims of his family to his own convenience, and refused to take
from them the security which his lowly trade gave them, and which the
precarious success of a literary career might have taken away, we shall
see later on. But Reboul did not forego his poetical aspirations; he
published various detached pieces in the local journals of Nîmes, he
circulated MS. poems among his friends, and his name began to be well
known at least in his native town. It was not till 1820, however, that
the outside world and the literary assemblies of Paris knew him. He
gave half his day to the labor of his trade and half to intellectual
work and hard study, and the activity of his character, as well as
the rigorous measurement of his time, so arranged as never to waste
a moment, made this division of labor prejudicial to neither one
employment nor the other.
In physique he was tall, athletic, and stately enough for a Roman
senator. His features were cast in a large and massive mould, his dark,
brilliant eyes were full of meridional fire, and his abundant black
hair seemed a fitting frame for his manly, fearless countenance. Even
in old age and when dying, a friend and admirer recorded that "his face
has suffered no contraction, but has wholly kept the purity of those
sculptural lineaments so nobly reproduced by the chisel of Pradier; it
even seemed to have borrowed a new and graver majesty from the dread
approach of death; ... even death appeared, as it were, to hesitate to
touch his form, and seemed to draw near its victim with the deepest
respect." His vigorous life, his active intelligence, his inflexible
uprightness of character--everything seemed to point him out as a man
beyond the common run of even good men. We shall see his character as
developed in the admirable letters which form the basis of this sketch.
Type of a Christian patriot, he towers above his contemporaries by
sheer nobility of soul, and is an example of that moral stature to
which no worldly honors, no political position, no hereditary rank can
add "one cubit." _Pro Deo, Patria et Rege_ was his lifelong motto, and
it may safely be said that if France had many such sons, no one in the
past or in the future could have rivalled or could hope to rival "la
grande nation."
His first volume of collected poems was published in 1836, and one
by one eminent men of letters, struck by the beauty, severity, and
freshness of his diction, sought out the new light and entered into
brotherhood with him. His lifelong friendship with M. de Fresne,
however, dated from 1829, when he had already published _The Angel
and the Child_,[33] in a Paris magazine, and other pieces at various
intervals in local periodicals. A traveller from the capital knocked at
the unknown poet's door, and the tie knit by the first external homage
that had yet come to Reboul, was never dissolved. The letters from
which we draw his portrait, as traced by himself, were all addressed
to this first friend. In 1838, another and more illustrious visitor
came to the baker's home at Nîmes, the patriarch of revived Christian
literature in France, the immortal Châteaubriand. He tells the story of
his visit himself:
"I found him in his bakery, and spoke to him without knowing to whom I
was speaking, not distinguishing him from his companions in the trade
of Ceres; he took my name, and said he would see if the person I wanted
was at home. He came back presently and smilingly made himself known to
me. He took me through his shop, where we groped about in a labyrinth
of flour-sacks, and at last climbed by a sort of ladder into a little
retreat (_réduit_) something like the chamber of a windmill. There we
sat down and talked. I was as happy as in my barn in London,[34] and
much happier than in my minister's chair in Paris."
Reboul was an ardent Catholic, an uncompromising "ultramontane," as
their enemies designate those who refuse to render unto Cæsar the
things that are God's. He took a keen and sensitive interest in the
struggles of religion against infidelity, the prototypes, or rather
the counterparts, of those we see now waging in Italy and Germany. On
the occasion of one of these attacks on the church in 1844, he writes
these trenchant words:
"The sword is drawn between the religious and the political power: if I
were not a Frenchman before being a royalist, and a Catholic before a
Frenchman, I should find much to rejoice at in this check to the hopes
of a certain part of the episcopate who honestly believed in the reign
of religious freedom, on the word of the revolutionists. But, good
people! if revolution were not despotism, it would not be revolution."
The unity of the church struck him as immeasurably grand. Speaking of
the great Spanish convert Donoso-Cortes and his religious works, he
says:
"What a marvellous faith it is which makes men situated at such
distances of time and place think exactly alike on the most difficult
and deepest subjects!"
A most striking passage in his writings is the following opinion on the
Reformation:
"Forgive my outspokenness," he writes to his friend M. de Fresne,
"if my opinion differs totally from yours. No, the Reformation was
_not_ an outburst of holy and generous indignation against abuses and
infamies. This indignation possessed all the eminent and virtuous men
_in_ the church, but it was not to be found among the reformers. The
Reformation, on the contrary, came to legalize corruption and bend
the precepts of the Gospel to the exigencies of the flesh. Luther was
literally the Mahomet of the West. Both acted through the sword: the
one established polygamy, the other divorce, a species of polygamy far
more fatal to morals than polygamy proper. If you would know what the
Reformation really was, look at its founders and abettors, and see if
chastity was dear to them. Henry VIII. married six wives, of whom he
divorced two and executed two more; Zwinglius took a wife, Beza took a
wife, Calvin took a wife, Luther took a wife, the landgrave of Hesse
wished to take a second wife during the lifetime of his first, and
Luther authorized him to do so. The caustic Erasmus, whose Catholicism
was not very strict, could not help saying that the Reformation was a
comedy like many others, where everything ended with marriages. The
real reformers of the church, those who reformed her not according to
the gospel of passion, but the Gospel of Jesus Christ, were S. Charles
Borromeo, S. John of the Cross, S. Teresa, S. Ignatius Loyola, and
thousands of holy priests and bishops."
Not to weary the reader by constant comments on the text which reveals
this great Christian thinker's mind, we will append the following
significant quotations from his letters with as few breaks as possible.
They are gathered from a collection extending over a period of more
than thirty years:
"The secrets of the church are ruled by a divine order, and to judge
of them according to merely human fears or prudence, is to mistake the
nature of the church, and to ignore her past. Time takes upon itself
the vindication of decisions arrived at by a legitimate authority,
even though it be a temporal one; ... truth will come to the surface,
and is often manifested by the very men apparently most earnest in
combating it.... I believe this work (a religious publication of M. de
Broglie) is an event, as much because of the author's character and the
principles which his name is understood to represent, as because of the
epoch of its publication. This frank confession in the belief of the
supernatural in the teeth of the public rationalistic teaching of the
day--ever striving to wrap Christ in its own shroud of philosophical
verbiage and to bury him in the grave from which he had risen--makes
us pray to God and praise him, ... that _his kingdom may come_....
The struggle nowadays is between God made man, and man making himself
God.... I wonder that you take the trouble to break your head thinking
about these German dreamers (atheists); for my part, I gave orders long
ago to the door-keeper of my brain, if any of these gentleman should
ask for me, to say that I was '_not at home_.' These old errors served
up with the new sauce of a worse darkness than before seem to me very
indigestible.
"Genius which devotes itself to evil, far from being a glory, is but a
gigantic infamy. Plato is right when he calls it a fatal industry.
"The French Revolution has done in the political world what the
Reformation did in the religious world; it has taken from reason her
leaning staff, and reason, trying to stand alone, has caused the things
we have seen--and so, alas! at this moment, the Revolution cries out
for a principle, but is itself the negation of all principle."
In politics, as we have seen, Reboul was a staunch legitimist, but a
shrewd observer. He was no dreamer, though his belief in the ancient
Bourbons was with him a perfect _cultus_. He never swerved from the
road which he had traced for himself. As a poet, his native city was
proud of him, France held out every honor to him, fellow-_littérateurs_
of all shades of opinion welcomed him as a brother, governments
flattered him, the people looked up to him. Had he been ambitious,
civic and parliamentary honors were ready for him; had he been venal,
his career might have been brilliant, lucrative, and idle. In 1844,
the mayor of Nîmes, M. Girard, proposed to him a change of occupation,
offering him the position of town-librarian, as more suited to his
tastes than the trade he followed. He was assured that this appointment
would entail no political obligation, that perfect independence
of speech and action would be guaranteed to him, but, says M. de
Poujoulat: "Reboul, intent above all on the services he could render
the cause among his own surroundings, and solicitous of hedging in
the dignity of his life with the most spotless integrity, refused the
mayor's offer. He did not even seek to make a merit of his refusal;
his friends knew nothing of it; M. de Fresne alone was in the secret,
and it was not divulged till years after." The Cross of the Legion of
Honor was twice offered him: once by the government of Louis Philippe,
through the agency of the minister M. de Salvandy, who was fond of
seeking out honest and independent talent, but the loyal poet answered
briefly: "He who alone has the right to decorate me is not in France";
and again by the empire, when it was urged that the decoration was a
homage such as might have been respectfully offered in _les Arènes_
(the Roman amphitheatre at Nîmes). Reboul proudly yet playfully
replied that "he had not yet quite reached the state of a monument,"
and feeling plenty of vitality left in him, did not need the red
ribbon. He explains to his friend M. de Fresne that he asked the God
of S. Louis to enlighten his perplexities, to lift his soul above all
small vanities, to deliver him from political rancor, if he harbored
any, and to guide him to a decision which would leave him at peace
with himself. "I have not the presumption," he adds, "to think that I
received an inspiration from above, but I believe in the efficacy of
prayer. I know not if I was heard, but at any rate I did my best."
There is a grand Christian simplicity in this, which marks Reboul as a
man far beyond the average. Nothing dazzles him, because he always has
the glory of God before his eyes. His friend M. de Poujoulat says of
him:
"I find in Reboul a penetrating and serious good sense, broad views,
as it were luminous sheaves of thought; I see in him an unprejudiced
and discriminating observer of the affairs of his day. The noise of
popularity is not glory, and the stature our contemporaries make for us
is not our true one, but one raised by artifice and conventionality.
Here was a man who looked down from the height of his solitude, said
what he thought, and in his judgment forestalled the verdict of
posterity. Reboul was interested in the individual works of his day,
but he had only scant admiration for the age that produced them. His
conscience was the measure of his appreciation both of men and events,
and it was a measure hardly advantageous to them."
In 1836, a few of his friends clubbed together to offer him at least
a pension, in the name of "an exile" (the Comte de Chambord), but he
refused even this with touching disinterestedness, saying: "There is
but one hand on earth from which I should not blush to accept a gift:
the representative of Providence on earth. The gifts of this hand
increase the honor and independence of the recipient, and bind him to
nothing save the public weal, but adverse circumstance having sealed
this fount of honor, I could not dream of drawing aught from it, for
_l'exil a besoin de ses miettes_,[35] and it is rather our duty to
contribute to its needs than to draw on it for our own." Later, when
pressing necessity made it incumbent upon him to accept help from
his friends and his sovereign, as he loyally called the exiled Comte
de Chambord, it was so great a sorrow to him that he could scarcely
enjoy the material benefit of such help. The poor and faithful poet
had "dreamed of leaving earth with the memory of a devotion wholly
gratuitous," and was sincerely grieved because it could not be so.
He received several letters from the Comte de Chambord and his wife,
some written in their own hand, others by their secretary, and he
addressed himself several times to these objects of his _cultus_ in
terms of impassioned yet dignified loyalty. Henri V. fully appreciated
his homage, and treated him as a friend rather than a stranger. Reboul
visited the royal family at Frohsdorf, their Austrian retreat, and
received the most flattering marks of attention. To him it was not
a visit so much as a pilgrimage; his devotion to the person of his
sovereign was but the embodiment of his principle of fealty towards
hereditary monarchy. Speaking of the Requiem Mass celebrated at
Nîmes, in October, 1851, on the occasion of the death of the Duchesse
d'Angoulême, daughter of Louis XVI., he says:
"She had made a deep impression, and left durable memories among the
working classes of our town, on her passage through Nîmes some years
ago.... The people, my dear friend, the Christian people, recognizes
better than _les beaux-esprits_ what true greatness is, and is ever
ready to bow before the majesty of a nobly-borne sorrow. No orator
could adequately describe the appearance of our church to-day. This
great gathering _en blouse ou en veste_,[36] these faces browned
by toil and want, bore an expression of nobility and gravity fully
suitable to such an occasion.... When one still has such courtiers, is
exile a reality?"
Reboul would never allow that the irregularities of its representatives
were enough of themselves to condemn a system. We have seen how, while
recognizing the degeneracy of many churchmen in the XVIth century,
he yet denounced the pretended reformers who sought this pretext for
attacking the church, and in politics his judgments were equally clear
and impartial. "If," he says, "it is still possible to be a republican
despite the Reign of Terror, it is not impossible to be a royalist
despite a few moral deviations which have disgraced some of our kings.
Was the _Directoire_ (a genuine republican product) an assembly of
Josephs? And the houses of our day--are they not of glass? It is not
wise, therefore, to be incessantly throwing stones.... After all, I
return to my original argument: notwithstanding the shadows which
darken the great qualities and high virtues of many of our kings, can
you find anything better?"
Reboul's political faith is traced at length in the following
paragraph, which may be called statesmanlike, since it contains a
theory of government: "The sovereign is by all means a _responsible_
agent, but I add to this, that the people also, when it makes itself
sovereign, is equally responsible. The habit of thought which separates
the one from the other is one of the misfortunes of our times. Without
_sovereignty_ there can be no nation, nor even a people. There remains
but an agglomeration of individuals. When I say _sovereign_ you know,
if you understand the language of politics, that I mean any legitimate
form of government. This is applicable to all governments. Be sure
that it is nonsense to talk of a nation as making its own sovereign.
A "nation" which as yet has no sovereignty is no more a nation than a
body without its head is a real body."
Reboul not only believed in sovereignty, but in an aristocracy as a
necessary part of a sound national system. Commenting upon a political
article by M. de Villemain, he gives his ideas thus: "He is mistaken
if he believes, as he says he does, that a people can enjoy freedom
without an _aristocracy_, or, if this word is too much of a bugbear
in the ears of our age, without an intermediate class between the
sovereign and the people. Equality is a fine thing, but revolutionary
journalists must make up their minds that equality can only be arrived
at by the raising of one man and the lowering of all the rest. It is
almost a truism to say so, but these truisms are not bad things in
politics, being so often borne out by experience, and, alas! by the
convulsions of empires."
Our poet and politician could be witty when he liked, and, had he
not been so earnest a Christian, his satirical humor would have been
more often exercised on those from whom he differed so widely in
opinion. This humor crops out sometimes, as when, on the occasion of
an agricultural show (no very congenial fête to a man of his stamp),
he quaintly says: "I do not demur to any rational encouragement given
to agriculture, but I fancy Sully, to whom it owes so much, would not
have been quite so extravagant in the choice of honors such as are
now heaped upon it. A public and gratuitous show, convocation of the
Academy, the municipal council, the prefect of the department, all that
fuss for the coronation of a few dumb animals! Do you not see in this a
providential sarcasm--a people allowed to crown swine after uncrowning
its kings!"
A significant prophecy is contained in the last words of the following
paragraph: "I begin to doubt the efficacy of all these intellectual
struggles; our times need a stronger logic than that of pamphlets, and
I fear (God forgive me for the despairing thought)--I fear that some
great misfortune alone is capable of curing France." How terrible the
cure was when it came we all know, but we have yet to see whether it
has been efficient.
His brief career as deputy to the Constituent Assembly in 1848
derives a peculiar interest for the reader by reason of the seeming
contradiction it presents to his settled political creed. But Reboul
judged things by a higher standard than that of party prejudice. "A
Frenchman before a royalist," he vindicated his patriotism by active
measures in those stormy days when more voices were needed to speak for
the right in the councils of the nation. No doubt, with his unfailing
discernment, he saw the incongruity of his actual position as a man of
the people with that refusal of office which was in a certain sense
becoming--nay, required--in a legitimist of noble birth. He says of
his nomination: "I had firmly refused before, being certain of my
own incompetency, but our population would not hear reason. These
good people imagine that, because one can scribble verses, one can
therefore represent a borough. I was not able to disabuse them; it was
made a question of honor and patriotism, and how could I refuse any
longer? Here am I, therefore, who have always lived far from political
gatherings, I a man of retirement and study, thrown into your whirlpool
without well knowing what will happen to me there."
He was not happy as a deputy. M. de Poujoulat says that Reboul's
countenance in those days was that of a man bored to death. When, the
following year, he retired from these unwonted honors, he thanked God
for "having rescued him from the storm," and wrote to a friend: "I am
quite happy again, and do not at all regret the honors I have left.
I wonder what interest there can be in such heated disputes about
vulgarized issues! I never felt more at home than I do now, and nothing
whispers to me that I have had any loss."
Of a young and unfortunate colleague in the Assembly, a man who had
mistaken an irrepressible momentary exaltation for a genuine vocation,
and from a porter had vaulted to the position of a deputy, while he
further aspired to that of a poet, Reboul says with grave sympathy and
sterling sense: "His blind ambition often astounded me, but it was so
candid and so genuine that I had not the heart to condemn it. I have
often grieved over this frank nature, this child who, in his gambols,
_would_ handle as a whip which he could use the serpent that was to
bite him. The best thing for him would be to go back to his trade in
the teeth of the world, and to make use of his strength and youth; he
would find in that a truer happiness than in the shadow of an official
desk, or in the corruptions of the literary 'Bohemia,' but such an
effort, I fear, is beyond his strength of mind." With what special
right Reboul could give this sound, if stern, advice, we shall see
presently.
In poetry Reboul's inspiration was purely Christian, austere in its
morality, and trusting rather to the matter than the form. He believed
that the times required a poetic censorship, incisive, rapid, and
relentless; poetry was "the mould that God had given him in which to
cast his thoughts," and he felt bound to use it in season for God's
cause, without stopping to elaborate its form and perhaps weaken its
effect. Thus it came about that he was essentially a poet of action,
mingling with his fellow-men, following the vicissitudes of the day
and bearing his part valiantly in the battle of life. He was not of
the contemplative, subjective order of poets, nor was he among the
sensualists of literature. His art was to him neither a personal
consolation, occupying all his time and plunging him into a selfish yet
not unholy oblivion of the world, nor yet an instrument of gain and a
pander to the evil passions of others. It was a mission, not simply a
gift; a "talent" to be used and to bring in five-fold in the interests
of his heavenly Master. Many of his friends objected to the crudity of
form which sometimes resulted from this earnest conviction, and later
in life he did set himself to polish his style a little more. All his
verses bear this imprint of passionate earnestness; he speaks to all,
kings and people; he tells them of their duties in times of revolution,
he urges men to martyrdom, if need be, that the truth may triumph;
he exalts patriotism, fidelity, and disinterestedness, and loses no
opportunity to wrap wholesome precepts in poetic form. His style is
vigorous and impetuous, yet domestic affections are no strangers to
his pen. The world knows him as the author of "The Angel and the
Child," which has been translated into all languages from English to
Persian[37] and inspired a Dresden painter with a beautiful rendering
of the song on canvas. He says of himself: "With me, poetry is but the
veil of philosophy," and in this he has unconsciously followed the
dictum of a great man of the XVth century, Savonarola, who, in his work
on the _Division and Utility of all Sciences_, records the same truth:
"The essence of poetry is to be found in philosophy; the object of
poetry being to persuade by means of that syllogism called an example
exposed with elegance of language, so as to _convince_ and at the same
time to _delight_ us."[38]
Corneille was his favorite French poet, and his admiration for the
Christian tragedy of "Polyeucte" prompted him to write a drama in the
same style, called the "Martyrdom of Vivia." The scene was placed in
his own Nîmes, in the time of the Roman Empire. The piece was full
of beauties, and above all of enthusiasm, but, as might have been
expected, it was hardly a theatrical success. He says himself: "The
glorification of the martyrs of old is not a sentiment of our day"; but
when "Vivia" was performed under his own auspices in his native town
the result was far different. It created a _furor_, and everything,
even the accessories, was perfect. Every one vied with each other to
make it not only a success in itself, but an ovation to the author.
Reboul, when he once saw it acted in Paris, was so genuinely overcome
by it that, leaning across the box toward his friend M. de Fresne, he
whispered naïvely with tears in his eyes: "I had no idea that it was so
beautiful."
As a poet, he utterly despised mere popularity, and has recorded
this feeling both in verse and in prose. In his poem "Consolation
in Forgetfulness" he asks whether the nightingale, hidden among the
trees, seeks out first some attentive human ear into which to pour its
ravishing strains? Nay, he answers, but the songster gives all he has
to the night, the desert, and its silence, and if night, desert, and
silence are alike insensible, its own great Maker is ever at hand to
listen. But it is useless to translate winged verse into lame prose;
the next verse we will quote in the original:
"Un grand nom coûte cher dans les temps où nous sommes,
Il fant rompre avec Dieu pour captiver les hommes."
The same idea is reproduced in his correspondence:
"The revolution has for a long time usurped, all over Europe, the
disposal of popularity and renown, and, alas! how many Esaus there
are who have sold their birthright for a mess of celebrity!... Our
excellent friend M. Le Roy had a quality of soul capable of harmonizing
with the sad memories of fallen greatness! Our _siècle de grosse
caisse_[39] has lost the secret of those high and sublime feelings
which the reserve of a simple-minded man may cover."
When, in 1851, his friends wished to nominate him as a candidate
for the French Academy, the highest literary honor possible, Reboul
answered M. de Fresne thus: "Your kind friendship has led you astray.
What on earth would you have me do in such a body? Though I may, in
the intimacy of private life, have spoken to you of whatever poetic
merits I have, I am far from wishing to declare myself seriously the
rival of the best talent of the capital. Such pretension never entered
my head. Nay, in these days I might have written _Athalie_ and yet
deem myself unfit for the Academy. In revolutionary times, things
invade and overflow each other, and nothing is more futile than the
lamentations of literary men over the nomination of politicians to the
vacancies of the French Academy. The revolution has always jealously
guarded her approaches; the _Institut_ is her council." Ten years
later he congratulates himself that things have so far mended among
academicians as that "one may pronounce God's holy name in the halls of
the academy"; but he steadily refused to be nominated for a _fauteuil_.
Reboul's relations with the great men of his day were active and
cordial. No party feeling separated him from any on whom the stamp of
genius was set equally with himself. He corresponded with distinguished
personages of all countries, English, French, Italian, etc., admired
and appreciated the literature of foreign lands, followed the
intellectual movement of Europe in every branch of learning, and
supplied by copious reading of the best translations his want of
classical knowledge. The Holy Scriptures and the patristic literature
of the church were familiar and favorite studies with him; in every
sense of the word, he was a polished and appreciative scholar.
The accident of his birth and circumstances of his life in no way
interfered with this scholarship, and it would be a great mistake to
suppose that he was but a phenomenon, a freak of nature, a working-man
turned suddenly poet, but having beyond the gift of ready versification
no further knowledge of his art or grasp of its possibilities. In 1834,
having addressed to Lamennais a poetical warning and remonstrance, he
says that, receiving no answer, "he is appalled by the silence of
this man. Heaven forefend that the pillar which once was the firmest
support of the sanctuary should be turned into a battering-ram!..." The
Christian world knows that this prophecy came true, but there are those
who believe that on his death-bed the erring son was drawn back to the
bosom of his mother.
In 1844, Reboul was chosen as spokesman by the deputation of Nîmes to
the reception awarded M. Berryer by the town of Avignon. He says: "The
illustrious orator said so many flattering things to me that I was
quite confounded. He called me his _friend_.... Then, addressing us
all, his words seemed so fraught with magic that the immense audience
hung breathless on his lips, but when he began to speak of France his
voice, trembling with love of our country, took our very souls by
storm, and you should have seen those southern faces all bathed in
tears of admiration. We had need of a respite before applauding--but
what an explosion it was!" At another time he writes: "Where has
Berryer lived that he should be able to escape the influence of the
hazy phraseology of our age and keep intact that eloquence of his, at
once so clear and so trenchant?"
Manzoni's genius seemed to make the two poets, though not personally
acquainted, companions in spirit. M. de Fresne, who knew the Milanese
_littérateur_, was charged with Reboul's homage to him in verse, and
Reboul himself speaks thus of the impression made on a friend of his by
Manzoni's _Inni Sacri_:
"We read and admired everything in the book. The hymn for the 5th of
May particularly struck Gazay; he was quite beside himself, as I knew
he would be. This nature, rugged and trenchant (_osseuse et brève_),
which is so impatient of the milk-and-water[40] style of literature,
found here a subject of enthusiasm; he rose from his chair, walked up
and down the room with gigantic strides, and barely escaped breaking
through the floor."
His judgment of Victor Hugo is both interesting and striking. In 1862,
when _Les Misérables_ was published, he comments thus on the great
herald and apologist of revolution:
"It is always the same glorification of the convict-prison and the
house of prostitution, a theme which has for many years been dragged
over our literature and our drama. I do not like Hugo's _bishop_ any
more than Béranger's _curé_; the former is a fool and the latter a
drunkard. The author of _Les Misérables_ is vigorous in his style,
no doubt, but he carries the defects of this quality to the last
pitch of absurdity. The style is vigorous and rugged, true--but
_c'est du 'casse-poitrine' et du 'sacré chien,' de l'eau-de-vie de
pommes-de-terre_.[41] I do not know what to expect from the next two
volumes, but up to this it all seems to me to breathe the air of a
low public-house (_buvette de faubourg_). The ostentatious praise of
the socialist organs confirms this opinion. The multitude, as well
as kings, has its flatterers. I think that honest poverty, lacking
everything, and yet shutting its eyes and ears to temptation, would
have been a type worthier of the author's reputation, if it were only
for a change!"
A year later, in 1863, we see Reboul reading with interest a criticism
of Lamartine on this same work, and recording his satisfaction at the
implied condemnation. "But," says our poet, "it is only, alas! the
blind leading the blind. One is astonished to see the devastation
created in these two great intellects by the forsaking of principle."
His relations with Lamartine were close and affectionate, but his
admiration for the poet yet left him a severe measure for the man. In
1864, he wrote him an address in verse on dogma, or rather, as he calls
it, divine reason, as the foundation of all legislation, and from his
reasons drew consequences not over-favorable to the "historian-poet."
"But," he says, "I tried to be respectful without ceasing to be frank."
Lamartine answered him a few months later, and promised him a visit.
Reboul then says of him: "I found him as amiable, as much a friend as
ever; there must be something great in the depths of that man's heart.
May Providence realize one day my secret hopes for his soul's welfare."
When seven years before Lamartine came to see him at Nîmes, Reboul was
his _cicerone_ to the ruins and sights of the Roman colony, and the
exquisitely graceful compliment of the world-known poet to his brother
artist was thus worded: "This is worth more than all I saw during my
Eastern journey." Of Lamartine's poetical genius, and Victor Hugo's
claims to the renown of posterity, Reboul has no doubt, for he says
that the former's _Lac_ and the latter's lyrics "will never die."
The reader may like to know the opinion of Lamartine himself on Reboul.
We find it in his _Harmonies Poétiques_, where he dedicates a piece to
him entitled "Genius in obscurity," and appends the following anecdote,
which will remind us of Châteaubriand's earlier visit. This was the
first time the two poets met, and, like most of Reboul's friendships,
it was sought by the greater man--or rather, should we not say the
higher-placed rather than _greater_?
"Every one knows the poetical genius, so antique in form, so noble
in feeling, of M. Reboul, poet and workman. Work does not degrade.
His life is less known; I was ignorant of it myself. One day, passing
through Nîmes, I wished, before going to the Roman ruins, to see my
brother-poet. A poor man whom I met in the street led me to a little,
blackened house, on the threshold of which I was saluted by that
delicious perfume of hot bread just from the oven. I went in; a young
man in his shirt sleeves, his black hair slightly powdered with flour,
stood behind the counter, selling bread to a few poor women. I gave my
name; he neither blushed nor changed countenance, but quietly slipped
on his waistcoat, and led me up-stairs by a wooden staircase to his
working room, above the shop. There was a bed, and a writing-table,
with a few books and some loose sheets of paper covered with verses. We
spoke of our common occupation. He read me some admirable verses, and
a few scenes of ancient tragedy, breathing the true masculine severity
of the Roman spirit. One felt that this man had spent his life among
the living mementos of ancient Rome, and that his soul was, as it were,
a stone taken from those monuments, at whose feet his genius had grown
like the wild laurel at the foot of the Roman bridge over the Gard.
"I saw Reboul again in the Constituent Assembly. His was a free soul,
born for a republic; a heart simple and pure, and whose like the people
needs sorely to make it keep and honor the liberty it has won, but will
lose again unless it be tempered by justice and hallowed by virtue."
It will be seen that Reboul himself did not agree with Lamartine's
estimate of him, nor indeed with many of the great poet's religious
and political views; but the tribute to our hero is only rendered more
honorable by this dissidence of opinion.
Many other names might be added to the list of Reboul's literary
acquaintances. Montalembert, at whose request he paraphrased in verse
the famous article published in the _Correspondant_, "Une Nation en
deuil," a plea for Poland written by the author of _The Monks of the
West_; Père Lacordaire, Mgr. Dupanloup, M. de Falloux, Mme. Récamier,
Mme. de Beaumont, a graceful poetess, Canonge, his fellow-poet of
Nîmes, Charles Lenormand, and hosts of others. Artists too he held
in great honor: Sigalon, a painter full of promise, of a poor family
in Nîmes, and whom Reboul characterizes as one who, had he lived,
would have been a modern Michael Angelo; Orsel, of whom he speaks
in these enthusiastic terms: "I showed my friends some of Orsel's
sketches, which they found more _true_ and more _holy_ than Raphael's
style. I will not go so far, for the judgment of ages and of so many
connoisseurs unanimously proclaiming the supremacy of the great
Italian is a stronger authority in my eyes than the exclamation of a
few men in a given moment of enthusiasm. Still I was astounded. Some
vague remorse seized me when I reflected that I had regarded this man
with indifference, not yet knowing his works! But when I think that
I actually read so many of my bad verses to one who had before his
mind's eye such holy and beautiful types, and that he was good enough
to listen patiently, it is not admiration, but veneration that I feel
towards him."
Reber, the musician, who in 1853 was deservedly elected member of the
_Institut de France_, and Rose, a young sculptor, whose Christian
genius was worthy of being placed in contrast (in his admirable
_bassi-relievi_ of the Stations of the Cross in the church of S. Paul,
at Nîmes) with the perfection of Hippolyte Flandrin's magnificent
frescos, were also among Reboul's artistic friends. In a comparison
instituted by our poet between popular and high art, we find the
following pungent comment: "M. Courbet has painted women fitted, by the
rotundity of their dimensions, to be exhibited at a fair, and his name
is incessantly in the papers. On the other hand, M. Ingres is seldom if
ever mentioned!"
Reboul's voluminous letters to M. de Fresne trace unconsciously a most
noble moral portrait of the writer. Here are a few characteristic
touches, putting in relief his manliness and freedom from petty
vanities or weak susceptibilities. There was not the shadow of a
meanness in Reboul's mind; his soul was simplicity itself, and was
rather like those dark, deep waters of some of the American lakes, at
whose bottom every pebble is distinctly visible.
"One of the advantages of the position in which it has pleased God to
place me," he says, "is that I hear the truth told me point-blank and
without any circumlocution whatever, and, thank God, I am inured to
this. I have found out since that what once galled my pride has had
other and important results, so that both friend and foe have served
me.... I bow to nothing save that which is _beautiful everywhere and at
all times_, and progress to my mind signifies only the fashioning of
my works more and more according to this eternal standard. If I do not
succeed, therefore, be sure that it is through human helplessness and
not intentional profanation."
He thus distinctly recognizes his art as a mission, a sacred thing
to be reverently handled, and not _profaned_ by compromises with
the local and accidental spirit of the age. And again: "If the poet
condescends to these intrigues behind the scenes, he loses what should
be his greatest treasure: the consciousness of his own dignity.[42]
Theatrical plaudits, success, all that is outside ourselves: the poet
should seek to live at peace with his own soul, for alas! man cannot
fly from himself, and woe to him if he has need to blush for his deeds
before the tribunal of his own conscience.... There is too much water
in the wine of success to inebriate me.... Time, which is God's mode
of action, deprives us little by little of everything which can be
salutary guardianship, until that supreme moment when it leaves us
face to face with itself alone. Let us strive to prepare ourselves for
this awful _tête-à-tête_." Reboul possessed the true pride of a noble
heart which consisted in doing simply every duty required of him alike
by his poor condition and his admirable talent. Of the former he never
showed himself ashamed and repeatedly refused to change it; yet this
refusal was perfectly honest. If he was in no ways ashamed of his lowly
origin, at the same time he was equally far from making it a boast. On
the publication of his _Traditionelles_ (a volume of detached poems)
M. Lenormand devoted to it a laudatory and appreciative article in the
_Correspondant_. Reboul noticed this in the following words: "I have
only one observation to make, however: I would rather they had left
the 'baker' out of the question, certainly not because the allusion
humiliates me, but because I fear that it points towards making an
exception of my verses, as a moral _lusus naturæ_, and it is my ardent
wish, on the contrary, to be judged quite outside such circumstances.
I can say this the more frankly, because I have never, in my
_Traditionelles_, disguised my origin, and indeed, did I not fear to
be suspected of that hateful plebeian pride, I should even say that I
would not exchange my family for any other. This is between ourselves."
And again, when the question of his nomination to the French Academy
was under discussion, he wrote a very similar sentence: "I can hardly
tell you why I would not accept this candidature. This, perhaps, will
best render my idea: I am not of the stuff of which academicians are
made. This is no outburst of plebeian pride--the most insolent pride
of any; it is merely my true estimate of my own position." At another
time he said, excusing himself for not having asked a person of high
position and a friend of his to the funeral of his mother: "Whatever
ignorance and enviousness may say to the contrary, there are barriers
between the different classes of society which cannot be disregarded
without unseemliness. My 'neglect' was but the consequence of this
conviction."
He has left carelessly here and there embedded in the text of an
everyday letter some phrase which seems like a proverb, so beautiful
and comprehensive is it. For instance, speaking of the costliness
of the Paris _salons_, he says: "The most beautiful abodes, my dear
friend, are those where the devil finds nothing to look upon." Of the
degeneracy of modern thought he speaks thus: "These noble convictions
are passing away, and every thing is subjected to the feeble equations
of reason; all things are discussed, calculated, weighed, and the
heart would appear to be a superfluity of creation, so little are its
holy inspirations followed!"
And of books and their readers he says: "We do not all read a book
alike, but each takes from it only what his individual nature is
capable of appropriating. The prejudices of divers schools of
literature, the rivalry of various political, philosophical, and
religious opinions, are all so many spectacles through which we judge
the beauties or defects of any work."
Reboul's domestic life was a calm and simple one; his mind craved
no pleasures beyond its silent circle, save those which he found in
books; and his attachment to his native city and his humble home was as
touching as it was sincere. His trade gave him enough for a modest and
assured way of life, and he coveted no more. It was a less precarious
source of gain than literature alone would have been; it supported his
family in comfort, and, above all, left his own mind at ease; and it
was only towards the end of his life that, having generously assisted
a relation in financial difficulties, he found himself in real want.
Then only, and not till then, did he accept, with touching sadness and
humility, the help his friends and his heart's sovereign, the Comte de
Chambord, had repeatedly pressed upon him in happier days. His greatest
relaxation was an hour spent with his family or a few chosen literary
friends in his _mazet_, an enclosed garden with a little dwelling
attached, in which were a sitting-room and a kitchen, but no bed-rooms.
We do not know if this is a peculiar institution of Nîmes alone or of
the whole south of France. It is constantly mentioned by Reboul, and
his letters are often dated from it--nay, his verses were sometimes
composed there. It was a luxury of his later days, not of the time when
he received Châteaubriand and Lamartine in the "windmill chamber."
Reboul suffered for ten years before his death from a constitutional
melancholy, which the distraction of several interesting journeys in
Italy, Switzerland, and Austria only temporarily relieved; his general
health gave way by degrees, and he died on the 29th of May, 1864. He
who had vowed his life to the glory of God and his church was called
away from earth on the feast of Corpus Christi, having been completely
paralyzed on the left side three days before. He recovered neither
speech nor--to all appearance--consciousness, and his death was as
peaceful as a child's. His native town celebrated his funeral with all
the pomp of civic and religious honors; the Bishop, Mgr. Plantier,
made a funeral oration over his grave, and a monument was soon raised
to his memory by his grateful and admiring fellow-citizens. More than
that, the city of Nîmes took charge of his family and assured their
future, as a fitting homage to the man whose life had been so nobly
independent, so proudly self-supporting. The Roman colony could not
bear to see Reboul's helpless relatives the pensionaries of a stranger,
and the care it extended to them was delicately offered not as a boon
but a right. People of all classes, all religions, all political
opinions united in mourning their great compatriot. We can end with
no tribute of our own more fitting than M. de Poujoulat's warm and
eloquent words: "Noble triumph of honest genius, of sublime and modest
virtue! many things will have fallen, many footsteps have been effaced,
while yet Reboul will be remembered. The only lasting glory is that in
which there is no untruth. Reboul has left like a Christian a world
and an epoch which often grieved his faith. He has gone to that heaven
which he had seen in his poetic visions, and in which his imagination
had placed so many noble types. He himself has now become a type such
as the Christian muse would fain see placed in the immortal fatherland
of the elect."
The recording angel may well have sung over his tomb these triumphant
words of the Gospel:
"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; because thou hast been
faithful in a few things, I will set thee over great things: enter thou
into the joy of thy Lord."
We have thus endeavored to present a portrait of a character not often
met with in our literature. This man of the people, and yet a royalist;
this delicately-toned poet, and yet a man of sturdy common sense,
affords a curious and interesting study. What has won our especial
admiration is his inflexible adherence to principle in all that
concerns faith and the rights of the Holy See.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] _Lettres de Jean Reboul de Nîmes, avec une Introduction par M. de
Poujoulat._ Michel Lévy Frères. Paris, 1866.
[29] Romans xi. 24.
[30] Uncultivated tracts of land bordering the sea-shore of Brittany.
[31] 1 Kings ix. 21.
[32] This name was given to the market-women who had their regular
seats around the guillotine, and _knitted_ diligently, at the same time
insulting the victims while the executioner did his bloody work.
[33] See a translation of this poem in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for July.
[34] Alluding to his own vicissitudes during the French emigration.
[35] Literally, "Exile needs even its very crumbs."
[36] Smock-frock, or working-clothes.
[37] By Monchharem, a young Persian attached to the staff of Marshal
Paskievicz.
[38] See the second article on Jerome Savonarola, CATHOLIC WORLD, July,
1873.
[39] Literally "big-drum century."
[40] More expressive in the original, _le blanc d'œuf battu_--literally
"white of eggs beaten up."
[41] Untranslatable: the meaning is, that the vigor is that of a
prize-fighter, the ruggedness not of a philosopher, but of a low
ruffian.
[42] Simpler and more forcible in the original: _le sentiment de
lui-même_--"the consciousness of himself."
MARY.
Dear honored name, beloved for human ties,
But loved and honored first that One was given
In living proof to erring mortal eyes
That our poor flesh is near akin to heaven.
Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace,
And born of our kind Advocate above;
And one by memory linked to that dear face
That blessed my childhood with its mother-love,
And taught me first the simple prayer, "To thee,
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries."
Through mist of years, those words recall to me
A childish face upturned to loving eyes.
And yet to some the name of Mary bears
No special meaning, or no gracious power;
In that dear word they seek for hidden snares,
As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower.
But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears,
The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth;
Which to the upturned, trusting face appears
Greater than angel, though of human birth.
The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night
The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow;
So unseen God still lets his promised light,
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow.
MORE ABOUT BRITTANY: ITS CUSTOMS, ITS PEOPLE, AND ITS POEMS.
All great national gatherings dating from an early period have a
religious origin. The assemblies of the Welsh, Bretons, and Gauls were
convoked by the Druids, and in the laws of Moëlmud are designated
"the privileged synods of fraternity and union which are presided
over by the bards." These, in losing their pagan character under
the influence of Christianity, nevertheless retained many of their
forms and regulations, together with the customary place and time of
meeting. True to her prudent mode of action among the peoples she was
converting, the church, instead of destroying the temples, purified
them, and, instead of overthrowing the menhir and dolmen, raised the
cross above them.
It was almost invariably at the solstices that the Christian assemblies
of the Celtic nations were accustomed to take place, as the pagan ones
had done before them, when, in the presence of immense multitudes, the
bards held their solemn sittings, and vied with each other in poetry
and song, while athletes ran, wrestled, and performed various feats
of agility and strength. In Wales, the sectaries who divided the land
amongst them have deprived these assemblies of all religious character
and association whatsoever, and the manners, language, and traditions
are all that remain unchanged. In Brittany, on the contrary, the
religious element is the dominant one, and impresses its character
not only upon the antique observances, but also upon the rustic
literature--that is to say, the poesy--with which the land abounds.
The most favorable opportunities for hearing these popular
ballads occur at weddings and agricultural festivities, such as
the gathering-in of the harvest and vintage, the _linadek_, or
flax-gathering--for it is believed that the flax would become mere
tow or oakum unless it were gathered with singing--the fairs, the
watch-nights, when, around the bed of death, the relatives and
neighbors take their turn to watch and pray, while those who are
waiting pass much of the time in singing or listening to religious
ballad-poems of interminable length, or ditties like the following,
_Kimiad ann Ene_--"The Departure of the Soul"--which chiefly consists
of a dialogue between the soul and its earthly tenement:
THE DEPARTURE OF THE SOUL.
Come listen to the song of the happy Soul's departure, at the
moment when she quits her dwelling.
She looks down a little towards the earth, and speaks to the poor
body which is lying on its bed of death.
SOUL.
"Alas, my body! Behold, the last hour is come; I must quit thee and
this world also.
"I hear the rapping of the death-watch. Thy head swims; thy lips
are cold as ice; thy visage is all changed. Alas, poor body! I
must leave thee!"
BODY.
"If my visage is changed and horrible, it is too true that you must
leave me.
"You are, then, unmindful of the past; despising your poor friend,
who is, alas! so disfigured. Likeness is the mother of love:
since you have no longer any left to me, lay me aside."
SOUL.
"No, dearest friend, I despise you not. Of all the Commandments,
you have not broken one.
"But it is the will of God (let us bless his goodness) to put
an end to my authority and your subjection. Behold us parted
asunder by pitiless death. Behold me all alone between heaven and
earth, like the little blue dove who flew from the ark to see if
the storm was over."
BODY.
"The little blue dove came back to the ark, but you will never
return to me."
SOUL.
"Nay, truly, but I will return to thee, and solemnly promise so to
do; we shall meet again at the Day of Judgment.
"As truly shall I return to thee as I now go forth to the
particular judgment, the thought of which, alas! makes me tremble.
"Have confidence, my friend. After the northwest wind there falls a
calm on the sea.
"I will come again and take thee by the hand; and wert thou heavy
as iron, when I shall have been in heaven, I will draw thee to me
like a loadstone."
BODY.
"When I shall be, dear Soul, stretched in the tomb, and destroyed
in the earth by corruption;
"When I shall have neither finger nor hand, nor foot nor arm, in
vain will you try to raise me to you."
SOUL.
"He who created the world without model or matter has power to
restore thee to thy first form.
"He who knew thee when thou wast not shall find thee where thou
wilt not be!
"As truly shall we meet again as that I now go before the terrible
tribunal, at the thought whereof I tremble,
"Feeble and frail as a leaf in the autumn wind."
* * * * *
God hears the Soul, and hastens to answer it saying, Courage, poor
Soul, thou shalt not be long in pain. Because thou hast served me
in the world, thou shalt have part in my felicities.
And the soul, always rising, casts again a glance below, and
beholds her body lying on the funeral bier.
"Farewell, my poor body, farewell! I look back yet once more, out
of my great pity for thee."
BODY.
"Cease, then, dear Soul, cease to address me with golden words.
Dust and corruption are unworthy of pity."
SOUL.
"Saving thy favor, O my body! thou art truly worthy, even as the
earthen vessel that has held sweet perfumes."
BODY.
"Adieu, then, O my life! since thus it must be. May God lead you to
the place where you desire to be.
"You will be ever awake and I sleeping in the grave. Keep me in
mind, and hasten your return.
"But tell me, why is it thus that you are so gay and glad at
leaving me, and yet I am so sad?"
SOUL.
"I have so exchanged thorns for roses, and gall for sweetest
honey."
Then, joyous as a lark, the soul mounts, mounts, mounts, ever
upwards towards heaven. When she reaches heaven, she knocks at
the gate, and humbly asks my lord S. Peter to let her enter in.
"O you, my lord S. Peter! who are so kind, will you not receive me
into the Paradise of Jesus?"
S. PETER.
"Truly thou shalt enter into the Paradise of Jesus, who, when thou
wast on earth, didst receive him into thy dwelling."
* * * * *
The soul, at the moment of entering, once more turns her head, and
sees her poor body like a little mole-hill.
"Till we meet again, my body--and thanks--till we meet again, till
we meet again in the valley of Jehosaphat.
"I hear sweet harmonies I never heard before. The day breaks, and
the shadows are fled away.
"Behold, I am like a rose-tree planted by the waters of the river
of life."
This dialogue bears a remarkable resemblance to at least three similar
compositions by S. Ephrem Syrus, Deacon of Edessa, who died A.D.
372. With the Breton poem it may not be uninteresting to compare the
following wild Northern dirge, which may be unknown to some amongst our
readers:
SCOTTISH LYKE-WAKE DIRGE.
"This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte an' alle,
Fire, an' sleet, an' candle-light,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"When thou from hence away art paste,
Every nighte an' alle,
To whinny-muir thou comest at laste,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon,
Every nighte an' alle,
Sit thee down an' put them on,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"If hosen an' shoon thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte an' alle,
The whinnes shal prick thee to the bare bane,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"From whinny-muir when thou mayest passe,
Every night an' alle,
To Brig o' Dread[43] thou comest at laste,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"If ever thou gavest meate or drinke,
Every nighte an' alle,
The fire shall never make thee shrinke,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest passe,
Every night an' alle,
To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"If meat or drink thou never gavest nane,
Every nighte an' alle,
The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,
An' Christe receive thy saule.
"This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte an' alle,
Fire, an' sleet, an' candle-light,
An' Christe receive thy saule."
Not in Brittany alone, but also in most of the country parts of France,
the villagers have a custom during the winter of assembling in each
other's cottages--or in a barn, if no other room of convenient size
should offer--for the _fileries du soir_, when, by the light of a
single candle, or the blazing logs upon the hearth, round which all sit
in a circle, the women sew or spin, while some of the company take it
in turn to sing or tell stories, or occasionally to read aloud for the
amusement or instruction of the rest. Besides singing ballads which are
already known, it not unfrequently happens that the villagers compose
a new one amongst themselves during one of these _veillées_. Some one
arrives, it may be a pilgrim, a beggar, or a neighbor, and relates
something which has just happened; while the hearers are talking
it over, probably another person comes in, bringing fresh details;
interest becomes more and more excited, and all at once there is a
general cry, "Let us make a song about it." The poet most in renown
amongst the company is called upon to make a beginning, to which he
accedes, after the customary amount of entreaty has been gone through.
He improvises a strophe, which every one repeats after him; a neighbor
continues the song, which is again repeated by all; a third adds his
share, and so on, every new verse being taken up by all present, and
repeated with the rest; and thus a new ballad, the composition of all,
repeated and learned by all, flies on the following day from parish to
parish, on the wings of its _refrain_, from _veillée_ to _veillée_,
and speedily finds its place among the poetry of the land. Most of the
Breton ballads are composed thus by collaboration, and this manner of
producing them has its name in the language; it is called _diskan_
(repetition), and the singers are _diskanerien_.
But it is especially at the _Pardons_, or feasts of the patron saints,
that are to be heard in their greatest perfection historical ballads,
love-ditties, and songs on sacred subjects; and we turn again to the
interesting pages of M. de Villemarqué, from which we have already
drawn so largely, for a description of these festive occasions.
Every great _Pardon_ lasts at least three days. On the eve, all the
bells are set ringing, and the people busy themselves in decorating
the church. The altars are adorned with garlands and vases of flowers,
the statues of the saints clothed in the national costume, the patron
or patroness being distinguished by the habiliments of a bridegroom
or a bride. The former has a large bouquet, tied with long and
bright-colored ribbons; the white head-dress of the latter glitters
with a hundred little mirrors. As the day declines, the church is
swept and the dust scattered to the winds, that it may be favorable
to those who are coming to the morrow's festival. After this, every
one places in the nave the offering he has brought the patron saint.
These offerings generally consist of sacks of corn, bundles of flax,
soft white fleeces, cakes of wax, or other agricultural productions,
just as in the days of Gregory of Tours, who mentions the "multitudo
rusticorum, ... exhibens lanas, vellera, formas ceræ, etc."[44]
Dancing then begins, to the sound of the national _biniou_, the
bombardo, and tambourine, in front of the church, or by the fountain
of the patron saint, or it may be near some ancient dolmen, which
serves as a seat for the fiddlers: it is even stated that not more than
a century ago dancing took place in the church itself--a profanity
which the clergy invariably set themselves against, the bishops
excommunicating obstinate offenders.
In some places, bonfires are lighted at night upon the eminence on
which the church is built, and on the neighboring hills. As soon as the
flame leaps up the pyramid of dry leaves and broom, the crowd walks in
procession twelve times round it, reciting prayers or singing. The old
men surround it with a circle of stones, and place a cauldron in the
centre, in which, in ancient times, meat was cooked for the priests,
but in the present day it is filled with water, into which children
throw pieces of metal, while a circle of beggars, kneeling around it
bare-headed, and leaning on their sticks, sing in chorus the legends
of the patron saint. It was exactly thus that the old bards sang hymns
in honor of their divinities, by the light of the moon, and round the
magic basin encircled with stones, in which was prepared the "repast of
the brave."
On the following morning, at break of day, arrive from Léon, Tréguier,
Göelo, Cornouailles, Vannes, and all parts of Basse Bretagne, bands
of pilgrims, singing as they proceed on their way. As soon as they
descry from afar the church-spire, they take off their large hats,
and kneel down, making the sign of the cross. The sea is covered with
a thousand little barks, from whence the wind brings the sound of
hymns, whose solemn cadence keeps time with the stroke of the oars.
Whole cantons arrive, with the banners of their respective parishes,
and led by their rectors. As they approach their destination, the
clergy of the _Pardon_ advance to receive them, and, at the moment of
their meeting, the crosses, banners, and images of the saints are bent
towards each other by way of mutual salutation, as the two processions
form themselves into one, while the church-bells make the air resound
with their joyous clamor. When Vespers are ended, the procession comes
forth, the pilgrims arranging themselves according to their different
dialects. The peasants of Léon may be recognized by their green, brown,
or black habiliments, and bare, muscular limbs; the Trégorrois, whose
gray garb has about it nothing particularly original, are remarkable
among the rest for their full and melodious voices; the Cornouaillais
for the costliness and elegance of their richly embroidered blue or
violet coats, their puffed-out pantaloons and floating hair; while
the men of Vannes, on the contrary, are distinguishable by the sombre
color of their apparel. The cold, calm aspect of their countenances and
bearing would scarcely lead one to suspect the determination of this
energetic race, of whom neither Cæsar nor the Republican armies could
break the will, and whom Napoleon designated as "frames of iron, hearts
of steel."
As the procession pours forth from the church, nothing can be more
curious than to observe these close ranks of peasants, in costumes
so varied and at times so strange, with their heads uncovered, their
eyes cast down, and the rosary in their hands; nor anything more
touching than the hands of weather-beaten mariners in their blue shirts
and barefoot, who are come to pay the vow that has saved them from
shipwreck and death, bearing on their shoulders the fragments of their
shattered vessel; nothing more impressive than the sight of this
countless multitude, preceded by the cross, traversing the sandy or
rock-scattered beach, while the sound of its litanies mingles with the
murmurs of the ocean.
Certain parishes, before entering the church, halt first at the
cemetery. There, among the graves of their forefathers, the most
venerable peasant with the lord of the canton, and the most exemplary
village-maiden with one of the young ladies of the manor, stand on the
topmost step of the churchyard cross, and, with their hands placed on
the Holy Gospel, solemnly renew their baptismal vows in their own names
and on behalf of the prostrate multitude.
The pilgrims pass the night in tents erected on the plain, and do not
retire to repose until a late hour, remaining to listen to the long
narrative poems on sacred subjects which the popular bards wander
singing from tent to tent.
This first day is wholly consecrated to religion, but secular pleasures
awake with the sound of the hautboy on the following morn.
The lists are opened at noon. The tree of the prizes, laden with its
strange variety of fruits, rises in the centre, while at its foot lows
the chief prize of all--the heifer--with its horns gaily decked with
ribbons. Numberless competitors present themselves. Trials of strength
or skill, wrestling, racing, and dancing, continue without intermission
until the evening is far advanced.
The first two nights of the _Pardon_ are devoted to wandering singers
of every description, such as the millers, the tailors, the ragmen,
beggars, and _barz_; but the last is exclusively the right of the
_kloer_ or _kler_, of whom, as well as of the first-named personages,
we will mention a few particulars. The chief difference between the
miller and the other popular minstrels is that he returns every evening
to his mill; but, like them, he makes the round of the country, passing
through the cities, towns, and villages, entering the farm-house and
the manor, going to fairs and markets, and hearing news, which he
puts into rhyme as he goes on his way; and his songs, repeated by the
beggars, who are rarely the composers of ballads themselves, soon find
their way from one end of Brittany to the other.
The tailor's special characteristic is caustic wit and raillery. "His
ear is long," says the Breton proverb, "his eye open day and night,
and his tongue as sharp as his needle." Nothing escapes him. He makes
a song upon everybody without distinction, saying in verse that which,
he would not dare to say in prose, and yet often so disguising his
satire that it is keenest where at first sight least evident. All the
value of his songs depends upon their actuality. He is learned in
all the gossip of the place, and if perchance on his homeward way he
lights upon a couple of lovers, happy in the seclusion of a wood, they
find themselves next day the subjects of his malicious muse, and their
mutual appreciation proclaimed to all the neighborhood. Of the miller
and the ragman much the same may be said; and yet it is but just to add
that, with all the pleasure they find in laughing at their neighbor,
they are never guilty of calumny against him.
The _barz_ occupies a higher place in the order of singers than
any other, the _kloer_ only excepted. He represents the wandering
minstrels, shades of the primitive bards, who were reproved by
Taliessin for their degeneracy even in his day, and for living without
regular occupation or fixed dwelling-place, serving as echoes of
popular gossip, and spending their days in wandering from one assembly
to another. The self-same reproaches one hears at this present day,
addressed to the same class of people by the Breton priests.
And yet some few rays of their former glory linger around the race.
Like their ancestors, they celebrate noble and worthy deeds, dispensing
praise or blame impartially to small and great. Those of the ancient
bards who were blind made use of a sort of tally-stick, of which the
arrangement of the notches served to fix certain songs in their memory.
This species of mnemonics, which is known in Wales as _Coelbren y
Beirdd_--the Alphabet of the Bards--is still in use among the _barz_ of
Brittany. They also invariably observe the old bardic law which forbade
them to enter any house without previously asking permission by singing
the customary salutation at the door: "God's blessing be upon you,
people of this house: God's blessing be upon you, small and great!"
and never entering unless they receive the answer: "God's blessing be
also upon you, wayfarer, whoever you may be." If they do not hear this
speedily, they pass on their way.
Like the ancient Cambrian bards, they are, by virtue of their
profession, a necessity at every popular festival. They betroth the
future husband and wife, according to antique and unvarying rites,
previous to the performance of the religious ceremony; they enjoy great
liberty of speech, and exercise a certain amount of moral authority
over the minds of the people; they are loved, sought for, and honored
almost as much as were their bardic ancestors, though moving in a less
elevated sphere.
The name of _kloer_ (_kloarek_ in the singular) is given to the youths
who are studying with a prospect of entering the ecclesiastical state.
They are identical with the Welsh _kler_, or school-clerk, and in the
time of Taliessin occupied, as they still occupy, the place of bards,
forming a class by themselves of scholar-poets.
The Breton _kloer_ generally belong to the peasantry or to the
trades-people of the country towns. The ancient episcopal sees of
Tréguier and Léon, Quimper and Vannes, attract them in the largest
numbers. They arrive there in bands from the depths of the country, in
the national costume, with their long hair, and their rustic simplicity
and language; most of them being from about eighteen to twenty years
old. They live together in the faubourgs; the same garret serves for
bed-room, kitchen, dining-room, and study. This is a far different
existence from that which they led among the woods and fields, and
it is not long before a complete change has come over them. With the
lessening of muscular strength, their intellect and imagination develop
themselves. The summer vacation takes them back to their village homes
at the season in which, says a Breton poet, "young hearts expand with
the flowers," and when temptations abound; thus it not unseldom happens
that the _kloarek_ returns to his studies with the thorn of a first
love in his heart. Then there arises a tempest in his soul--a struggle
between the love of the creature and the Creator. Sometimes the former
is the stronger; isolation, homesickness, leisure, contribute to
develop a sentiment of which the germ only exists. A remembrance, a
word, a melody, or the sound of some wild instrument which breaks on
his ear and recalls his home, makes it suddenly burst forth. Then he
throws his class-books into the fire, renounces the ecclesiastical
state, and returns to his native village.
But it is far oftener that the higher devotion wins the day. In either
case, however, the scholar-poet must, according to his own expression,
"comfort his heart" by making his confidences to the muse.
By an instinct natural to all but truly popular poets, the _kloer_
never write their compositions. They are wise in this. "The memory of
hearing," as it was called by the ancient bards, is much more tenacious
than the "memory of letters." To write and print their songs would be
to give up having them learnt by heart, and repeated by generation
after generation.
Once become priests, the _kloer_ burn that which they have worshipped;
thus Gildas declaims against the bards, forgetting, in his monk's
habit, that in his youth he had made one of their number. As _kloer_,
these scholar-poets disdain the songs of the wandering minstrels; as
priests, they equally disdain the lays of the _kloer_. And yet, as
priests, they do not cease to sing; but that which lingered on the
earth now finds its wings and takes a heavenward flight, and the sacred
songs and canticles which express the warm devotion of their hearts
imprint themselves on the memory of the people, and are, like prayers,
transmitted from age to age. It is thus impossible to know the date of
their compositions, except by knowing the exact period at which their
authors lived.
With regard to the religious events which are the theme of the
_legends_, it is different. These compositions belong to the domain of
historical songs and ballads, and owe their popularity to their being
the expression of traditions already widely known among the people.
We close our notice with the translation of a little poem by a young
_kloarek_ of Léon. It is his farewell to earthly love--a farewell which
is apparently made more easy by outward accidentals than can always be
the case under similar circumstances. It is entitled
ANN DROUK-RANS; OR, THE RUPTURE.
Ah! knew I how to read and write as I know how to rhyme,
A song all new I would indite, and in the shortest time!
Behold my little friend, who comes! towards our house comes she,
And, if the chance befals, she'll may-be speak awhile with me.
"Sweet little friend, but you are changed since last I saw your face;
'Twas in the month of June, when you the _pardon_ went to grace."
"And if, young man, so changed I am, what wonder can there be?
When, since the _pardon_ of the Folgoät, death has stood by me;
For 'twas a raging fever that has made the change you see."
"Sweet friend, come with me to the garden; there a little rose
First opened out its dewy bud when Thursday morning rose.
Upon her stalk, so fair and gay, her new-born beauty shone;
The morrow came--her beauty and her freshness all were gone.
"Sweet friend, the door of your young heart I bade you well to close,
That naught might enter to disturb that garden's still repose;
But, ah! you did not listen, and you left ajar the door,
And now the flower is withered up that showed so fair before.
"For fairer things than love and youth this world has not to give,
But in this world nor love nor youth have oft-times long to live;
Our love was like a summer cloud that melts into the sky,
And passing as a breath of wind that dies with scarce a sigh."
FOOTNOTES:
[43] In some versions, "To _Razar Brig_ thou comest at laste."
[44] "Multitude of peasants, ... exhibiting wool, fleeces, forms of
wax, etc."
A VISIT TO THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE.
It was a glorious September morning; the freshness of the night was
still perceptible, although the rays of the sun were filling the air
with a genial warmth, when, issuing from the fortified gates of the
beautifully situated town of Grenoble, I turned my steps towards the
celebrated monastery of the Grande Chartreuse.
I made an early start, as the road before me was long, consisting of
an uninterrupted series of steep ascents, with the exception of the
first few miles that lay along the banks of the Isère. This level and
comparatively uninteresting country is soon passed, and the traveller,
quitting the high-road at the village of Voreppe, strikes into the
mountains. On reaching the brow of the hill that rises above that
village, a most beautiful panorama presents itself to the view. The
fertile and far-famed valley of Grêsivaudan spreads far away to the
left and right, shut in on either side by rocky mountains, capped by
dark pine forests. The snowy crests of the Alps are conspicuous, while,
through the centre of the valley, the Isère, in its sinuous course,
gleams in the sun like a silver thread, contrasting with the dark,
luxuriant green of the hemp and the gay autumnal tints of the vine.
Commanding a like enchanting view, and nestled in the hills a few miles
from Voreppe, is the Convent of Chalais. Founded as a Benedictine abbey
in the XIth century, it became later on a dependence of the Grande
Chartreuse. At the Revolution, it was sold as national property, but it
was destined once again to revert to its pious use; for in 1844 it was
bought by the Père Lacordaire for the sons of S. Dominic, whose order
he had just restored in France. Often in after-years did he seek there,
in the presence of nature's loveliest aspects, some slight repose for
his overworked body and ardently active mind.
The road from Voreppe to St. Laurent du Pont appeared to me exceedingly
dreary and monotonous, more so, perhaps, than it really was, from the
contrast its bare and rugged hills presented to the luxuriant and
richly varied scene on which I had just been gazing. So pleasant,
however, were the anticipations that filled my mind that the distance
was accomplished in a very short time; and a few minutes sufficed for
refreshment at St. Laurent.
The village is poor; its church, which is a new building, was built,
like most of those in the neighborhood, by the charity of the monks
of the Chartreuse; indeed, the village itself has been several times
rebuilt by their generosity, having frequently, owing to the quantity
of wood used in the construction of its houses, been burnt almost to
the ground.
The most beautiful part of the whole journey is now at hand. Within
a mile of St. Laurent is the entrance to the famous gorge that bears
the name of Desert of S. Bruno. My expectations were raised to the
highest pitch; for I had always heard that the scenery of this gorge
would alone repay the traveller his journey thither, even if the
monastery and its surroundings were entirely devoid of interest. I was
not, however, free from misgivings; for how often does that which in
itself is really beautiful disappoint us when compared to the bright
visions that had charmed our imagination! Such at least was the lesson
experience had taught _me_; but to-day I was to learn something new,
for the reality far surpassed my most sanguine expectations. Never
shall I forget the majestic grandeur of the scenery that continued to
unfold itself to my view at every turn of the road until I reached
the monastery. The most striking scene of the whole journey, and the
one to which the memory loves best to revert, is without doubt the
entrance to the Desert de S. Bruno; here both nature and man seem to
have combined to render the features of the landscape picturesque and
sublime. The mind is totally unprepared for what is coming. During the
first mile after leaving the village, the road has been pleasantly
winding along the banks of the Guiers Mort, among wooded hills, and
through rich mountain pastures--nature in its softer rather than in its
grander aspects--and it is at a sudden turn of the road, at a point
where the valley seems shut in on all sides, that the entrance to the
gorge bursts upon the sight, seemingly as if the rocks had been rent
in two to form a passage just sufficient to admit the foaming torrent,
while the road is carried along the face of the mountain, now rising
perpendicularly from the water's edge to an immense height. A ruined
archway, on which is still visible the arms of the Carthusian order,
here marks the limits of the former domain of the monastery, and,
with the bold, single-arched bridge which carries the road across the
stream, and the rustic iron forge that crouches under the opposite
rocks, adds a picturesque beauty to the grandeur of the spot.
Until you reach the convent--that is to say, for about eight
miles--the beauty of the scenery never for a moment diminishes; the
road, which shows great engineering skill, follows the course of the
torrent, which it crosses several times. At each turn the view varies;
sometimes distant glimpses of the snowy peaks of the Alps are obtained;
at other times you are so completely shut in by the mountains that
nothing is visible save the magnificent forests that cover their sides.
The size of some of the pines in these forests is very remarkable; one
could almost imagine that they dated back as far as S. Bruno. I could
not refrain from thinking, as I gazed on them, what scenes they must
have witnessed, and what strange tales they could unfold were they able
to speak; of how many could they tell who passed along that road after
bidding the world an eternal farewell--men who had seen life in all its
gayest moods, and, having tasted its unsatisfying honors and delights,
sought peace and happiness in repentance and self-denial; youths who
wore still unsullied their baptismal robes, and fled hither to preserve
that innocence that fears even the contact of a sinful world. They
could tell how the great S. Hugh had returned sorrowfully along that
road from the calm home of his dear Chartreuse, to accept, for God's
greater glory, the far distant see of Lincoln, and the dreary task of
struggling against an unprincipled king and a corrupt court; they could
tell of many others who, like him, had humbly trod that path, thinking
to hide themselves from dignities and honors, but had been recalled
by the all-penetrating wisdom of the church to wear the mitre or the
purple.
About midway between St. Laurent and the monastery there rises by the
side of the road a most singular pinnacle-shaped rock, ascending
perpendicularly to a considerable height, and called the Pic de
L'Œillette. In connection with this rock an amusing story is told of
an Englishman, who, having heard that no one had ever reached its
summit, determined to secure that honor for his country. Accordingly,
he commenced the task with a thorough good-will, and, after much
labor, succeeded in accomplishing it to his satisfaction. As soon
as his enthusiasm, which showed itself in the form of three genuine
British cheers, had in some measure subsided, he began to think of
descending; to his dismay, he discovered that to descend would be more
than difficult--indeed, to all appearance, impossible; and it was not
until he had passed several hours in his very uncomfortable position,
meditating, let us hope, on the vanity of human greatness, that he was
able to let himself down in most inglorious fashion by the aid of ropes
brought to him by some peasants.
Owing to the height of the surrounding mountains and narrowness of
the gorge, no distant views of the monastery are obtained; and the
traveller comes very suddenly on the imposing pile, which, from
its extent, resembles a small village. Without being remarkable in
architecture, it is decidedly picturesque; the high pitch of the roofs,
rendered necessary by the heavy falls of snow which occur during seven
months of the year, and its six belfries rising to various heights,
give it a striking and quaint appearance.
Before entering its solemn portals, a few words on the origin and
history of the monastery may not be out of place. S. Bruno, after
quitting the world, selected this spot, at the invitation of S. Hugh,
the holy Bishop of Grenoble, as a suitable place where, in imitation of
the fathers of the desert, he, with six disciples, might lead a life
of solitude and prayer. At first each recluse built himself a separate
cell; but in time, as their number increased, the rude huts grew into
a large and regular monastery. The site of this early settlement,
now marked by the Chapel of S. Bruno and Notre Dame de Cassalibus,
was higher than that of the present structure, which was chosen some
thirty years after the death of the holy founder, when the original
buildings were destroyed by an avalanche. During its long existence,
many have been the vicissitudes the convent has experienced; frequently
burnt almost to the ground, pillaged by ruthless nobles or fanatical
heretics, it has always risen again from its ruins; and in riches or in
poverty, in prosperity or in adversity, its inhabitants have given the
same noble example of austere virtue, unbounded charity, and generous
hospitality.
The Revolution of 1789 found the Carthusian order at the height of its
prosperity; in France alone it counted no less than seventy houses,
with immense possessions in lands and revenues. These, of course, were
seized by revolutionary greed, and the poor monks driven forth into
the world, even from the uninviting solitudes of S. Bruno's desert.
With 1815 came the restoration of religion in France, and the return of
the scattered members of the religious orders. The Grande Chartreuse
once more afforded shelter to the children of S. Bruno, but bereft
of all its lands and forests, which had been either expropriated by
the state or sold as national property. In July, 1816, possession was
taken in the name of the order by Dom Moissonnier, superior-general. A
happy day it was for the inhabitants of the surrounding country, who
had not forgotten the kind and generous friends of whom they had been
deprived for twenty-four years; and the welcome they gave the returning
fathers proves that then, as to-day, the cry against religious orders
proceeded, not from the people, but from that class, more noisy than
numerous, whose sole aim is the destruction of Christianity and the
gratification of their own evil passions.
The part of the building reserved for the reception of strangers forms
one side of the spacious courtyard, into which you enter through the
principal gateway; it contains four large dining-halls and a great
number of bed-rooms, often, however, insufficient for the visitors who
in the summer crowd to view this lovely spot, and to see something of
that wondrous, and in our days unfamiliar, institution--monastic life.
During one's stay at the monastery, which, unless by special
permission, is limited to three days, one must be content with
Carthusian fare--a curious mixture of vegetable soups, omelettes,
carp--of which there seems to be a never-failing supply--and wild
fruits from the mountains. Meat is never allowed within the precincts
of the convent; not even in case of serious illness is the rule relaxed
for the monks.
The long walk and the invigorating purity of the mountain air had
sharpened my appetite, and I did ample justice to the viands placed
before me, meagre in quality certainly, but not in quantity, finishing
with a glass of the famous _liqueur_. I contented myself with a short
stroll after dinner, as at so high an altitude the air is cool after
sunset; indeed, few are the evenings here, even at midsummer, that
people are not glad to assemble for a short time around the glowing
logs before retiring to rest.
At midnight, the great bell tolls forth for matins, at which the
visitor is permitted to assist in a small gallery looking into the
church. A solitary lamp lights but dimly the large and naturally sombre
interior. It is an impressive sight to behold in that solemn gloom
the white-robed monks entering one by one, and, after prostrating
themselves before the altar, noiselessly take their places in the
choir. The office lasts until two in the morning. The chant is low and
monotonous, unaccompanied by any musical instrument.
Every morning at ten, a father whose special duty it is to entertain
visitors shows you over the monastery, explaining everything with the
most genial courtesy, answering with perfect affability the oftentimes
foolish and ignorant questions that are addressed to him. The visit
lasts about an hour and a half.
The chapel is spacious and lofty but exceedingly plain, and contains
nothing to interest the antiquarian. The largest room in the building
is the chapter-hall, which is finely proportioned, and is decorated
with portraits of the first fifty generals of the order, and copies of
the celebrated paintings by Lesueur representing the life of S. Bruno.
By far the most interesting part of the whole convent is the cloister,
in shape a very long parallelogram, the two side galleries being 721
feet in length; into them open the cells of the monks. In the centre of
the cloister is their burial-ground; and thus their abode in life is
separated by but a few steps from their final resting-place. The graves
of the generals of the order are alone marked by stone crosses; all
others lie beneath the greensward unmarked, unnamed. The cells are now
but rarely shown. They are all alike, consisting of two rooms one above
the other; each has a small garden. Food is passed to the inmates
through a wicket opening into the corridor of the cloister; for it is
only on Sundays and certain feast-days that the monks dine in common in
the refectory; even then the strictest silence is observed.
The library is not extensive; the most valuable books and manuscripts
were given, at the Revolution, to different public libraries. The
_liqueur_ for which the Grande Chartreuse is so renowned, and which now
forms the principal source of income for the convent, is manufactured
in a house quite apart from the main buildings. The process is, of
course, not shown to visitors, for the recipe used--aromatic herbs of
various kinds--is kept a secret; and hitherto all attempts to imitate
this _liqueur_ have been failures. The manufacture occupies a large
staff of lay brothers. The fathers take no part in it; their lives are
purely contemplative. It takes fully two days to explore the environs,
and more time may profitably be spent in doing so should the tourist
happen to be either an artist or a botanist. The former will find
numberless points of view worthy to adorn his album, while the latter
will revel in the luxuriance of the wondrous flora which clothes the
neighboring hills. The lover of mountain-climbing will find a pleasant
and easy day's work in the ascent of the Grand Som, and on a fine day
will be amply repaid by the extensive prospect the summit commands.
The less enterprising will probably be satisfied with the many pleasant
walks through the woods and sloping pastures that surround the
monastery, of which varied and striking views may be obtained at every
turn.
It was not without a feeling of sincere regret that, on the last
evening of my stay, I ascended one of those slopes to take a farewell
view of the venerable pile. The last rays of the setting sun lit up the
high-pitched roofs and cross-topped belfries; a solemn silence reigned
in cloister and courtyard, in chapel and cell. It was a scene on which
one could gaze with unmixed pleasure, awakening as it did in the mind
feelings so calm and peaceful--a scene so full of all that spoke of
future hopes, so empty of all that recalled the fleeting joys of the
present!
But the sun had sunk behind the horizon, and the shades of evening,
fast closing around, warned me that it was time to cease my musings,
and seek, for the last time, the shelter of the hospitable convent-roof.
Early next morning, I was back again to the noisy world, with its
crowded streets, bustling hotels, and busy railways; but I shall
ever bear in my memory the pleasant recollections of that wonderful
combination of the austere charms of monastic life with the most varied
beauties of nature, which I have endeavored to describe in these few
pages on La Grande Chartreuse.
TO NATURE.
Nature, to me thy face has ever been
Familiar as a mother's; yet it grows
But younger with the wearing years, and shows
Fresher--unlike all others I have seen.
The "beings of the mind," though "not of clay"--
"Essentially immortal,"[45] and "a joy
For ever"[46]--even these may pall and cloy,
For all that poets gloriously say.
Yea, and thy own charms, Nature, when portrayed
By hand of man, become the spoil of time.
The seasons mar, not change, them: in sublime
Repose they reign--but evermore to fade.
Whence comes, then, thy perennial youth renewed?
Thy freshness as of everlasting morn?
God's breath is on thee. Of it thou wast born,
And with its fragrance is thy life bedewed.
Nor can I need aught sterner than thy face
To wean me from the things that pass away.
_Not_ by autumnal lesson of decay,
Or vernal hymn of renovating grace,
But by this fragrance of the Infinite;
For here my soul catches her native air,
And tastes the ever fresh, the ever fair,
That wait her in the Gardens of Delight.
LAKE GEORGE, August, 1873.
FOOTNOTES:
[45]
"The beings of the mind are not of clay:
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brighter ray
And more belov'd existence."
--_Byron._
[46]
"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."
--_Keats._
PARIS HOSPITALS
FROM THE FRENCH OF M. L'ABBE O. DELARC.
Hospitals convey two very different impressions. If gone over on
the day specified for public admittance, everything will be found
in perfect order, every article used, every place, will shine with
cleanliness; the patients will be seen lying under white coverlets
behind the folds of neatly drawn curtains, and the men in attendance
will be attired in their best uniforms. Every repulsive object has
been put out of sight. But should the visitor command sufficient
influence to obtain admission when he is not expected, when no
preparations have been made for the public, he will acquire a more
correct idea of human infirmity. The atmosphere is thick and heavy,
the flickering night-lamp scarcely sheds its pale light around. Here
lies one whose groans disturb his fellow-sufferers; there shrieks the
victim of fever, endeavoring in his delirium to tear away from the
_infirmier_ who is holding him down; further on, half-closed curtains
insufficiently conceal the mortal remains of such or such a "Number,"
who expired a few hours ago. Other details, too harrowing to retrace,
shall be omitted, but their fearful reality may not be lost sight of
in a faithful account of what scenes do occur in a hospital. A heavy
coffin is from time to time viewed at the foot of one of the beds. It
awaits the corpse of the sufferer, with whom his nearest survivor may
have exchanged converse on the preceding day. These, in short, are
some of the sights witnessed without the delusive cover of science or
preparations for a public exhibition.
The aversion of the poor for benevolent institutions of this kind is
hereby explained, although incessant efforts are being made in France
to improve the condition of hospitals in a material point of view;
and all the objections now made are to be attributed to mismanagement
in the past rather than to shortcomings in the present. In spite of
progress, nevertheless, the word "hospice" and the thing itself have
retained a signification which is replete with mournful forebodings. On
the other hand, repugnance for hospitals is perfectly legitimate when
grounded on serious motives, and especially when inspired by a feeling
of family love. That man would be worthless indeed who could abandon
his relatives to public charity without experiencing some kind of
sorrow at being unable to keep them, through a trying illness, in his
own home. Examples of moral desertions are nevertheless too frequent
in Paris. Physicians are well acquainted with those sham patients who
prefer hospital bread to any other, because they have not to earn it.
There are, however, certain adversities here below which defy all human
foresight, which destroy old-established positions, and render the
efforts of a whole laborious lifetime unprofitable. A large portion
of some lives is spent in contending with unforeseen, unsuspected
vicissitudes. Many may therefore die in a hospital who deserved better;
but, as a general rule, this end is brought on by a long course of
dissipation, and by oblivion of the most sacred duties. A hospital is
not unfrequently the last _stage_ on which retribution is played out.
When families are averse to trust their sick to public charity for
reasons given above, it is wise not to argue with natural pride,
founded, after all, on a praiseworthy motive; yet all who are anxious
to relieve the suffering members of Jesus Christ are none the less
bound to improve the present condition of hospitals, as far as they
have it in their power so to do.
The following pages are published for the purpose of showing how much
there is to be done. Not all the good-will nor all the experiments
tried by physicians, managers, and almoners for the alleviation of
bitter suffering, will ever be superfluous. Objections ever will be
made to hospital treatment that cannot be remedied; and, do what we
may, the most active Christian charity will never replace the tender
care of a mother, daughter, or sister.
After a careful examination of the question, the first lesson acquired
is that home relief is the best solution to the problem of misery and
illness in needy families; it encourages the lower classes, besides, to
perform their domestic duties.
In one case out of ten, it is highly prejudicial to remove a patient
from his surroundings; moreover, it loosens the family tie, and in
Paris especially, where these bonds are so slight and so incessantly
undermined by false theories, it is a more damaging course than
elsewhere.
Statistics are very justly resorted to for the solution of many of our
problems, but their conclusions cannot be blindly adopted in medical
cases; physicians themselves often warn us against glancing them over
without investigation. Figures do, however, undeniably prove that
mortality in hospitals is much larger than in private dwellings. A
considerable number of patients, to whom fresh air is a boon, cannot
breathe a vitiated atmosphere with impunity. Crowding is particularly
prejudicial to the wounded and in lying-in hospitals. "In 1861," says
Dr. Brochin, in his _Encyclopædia of Medical Sciences_, "the proportion
of patients cured by home relief was 49 to 100, while the proportion
of deaths in private dwellings was 9 to 100. During this same period,
deaths in the hospitals were 13 to 100. The average space of time
required for the treatment of each patient in his own home is from 14
to 39 days; in the hospitals, from 25 to 83. The average cost of a
patient per day is 1 fr. 19 c.; the entire treatment of each, 16 frs.
90 c.; whereas, in the hospitals, a patient costs 2 frs. 25 c. per day,
and 61 frs. 45 c. for an entire cure. These figures plead in favor of
home relief."
A great deal has been said in these latter times of those immense
edifices pompously called "Model Hospitals." There is Lariboisière,
for instance, and the new Hôtel Dieu. It would have been wiser had the
government spent less in one instance, and been more lavish in another;
for, while these magnificent buildings were being erected, palaces were
also in course of construction all over the capital, and the laboring
classes, thus driven from their workshops, were compelled to seek
lodgings up in attics or in out-of-the-way localities. If some trouble
had been taken to cleanse and widen the poor man's tenement, or had
something been done towards putting him in the way of getting food at
little cost, we should boast fewer façades, fewer sumptuous edifices,
but the work would be more meritorious.
Physicians have energetically opposed the idea of accumulating so large
a number of patients in the Hôtel Dieu as it was originally intended
it should contain. Let us trust the observations of experienced men
will be taken into consideration, and that the number of beds will be
diminished before final arrangements are completed.
HOSPITAL BEDS.
Our beds are too close; and another thing which strikes a foreigner
on visiting our hospitals is that the divisions which are supposed
to seclude one patient from his neighbor, are perfectly useless for
that purpose. In many cases, they are done away with altogether. The
proximity of beds varies, however, according to the different asylums.
Some of the buildings were not intended for hospitals, and their
managers have had to turn rooms into wards in the best way they could,
in spite of defective architecture. It is difficult to specify the
exact distance kept between the beds; but an idea can be conveyed when
I state that any patient, by stretching his arm out, without any great
exertion could easily touch his neighbor's hand.
In many hospitals, the beds have been coupled by two and two, so that,
if two patients are thus closer to each other on one side, the distance
is larger from other patients on the opposite side.
There is, however, always space enough left for a night-table between
every two beds. In most hospitals, beds are hung round with white
calico curtains; but in some asylums they are omitted, and in these
there is literally nothing to hide patients from view. Such a system
of total exposure is perfectly inhuman. I should say it originates in
a spirit of _medical socialism_; for it compels sufferers to exhibit
their wounds to each other during the doctor's visit. Some men and all
women cannot endure this ordeal without a struggle. Why not sympathize
with that which can be alleviated, if not entirely cured? What would
be our feelings if, when brought low by fever and diet, we had to lie
near a man who is breathing his last, and to remain in full view of
his corpse for long hours after he had expired? But, as before said,
the larger number of hospital beds are hung round with curtains,
maintained in opposition to our Paris doctors, who have repeatedly
protested against them, insisting that all hangings draw unwholesome
miasms, and are therefore receptacles of contagion. This objection is
not unfounded; eminent practitioners experience great uneasiness on the
subject, and the curtain difficulty has often been debated by managers
of sanitary institutions.
Endeavors have been made to obviate the evil by a renewal of hangings
every six months; in spite of the great expense, the difficulty exists.
It is next to impossible to ventilate a ward encumbered to excess
with beds and hangings; and, if the principals of hospitals do still
advocate curtains, it is because they are actuated by motives of a
_moral_ order. In M. Husson's _Study of Hospitals_ we find: "These
calico divisions are a great comfort to female patients; it is a great
relief to them to be able to conceal their diseases from the public
gaze, and thus to isolate themselves from surrounding wretchedness.
This feeling of modesty, or shyness in other cases, will long resist
the most eloquent exhortations of our doctors on general salubrity."
Our present hospital regulations do not carry out the purpose for which
curtains are intended. It is usual to draw them all back at eight A.M.,
and they are left open until the doctor's visit is over and the wards
have been swept. This lasts till about mid-day. The consequence of
this arrangement is that, during the most delicate operations, such as
the dressing of wounds, the doctor's examination, and the change of a
patient's linen, there is no sort of privacy around the sufferer, no
more consideration shown for women and young girls than for others.
In the day-time, another regulation prevails. Inspectors forbid
concealment behind the curtains on account of the difficulty they would
experience on surveying proceedings in the wards. For these reasons,
the curtains are elegantly looped aside, and contribute more to the
decoration of the beds than to use.
Every ward contains two rows of beds, placed along the lateral walls in
such wise that the patient's head is near the wall, and his feet turn
towards the centre of the ward. Why could not a low partition, covered
over with stucco, be raised between each bed? This separation need not
exceed 1 metre 50 centimetres in height, nor 1 metre 50 centimetres
in width. It would part the beds, and not obstruct ventilation in the
upper regions or down the central passage. If the ward were lighted by
a sufficient number of windows to allow of one being opened in each
of these "cells," the circulation of so much fresh air would greatly
benefit the sick.
The front of each cell being open, surveyors would find their task
rendered easy, neither would their inspection be hindered by a small
iron rod being affixed to the outer side of each partition, on which
two light curtains might be drawn in case of a death, or when it were
absolutely necessary that a patient should enjoy privacy. The slight
screens would not entail the same inconvenience as those which are in
use at present, as they are mounted on a very complicated plan all
around the beds. Whenever a decease occurs, the stucco coating of the
low divisions should be washed with a sponge. It is well known that
stucco is not a receptacle for contagion in the same degree as drapery.
Such is the kind of cabinet each patient should have to himself, and
it should be wide enough for a chair and night-table to find place by
his bedside. These and a crucifix are the indispensable articles every
patient has a right to. This system would greatly simplify our hospital
beds, now consisting of so many and such cumbersome pieces.
A little space might possibly be lost; a ward now containing
twenty-five patients would only hold eighteen; but, on the other hand,
what an improvement, and how much healthier an arrangement in a medical
point of view!
Patients have certain communications to make to their friends on the
days set aside for public admission which are not intended for the
hearing of strangers; and, when the hour of death is nigh, it is but
natural they should be allowed to hold converse with their relatives
without any witnesses. Even this semi-retirement is denied them
under the present system; whereas the plan proposed would secure the
preservation of family secrets. It will, perhaps, be alleged that the
patient would thus be isolated from his fellow-sufferers. By no means.
As above remarked, the cells would be open down the central passage,
and each patient could see his opposite neighbor. This, added to
the going to and fro of _infirmiers_, doctors, sisters, and regular
visitors, affords quite enough excitement for an invalid.
Neither is this an innovation. It was once tried at Munich, and, if but
imperfectly carried out, no hygienic objection was made to it. We find
this organization existed in one of the oldest hospitals in France,
the Tonnerre Hôtel Dieu--a monument described by M. Viollet Leduc in
his work, _Dictionnaire Raisonné de l'Architecture Française du XI.
au XVI. Siècle_. The learned writer says this institution can bear
comparison with the most boasted foundations of the present day. In
the archives of the Tonnerre Hospital we find the following document.
I quote because it forcibly reminds us of S. Vincent de Paul: "The
poor are provided for in this institution, and the convalescent are
kept a whole week after their cure, when they are sent away with a
coat, a shirt, and a pair of boots. A chapel will be added having four
altars. The brothers and sisters in charge are twenty in number; they
are bound to provide food and drink for the wayfarer; to board pilgrims
and strangers, clothe the poor, visit the sick, comfort the prisoner,
and bury the dead. The brothers and sisters will not take their meals
before the sick have been attended to...."
On closing this paragraph, a question arises whether people in the
dark, middle ages were not more solicitous for the poor than in the
XVIIIth century. A glance down a report written for Louis XV. on the
Hôtel Dieu will corroborate this.
We shall doubtless hear it objected that partitions between hospital
beds will inconvenience the doctors and medical students; that it will
be difficult to approach patients; and young physicians will declare
they cannot follow the _chef's_ instructions near enough. It will be
said, further, that, when any operation is going on, the limited space
allowed by a narrow cell must exclude the use of surgical instruments.
The following considerations clear the first of these objections;
but, in a strict sense of the word, the only essential thing is
that the physician should not be impeded in his movements round the
sufferer. He, his assistants, and about seven or eight more are all the
spectators necessary, and these form a sufficiently large audience. The
central passage down all wards affords room for more. Even as the beds
are now placed, it is not easy for a larger number to get nearer.
As to operations, they are carried on in a special hall, to which the
patient is carried; patients never are operated on in the wards.
THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.
The great everyday occurrence in a hospital is the doctor's visit.
It begins at about eight A.M., and lasts till eleven. The _chef_, a
term designating the head-physician, examines each sufferer in turn,
inquires into his or her state, and dictates prescriptions, which
are taken down by an outdoor student. He is also attended by indoor
students, other outdoor students, postulants, and auditors. The two
latter must have gone through a course of two years' study before they
are privileged to walk the hospitals. The postulant is not admitted
before he has gone through a special examination, and then becomes an
outdoor student. The highest degree under doctor is that of an indoor
student; all are, therefore, familiar with medical science excepting
the auditor, who, though he may have studied two years in the schools,
is but a dilettante--a kind of amateur authorized by the _chef_ to
follow him on his rounds with the students. Many even call themselves
auditors who slip in unperceived with the crowd. When the head-doctor
is followed by all these young men, his _cortége_ is very numerous.
There are often as many as fifty in our principal hospitals, seldom
less than thirty in the minor ones. Thus, without any amplification
of a known fact, a patient has to see about forty strangers round his
bed every day. He is operated on in public. Not a line of his features
contracted by pain escapes the notice of indifferent spectators; not a
motion of his muscles is unheeded. The professor meanwhile develops his
medical theories on the living body, studying the "case" with care.
Let us for a moment imagine that your own daughter is lying at the
hospital. She is twenty; you have brought her up with all the care
and solicitude parents owe to their children; you have often said in
her hearing that modesty is the loveliest adornment; that it replaces
whatever else is wanting, and can be replaced by nothing. For twenty
years, you have watched the growth of her budding virtues; her
Christian advancement has been your daily care. Her state now requires
she should see an eminent physician once every day. Look into your
heart. What is the sensation you feel there at the idea of her being
examined by forty or fifty medical students besides?
It is an indignant protest against their attendance.
* * * * *
It is the mission of a priest to be made the confidant of many sorrows;
he has to suffer with the sufferer, to mourn with the mourner; and
he can state that, of all trials which attend medical treatment in
hospitals, there is not one more distasteful than the doctor's visit,
especially to women. I appeal to any who have heard patients converse
together; I appeal to any brother in the ministry. Is this not the
great cause of repugnance for hospitals?
On the other hand, medical science has certain rights; doctors have
to go through an apprenticeship, practitioners must follow a course
of practice on living beings before they are qualified for operations;
it is therefore indispensable that the head-doctor should be followed
by disciples, and the height of absurdity to require he should go
round the wards alone. It is necessary, likewise, that postulants and
students should be present; for it frequently occurs that they are
called on to dress wounds during the doctor's absence.
Their attendance is consequently unavoidable; but, this being the case,
it is all the more desirable, in the name of female modesty, and in the
name of common respect for a needy suffering female, that the presence
of noisy _auditors_ should be done away with. They crowd the wards,
and learn very little. It should be with medical science as with every
other: students ought to have become familiar with the rudiments and
theories of their profession before they practice; and a few years
in the private schools should be gone through before beginners walk
the hospitals. The crowd is perfectly intolerable at the hour of the
doctor's visit in our best hospitals, especially at the _Cliniques_
and _Charité_. This might be remedied by each medical student being
bound to keep to one asylum for an allotted space of time, let us say
one year, after which he could be removed to another. One of the good
effects instantly resulting from this would be that our central city
hospitals, instead of being crowded to the neglect of others, would
find the number of spectators greatly thinned for the benefit of minor
hospitals now forsaken. The great thing in all questions relating
to benevolent asylums is to examine whence the stand-point is taken
for their consideration. Two principles present themselves: common
sense and humanity say that physicians and surgeons are intended
for hospitals, not hospitals for physicians and surgeons. Medical
science--and here we allude to the materialistic and unsound branch of
that science--replies: "By no means. Inconvenience must be tolerated,
science and progress go foremost."
Let us manfully, though sadly, give up a share for scientific progress
(which is not an imaginary thing); and, on looking into it, let us
reflect on the bitterness of that irony which so often leaves us to
utter the word _equality_, coupled with that other word, _fraternity_,
which is just as little understood. Hospitals will not answer the end
for which they were instituted until the smallest of those who flee
hither to hide their misery and sufferings obtain the same respect,
deference, and care lavished on the man who owns a yearly income.
Some time ago, a woman afflicted with an internal disease was carried
to a hospital. The head-doctor examined her on the following morning,
and immediately concluded that her case was too grave to be remedied.
He declared any attempt made to operate on her would prove fatal and
hasten death; the only thing he could do was to prescribe lenients,
in order to alleviate intense agony so long as life held out. The
young students around him urgently insisted on the operation being
performed; whereupon the physician, turning towards them, and finding
expostulation unprofitable, said: "If this patient were my wife,
gentlemen, I should not attempt what you suggest, I should leave her
in peace; you must, therefore, not expect me to do otherwise by this
woman...."
Such words as these should be engraved in letters of gold on the hearts
of all practitioners.
THE POOR MAN'S DEATH.
A fact that has often been set forth by Christianity is that the
secrets of man are revealed on his death-bed. Then it is that
every syllable he utters, every motion of his spirit, are full of
significance. The smallest sign is a ray of light by which a whole
lifetime can be read; and, if the amount of faith in a man is thus
disclosed, how easy it is to compute the amount of faith in a nation
from what is supplied by observation in so many single cases!
_O mors! bonum est judicium tuum!_--O death! thy judgments are
equitable!
No man is better qualified than the priest to look into this matter. A
large portion of his time is spent by the dying, and my own personal
experience has confirmed me in the following observations.
The most striking features as regards faith in the dying are moral
dejection and an almost total absence of hope. These are the inevitable
consequences of the efforts which have for some time been made to
uproot religious principle from the hearts of the people. It is no
wonder that hope fled with her divine sister, faith. Can any thinker
form a notion of the state of a man who has been down-trodden all his
life, who has been looked on as a bearer of burdens and a _misérable_,
and who has nothing to hope for in a future state?
We read in Holy Writ that, when the waters of the deluge began to
decrease, and Noe looked out of his ark after his arduous struggle
with the elements, he saw a dove, bearing an olive-branch, fly towards
him; the bird was the herald of good news, the harbinger of future
deliverance.
Our poor, when exhausted by long adversity, look out in vain for the
dove, and that hope which carries peace and help seldom brightens their
last moments. Death to such as these is nothing but acquiescence in
blind fate. What can a priest do in such cases? Teach and enlighten.
Very true; but the patient's physical condition does not give him much
time to do this thoroughly, nor can the sufferer always attend to the
little the priest can do. The thing left to be tried is the awakening
of the dying man's memory. The priest therefore recalls the scenes of
boyhood, talks of a mother's teachings, of the village church, the
long-forgotten first communion, etc., etc. If the poor man come from
the South or from Alsace, the _patois_ of his native place rouses
wonderful reminiscences; but it is useless to attempt reasoning. A
plain-spoken statement of fact that is neither commonplace nor trivial
often creates a great impression. It is a mistake to use unrefined
phraseology in the hope of redeeming the illiterate by descending to
the level of their intelligence; the lower classes prefer plain but
elevated language, and value the price of the liquid according to
the cost of the vase in which it is contained. Returns to God in the
last day are very scarce and always leave much room for the mercy
of the Almighty; but it is something to have brought about a desire
for the last sacraments, and to have been able to set forth, though
imperfectly, one or two of the great truths of Christianity.
Three dissolving elements have greatly hastened the degenerate
condition of Paris workmen, and, in general, of the lower classes in
this capital. They are the wine-shop, the club, and the journal.
The enormous rate at which wine was taxed under the Empire forced the
heads of small families to give up keeping a provision of _ordinaire_
in their cellars; and, as wine could not be kept at home, it had to
be fetched from the nearest wine-shop. There was also an additional
reason why the usual barrel could not be kept. Houses no longer afford
the luxury of a cellar to each flat, and those who could have afforded
to pay the duties had no room for a cask of wine from the provinces.
But there was the wine-shop; and alcoholic mixtures, colored with
dyeing tinctures or logwood, were resorted to instead of the wholesome
draught of thin but unadulterated wine which every Frenchman, a few
years ago, was so accustomed to. When once the habit is acquired of
turning in at a wine-shop, many are the baneful results which ensue;
first drunkenness, then extravagance, bad associates, low talk and
discussions round the counter, broils--all of which soon get the better
of an originally upright conscience unsupported by firm principle.
The evil effects of drink were never known to breed in France such
a cankerous wound as that which has spread among us since the siege
and the _Commune_. Prior to these melancholy events, alcoholic
patients were only now and then brought to our hospitals, but they
have increased out of all proportion within the last few years.
There can be no mistaking such cases with the following symptoms:
delirium, inflammation of the lungs, extraordinary irritability, then
languor and that sudden debility which is the forerunner of death. No
sooner did a _Communist_ suffer amputation than he expired; for it is
almost impossible to operate on men who are in a continual state of
intoxication.
Paris clubs were first heard of towards the end of the Empire. M. Emile
Ollivier thought a good deal of these gatherings; but they have, in
reality, proved to be a most disastrous institution. The only good
they accomplished was to propagate a correct idea of the _intellectual
and moral degeneracy_ of our people. The lower classes met for no
other purpose than that of uniting all their ignorance and hates.
What errors, what curses, fell from those short-lived tribunes! What
frantic applause welcomed false theories! No European nation could
have resisted this trial, much less than any other the French, who are
so credulous, so fickle, so sensitive to all outward impressions. The
seeds which bore such noxious fruit under the _Commune_ were first sown
within Paris clubs.
As to the public press, it would be loss of time and space to
demonstrate how that has contributed to general demoralization. The
_Siècle_, the _Opinion Nationale_, etc., are read at all wine-shops.
The smallest fault or misdemeanor committed by any one connected
with the clergy is exposed by these journals to general scandal,
aggravated by spiteful comment, exaggerated, then thrown as a rare
morsel to open-mouthed multitudes. Such manœuvres are very hurtful
with an unenlightened populace, who never discriminate between
religion and those who profess it. To them the priest and the faith
are synonymous. If the former is immoral, the latter can be good for
nothing. A certain amount of logic is wanting by which the contrary
could be demonstrated; but the larger proportion are incapacitated for
so intellectual an effort. It would lead too far were I to analyze
more closely the workings of the three causes which have destroyed our
religious and moral convictions. Suffice it that the wine-shop, the
club, and the journal have exercised a pernicious influence, and that
our working-classes have not the means in their power wherewith to
avert it so long as their education is considered complete at the age
of _twelve_. From the day a mechanic commences an apprenticeship, he
never hears the name of God, unless it is coupled with some curse on
the lips of his elders. The church, Jesus Christ, the sacraments, soon
become objects of derision.
In short, the end of such an educational system and of such a life is
that the poor man who is carried to a Paris hospital, there to die,
knows that he will no sooner have breathed his last than his body will
belong to medical students; and as to his soul, that better part which,
had it been cultured, would have been a glorious harvest for eternity,
he cannot comprehend any discourse concerning it; if compelled to
listen because he cannot help himself, he falls back on his pillow in
morose indifference.
When a nation, once so devout, has come to this, some anxiety is felt
for its future; and the words addressed to Ezechiel the prophet rise to
our lips: "Lord, can a new life ever animate these scattered bones?"
THE POOR MAN'S BURIAL.
The deeper we dive into the subject of Paris hospitals, the more are
we impressed by the melancholy spectacle of extreme misery presented.
It is as if we stepped into Dante's circles, and saw nothing before us
but horror; only here we look stern facts in the face, and have nothing
to do with grand poetic conceptions. It is life, it is reality, it is
anguish in a most poignant form; for I have now to speak of the mortal
remains of Christians, of brothers, of men like ourselves. When a death
occurs in the Paris hospitals, the corpse of the departed remains
for one or two hours in the ward, after which space of time it is
enveloped in a sheet and carried out on a litter by two _infirmiers_.
None who have ever seen this abandoned _cortége_ will forget it. The
corpse is instantly conveyed to an amphitheatre, where it is left,
after being stripped of every thread of linen which covered it. Here
it lies for forty-eight hours or more, according to the arrangements
made by relatives, or to orders received from the authorities. When no
objections are made by relatives, indoor and outdoor students proceed
to the autopsy of the body.
Laws and regulations have been laid down, by which a certain number
only of dead bodies are allowed for medical science; but these rules
are frequently infringed, and too much precipitation has often been the
cause of needless distress in poor families.
When the necessary formalities have been gone through, the corpses
in the amphitheatre are divided into two series: those claimed by
relatives, and those which are left to public charity.
We shall see what becomes of both, after a few preliminary
considerations.
The mortal remains of all Christians are sacred in the eyes of
Catholics. We never erect a temple, or build an altar, without
consecrating a spot therein for the relics of a saint, which lie thus
honored, like the corner-stone of an edifice.
Neither does the church authorize Mass to be said in any place not
having a consecrated place for relics; and on such alone may the body
and blood of Christ rest during the holy sacrifice.
Our belief in the resurrection of the body; our assurance that
Christians will, on a future judgment day, either rise in glory or
stand to hear their eternal condemnation, renders it impossible for us
to look on the mortal remains of Christians as do materialists and the
professors of unbelief. What to the latter is nothing but a dead body,
a fit object for study, is to us a sacred deposit whence immortality
will germinate. It is, therefore, no wonder if Catholics are so
solicitous to obtain proper burial for such remains. In this instance,
as in all others, Christianity is in perfect harmony with the tenderest
aspirations of our kindred.
When it so happens that relatives of the deceased can afford to pay
down the sum of fourteen francs (eight for a coffin, and six for the
municipal tax), a bier is provided, and the body is buried; if the
deceased leaves behind enough money to cover the above expenses, he is
buried in like manner, and, if any sum remains over, it is employed
according to the will expressed by the deceased. In some cases,
survivors are willing to incur more expense than that which is included
in an outlay of fourteen francs; for, although this insignificant sum
is sufficient for a coffin, it does not suffice for a shroud nor for
any body-linen.[47] Moreover, if the family cannot afford to pay fifty
francs over and above the fourteen required, the body is interred in
the common grave.
The common grave! What a train of sad thought this lugubrious idea
gives rise to! It is no longer, thank God! what it was; the bodies
are not now thrown, as before, pell-mell in a deep grave. A coffin is
provided for each, according to the rule given above; but even in our
days, the burial of a poor man is not what it should be.
Fancy a long ditch, in which the coffins are sunk as close as possible,
and in juxtaposition; the spaces between are filled up with children's
coffins, so as to leave no intervening space. When the soil is covered
over this vast grave, it is not possible for each to have a cross
above, and it is impossible, likewise, for relatives to know the exact
spot occupied by the remains of a beloved parent. Grave-diggers have,
of late, had orders to allow more room for the coffins; but until
a radical rule is enforced, and until each corpse is authorized to
have a separate grave, relatives of the departed are at the mercy of
grave-diggers.
However narrow and confined the space thus left for each coffin in
the common grave, that small share is only allowed for five years.
After that short length of time, the bodies are exhumed, and the bones
gathered to the catacombs. The big ditch, now vacated, again yawns for
what the diggers call "a fresh set," and soon the work of decomposition
again silently commences for another term of five years, and so on for
all time.
Leaving every other consideration aside, does it not strike every
reader that the period allowed for rest in the common grave is much too
short? Many bodies are dug up in good preservation when thus brutally
disturbed, and there are persons who can testify to the horror they
have experienced when called on, by some untoward circumstance, to be
present at these impious exhumations.
I shall not add to it by overdrawing this sufficiently painful picture;
it does not become the pen of a priest to color with such ghastly
elements. My object is simply to state plain facts--to be exact, and
not leave room for the slightest contradiction.
Arguments have been advanced in favor of the good influence of this
supreme misery of the common grave. It is hoped that such an end
will be avoided, and that it will carry a lesson with it--a horror
for relying on public charity; but it nevertheless deals a direct
blow at every feeling of respect for kith and kin. Is not the grief
caused by eternal partings deep enough, without being increased by our
acquiescence in the total abandonment of the tomb?
Any one in authority who could suppress the common grave, and give
every poor man separate burial--any one who, having done this, could
render such a tomb inviolable for a reasonable term of years, would
confer an immense blessing on Parisians.
When M. Haussmann gave out the project of a large burial-ground at
Méry-sur-Oise, it met with opposition in all quarters. It was alleged
that to send corpses out of Paris by special railway conveyances would
be considered disrespectful to the dead. But, we would inquire, is the
present system of interment in the common grave calculated to inspire
respect? The distance of a few miles, of even a few leagues, would be
nothing compared with the privilege of a separate tombstone over a
separate grave; and it would be much wiser to have remote cemeteries,
provided they were hospitable. This question of the common grave not
only interests those who die within the hospitals; it is also of
importance to the indigent wherever they die in misery--a state many
have fallen into since the war and the _Commune_.
The above disclosures are certainly very melancholy, and yet I have
only described the case of the more fortunate among the poor--of those
who have, after all, a hallowed spot to rest in after death. There are
some to whom even this boon is denied.
The interests of science and those of families being here antagonistic,
it is necessary to quote a few figures:
On the 1st January, 1867, the number of sick in the Paris hospitals was
6,243. In the course of that year, the number was increased by 90,375;
total, 96,618. Out of this total, 79,897 left the hospitals cured;
10,045 had died. There remained, therefore, on the 1st January of the
following year, 6,676 sick persons. In 1869, the number of invalids in
the hospitals was 93,355, out of which 82,283 left cured; 10,429 had
died on the 31st December of the same year.
We have, in short, an average of 10,000 deaths every year; and the
result shown by the above furthermore is that the proportion of deaths
to invalids is about that of 1 to 8½. I will not dwell on this latter
conclusion, which, however, proves the danger of accumulating a large
number of cases under the same roof, and also the necessity of a
reform in our establishments. I will pass on to the 10,000 deaths
resulting from the report. In this average number, there are from
1,000 to 1,500 claimed by relatives, who purchase a right of separate
burial for _fifty_ francs; and there are from 3,500 to 4,000 who are
conveyed to the common grave. The remaining 5,000, not claimed by any
relative or friend, are dissected, either at the Ecole de Médecine
or at the Rue Fer-à-Moulin. These corpses are used after dissection
for the manufacture of skeletons, for anatomical institutions, for
museums, etc., etc. The _detritus_ collected when these purposes have
been accomplished are carried promiscuously in biers to the Hospital
Cemetery, which is situated near the Fort of Bicètre, not far from Turg.
No spectacle can be more distressing than that of this cemetery, to
which access is gained by a side door in the wooden palings that
fence it round. It is a dreary plain, and has no sign to show it is
consecrated to the departed. The ridges look more like trenches than
graves. No living being has been led here by love to mark the mounds
with a cross, neither is this sign of redemption erected over the door,
as it is in the smallest hamlet; no holy-water is sprinkled over these
graves. Why should no difference be made here between a churchyard and
a public field? I again repeat that these 5,000 corpses are those of
the deceased not claimed by relatives; and this it is which constitutes
a striking inequality between the indigent who die in their own homes,
and those who die in the care of public charity. When a poor man dies
on his own bed, and has not left any provision for his burial, the
_mairie_ of his _arrondissement_ has to provide a coffin gratis, and
the municipal tax is suppressed; whereas no such generosity as a coffin
is granted in the hospitals. A man dying here without the fourteen
francs mentioned is carried to one or other of the amphitheatres. There
is no favor shown, even were the departed your own mother. Fourteen
francs for a ransom, or the heart of the parent that beat for you is
the prey of medical students. A priest is sent for when the corpses
have been dissected. It is then his duty to stand up, facing the
mutilated remains, and to read the prayers for the dead. When this
ceremony is over, they are conveyed to the hospital cemetery. Need I
insist that the religious rite performed as I have described is of
little consolation to those who are left behind? It is not a separate
service for each of the deceased; several bodies lie together, or
rather, the members of their bodies--a galling sight, which surviving
relatives avoid. Neither can it be defended; for, until the religious
ceremony has been performed, the remains are not collected in a
coffin; they lie unshrouded, a hideous exposure of human flesh.
I here repeat that I am not opposed to medical science, nor to the
dissection of certain corpses; it is an unavoidable process for the
benefit of progress in surgery, and for that of the living; what I have
in view is the welfare of the state as acquired by respect for ties of
kindred, and by veneration for the mortal remains of Christians.
There is a middle course to be adopted very evidently--a course by
which surgery and science generally would be promoted and the religious
convictions of Christians not trampled under foot. I propose that,
when any person claims the body of a parent or relative in the first
degree, that person should be privileged to obtain gratuitous burial,
if he or she prove utter incapacity to meet the expenses. This proof
is acquired by a certificate from the almshouses, by receipts from the
_Mont de Piété_ (Loan Bank), by a line from the _mairie_, and other
sources. A relative in the first degree implies a father, mother, wife,
husband, son or daughter, brother or sister. Even were grandfathers
and grandmothers included, the 5,000 corpses left to hospital charity
would not be greatly diminished; 4,000 bodies would remain at least for
dissection--those of wandering strangers, of lawless, unknown persons
mostly--and surely this is a high figure for the indigent population
of one capital. There are no better surgeons in Europe than those of
Göttingen, Wurzburg, Salerno, Montpellier, Vienna, and Berlin, and yet
these cities have not near so many dead bodies in their amphitheatres.
I say that a Christian must feel deeply for those who are left
without proper burial, a sign on their tombs, a stone to perpetuate
their memory for a few years. All this is replaced by the jests of
indifferent students; and, instead of the friendly parting kiss, there
is the surgeon's instrument on a loved brow.
O old reminiscences of the early catacombs! how far off, how faint, are
you now. Who is there in this large city that remembers what a work of
mercy it is to bury the dead? O village churchyards! in the centre of
which rises the humble church-spires; O graves! over which the fervent
kneel every Sunday--graves that never open to give up their dead; O
hallowed spots! around which thoughts of God are united with thoughts
of our dear ones, and where the past is folded, as it were, hand in
hand with the future, how do I prefer you to these grand cemeteries, in
which there is so much show for one or two, and nothing for the poor
man who will want no more!
FOOTNOTES:
[47] When an invalid enters a Paris hospital, the shirt he had on is
taken from him. It would be but charitable to return it to the family
in case of death.
A WEEK AT THE LAKE OF COMO.
For perfect quiet and certain inspiration, the poet or artist could
hardly choose a more suitable summer roost than any one of the villages
that fringe the Lake of Como; while for health the advantages of
this neighborhood are unrivalled. It combines the beauty of softened
lines and veiled colors that distinguishes Italy with that more
bracing atmosphere peculiar to Alpine countries. The lake is there
for luxurious midnight expeditions under the Italian sky--romantic
glidings in boats which, if neither so graceful nor so mysterious as
the gondolas of Venice, are yet picturesque enough in their--only
apparent--cumbersomeness; the mountains are there for English
pedestrian exercise, for long, delightful, tiring walks over crag and
scanty vineyard, and, beyond that, through chestnut woods and cypress
clearings, till the limit of bareness begins to warn you of Alpine
snows; excellent little hotels are there, hardly spoiled by the many
but quickly fleeting guests whom the shabby little black steamboat
brings in cargoes three times a day--hotels with clean, dapper
bed-rooms and bay windows overlooking the lake--hotels where you can
always get plenty of fresh milk and graceful Italian civility. Then
there are villas by the score, some to be hired, and many more utterly
forlorn and deserted; others well cared for, pleasantly tenanted by
happy, unpretending Italian families, and wearing a general air of
attractive, half-civilized rusticity. You feel that life must go on
very smoothly within their walls; that bright, artless women and
children chatter and laugh away their brief summer holiday in those
spacious verandas and vine-trellised piazzas; and that conventional
restraint is an unknown spirit there. You wish that you had a right to
enter such an abode, or money enough to create one for yourself just
for three months at a time; then may be you pass by another kind of
dwelling, with broad, grass-grown steps meeting the water like those of
the palaces of Venice; with a great rusty iron gate and railing showing
tarnished remains of heraldic gilding; with a garden now overgrown with
weeds, but whose tall hedges of box or ilex suggest the statuesque
style of the XVIIth century; with melancholy fountains innocent of
water, and Etruscan-shaped stone vases once filled with flowers, and
now holding only a little stagnant rainwater; with another flight of
gaunt steps leading up to a porch and innumerable stone balconies and
terraces notched with half-ruined carvings of the Renaissance; moss and
mould everywhere, life nowhere; funereal cypresses mounting guard over
mutilated statues of fauns and wood-nymphs; rats and mice peopling in
reality the marbled-paved halls of the mansion; and ghosts--in your
imagination--pacing up and down the broad, deserted corridors. Then,
if you are of a poetic turn of mind, you forget the brightness, the
freedom, the _laisser-aller_ of the peopled villas, and wish that you
were lord of this vast, melancholy, romantic pile, the natural scene
of some stately poem, the fitting frame of some picture like Millais'
pathetic "Huguenot Lover," the sure source of an inspiration lofty,
noble, vague, and richly proportioned. Everything is on a scale of
magnificence, such as suggests only extravagance to our dwarfed notions
of the proprieties of life; a modern visitor feels a pigmy in those
vast, re-echoing halls; he almost expects some Brobdingnag halberdier
in cloth of gold and scarlet to catch him up by the hair as some insect
curiosity, or at least to order him out as an impertinent intruder;
the great marble staircase seems to be alive with the shades of the
noble throngs who, in Spanish doublets, jewelled _toques_, needle-like
swords, and stiff neck-ruffs, used to parade the courtly scene--in
fact, he finds himself utterly overwhelmed by the phantoms of a
greatness that is dead; swamped by the flood of modern days that has
brought in a generation of monkeys to consume their lives in efforts to
fill the place of a generation of lions.
Again, the traveller may find other sights among the villas of the
Lake of Como--less pleasant sights, too, and jarring on the artist's
sense of fitness; as, for instance, when he finds a wealthy and prosaic
_paterfamilias_, of the class who do not know and care less what
antiquity means--unless it may mean shabbiness--established in placid
and ludicrous possession of some stately abode such as we have named.
Of course, this unappreciative being, with his robust wife and chubby
olive-branches, is of the great, dominant, self-sufficient Anglo-Saxon
race, with its grand physical contempt of everything that is foreign,
but its keen national determination to take timely advantage of
everything that is cheap. He may be from our own or the other of the
Atlantic shores; from the cotton-mills of England or the oil-wells of
America; but he will invariably be a man of prosaic and practical
tendencies, quite impervious to the romance of his new home, but
perfectly alive to its value as a good speculation and an economical
venture. You will never find an artist or a scholar thus established;
_they_ will be penned up in a white-washed room of some peasant's
cottage, or, if lucky members of their craft, in the "best room" of
the _Signor Curato's_ little presbytery. They, too, are on the lookout
for cheap lodgings; but what is cheap to the careful millionaire is
the height of impossible extravagance to the gifted brain-worker.
And for our part, if we had to share the home of either of these two
classes of lake tourists, we should much prefer a shake-down at the
white-washed cottage, with the human counterweight of the artist, than
the surroundings of marble halls, spacious, deserted gardens, and
ghost-haunted staircases, if balanced by the incongruous presence of
the prosperous family before mentioned. What poetic justice is it which
sternly forbids the tenantship of such abodes to be interchanged?
Just such a beautiful place--but, luckily, not thus tenanted--is a
villa on the Lake of Como, just opposite the sharp end of the tongue of
land which, jutting into the lake to the distance of half its length,
cuts it into the shape of a Y. We passed it every day on our way to the
chapel. It was formerly, if we remember rightly, the pleasure-house
of Queen Caroline of England during her exile. No one ever goes there
now, and its aspect is as suggestive, as gloomy, as pathetic, as Edgar
Poe or Mrs. Radcliffe could have wished. Just beyond it, on the narrow
slip of land which runs parallel to the lake at the foot of the abrupt
mountains, is a private chapel, built over the family vault of the
Marquises of A---- and Counts of S----, an old Savoyard family of
great piety and high origin. The land around here is part of their
patrimonial estate, and the chapel contains two or three very beautiful
monuments of white marble, exquisite in carving and finish, but hardly
very Christian in taste.
Further up, and to be reached by a pleasant, rugged path right behind
our little hotel, was another church--a village parish church this
time, a much more homely and _homelike_ place--served by a gentle old
_curato_. The view over the lake from the jasmine-covered parapet
surrounding this church was lovely--so peaceful that it suggested
rather the possible surroundings of a holy soul just released from the
body than the actual home of a busy, struggling, mortal life.
To heighten the illusion, the moon rose slowly as we descended the
same path, and her broad silver shield, as it passed seemingly behind
the crags of the mountains on the opposite shore, became momentarily
stamped with the irregular outline of dark rocks, simulating to our
imagination the turrets and spires of a spectre city. Soon the path
of light traced by her rays upon the waters began to shine like the
Israelites' guiding pillar in the wilderness, and we felt tempted to
try a water-excursion as a fitting ending to our day. The beauty of
the scene, as the shadows grew darker and the moonlight more intense,
is indescribable. Our silent party in the boat did not even attempt to
admire it _out loud_. The hills, purple-black in the foreground, rising
out of the lake as walls of onyx from a crystal floor, grew stone-gray
as they receded from sight and mingled their colors with the unearthly
white of the Alpine snow-peaks in the far distance. These last seemed
as though hung like a bridal wreath between earth and heaven, resting
on the dark, undistinguishable masses of the chestnut woods covering
the lower spurs. Now and then a bell would ring out in the still night
air--a brazen voice rolling from some village belfry--and waking the
mountain echoes till its sound died away in a silver murmur, mingling
with the plashing of our steady oars, and gently reminding us that our
lives had floated one hour nearer to God. But lovely as the scene was
by night, it is difficult to call it less lovely by day. Opposite our
temporary home was Bellaggio, one of the most frequented of the lake
villages--a tiny hamlet of white houses clustered together in a grove
of cypresses, and perched on a rocky ledge overlooking the shore. The
tall, columnar trees scattered among the houses almost suggested the
idea of a peaceful burying-ground, the white cottages from a distance
seeming no bad substitutes for marble tombstones. A gray-blue mist--the
last Italian beauty that clings to this fairy-like outpost of Italy,
invaded by Alpine breezes and watched by craggy sentinels--hangs over
the dormant village; the fir-trees of the neighboring villa--the
show-place of the lake, the Villa Serbellone--waft their scented breath
over its houses, while at its foot lie the hot-houses and orangeries,
etc., by which the owner of this beautiful garden property tries to
emulate English taste. The Villa Serbellone is almost a tropical
marvel; the profusion of flowers; the scent of southern blossoms,
cultivated with assiduous care; the ivory-like magnolia, framed in its
dark and massive foliage; the starry orange flowers; the pineapple,
in its luscious perfection of growth--all denote the sunny land of
spontaneous productiveness; while the velvet lawns, emerald-colored and
closely shaven; the trim gravel-walks, rolled to the exact point of
firmness required in an English garden; the marble vases, overflowing
with creepers of carefully chosen and judiciously contrasted shades;
and the thousand-and-one dainty little contrivances to make the most
of every natural advantage, display the art of that northern land to
which its very disadvantages of climate have taught the secret of
enhancing every beauty and almost creating new ones by its industry.
There is little to distinguish the Lake of Como beyond its beauty of
atmosphere and scenery--little or no historical interest, no ruins,
castles, or towns with momentous remembrances of troubled times in the
past. The churches are plain, and generally in bad taste--in fact,
beyond the reach either of gorgeousness or even of simple restoration;
for the mountain population and the fishermen of the shore are very
poor, and the inhabitants of the lake-side villas only come to Como for
the summer. But these poor parishioners have spiritual riches, if not
temporal comforts: the faith of the Italian, and the _naïve_ enthusiasm
of mountaineers. One day, after landing for a moment during one of
our boat excursions, we fell into conversation with an old woman,
her brown, wrinkled face lighted up by eyes of the intensest black,
sparking with a vigor strangely in harmony rather than in contrast with
her age, and her dress, in its picturesque, but we fear uncomfortable
dilapidation, quite a study for a painter. She was very devout, and,
when she found that we were _forestièri_, anxiously asked if we were
Christians. This reminds us of what happened in the North of Ireland to
a Catholic English lady of distinction. Her husband was a Protestant,
and she accordingly started alone one day to find the church, which
she knew to be somewhere in the neighborhood of the place at which
she was temporarily staying. It was not a Sunday. She lost her way,
and, meeting an old woman, asked her to set her on the right road for
the Catholic "Chapel." The old dame looked very suspiciously at the
elegant costume of the questioner, and well knowing, by the accent,
that she was foreign to Ireland, asked her in return, with incredulity
stamped on every expressive feature: "Shure, she was not a Catholic?"
And, indeed, the English convert did not succeed in persuading the old
Irishwoman that she was her sister in the faith, until, opening her
dress, she showed her the scapular round her neck, and put the rosary
into her hand. These marks of orthodoxy quite convinced the staunch
old Catholic, and the English lady reached the church at last. Having
satisfied herself, with a sort of joyful surprise, on this cardinal
point, our Italian friend discoursed very volubly of the Madonna, her
own priest and mountain church, and the Pope. We had some beads with
us blessed by the Holy Father, and offered her the choice of one of
the set. She was reverently delighted with the opportunity, and with
many blessings and thanks, as gracefully expressed as a poet could
have wished or done himself, she made her selection. How her precious
spiritual nearness to the Holy Father, rendered more palpable by the
sight of the plain brown rosary, seemed realized in her mind's eye! She
kissed the beads again and again in a transport of devotion, and in
simple, straight-forward language expressed her love and loyalty to the
Supreme Pontiff. There are few women in Italy, high or low, who have
not the same feeling for the head of the church; and those who have it
not are by no means among the most exemplary wives and mothers.
We were at Como--or rather, on the shores of the lake--in March as
well as in June. The spirit of the scene was just a little more dreamy
in the former month than even in the latter, chiefly because there
were very few tourists, and the steamboats went up and down the lake
at longer intervals than in the summer. The great heat showed no
signs of its advent; the vegetation was tender and yellow-green, yet
not scant; for the hills, whose cold breath tempers the torrid heat
of Lombardy, also protect the lake from the biting winds that one is
used to associate with the mention of March. It was possible to go
out boating and walking even at noon, though the nights were none the
less beautiful and inviting; but perhaps, at that time of the year,
the loveliest hour was early morning. It was with such a remembrance
that we left the lake. After five o'clock Mass, we rowed over to the
projecting tongue of mainland that cuts the waters in two, and got
into a light open carriage of the country, _en route_ for Milan. The
air was delightfully fresh, the sun had just risen, and a rosy, hazy
tint lay over everything. It might have been the Bosporus, so tranquil
and softened was the scene. Indeed, many travellers have likened
this lake to the Bosporus, its narrow, river-like course between
the shelving mountains being, they say, quite a reproduction of the
oriental marvel, though it does not produce the oriental languor
characteristic of the other. Our road for some time lay in a direction
in which we could see both branches of the lake; then, swerving to
one side, we passed through miniature mountain passes, green meadows
with many water-mills, and pretty villages embowered in trees. There
was somewhat of northern dampness in the atmosphere, but its effect
on the pasturage was certainly satisfactory, the turf in many places
being almost worthy of the Emerald Isle. As the hours sped on, our
appetite began to make itself felt; we had brought nothing with us,
not even sandwiches, and the drive was lengthening beyond our original
calculations. The wayside inns were practically useless, the wine was
like vinegar, and bread not always forthcoming. At length, at a place
where we changed horses for the last time before reaching Milan, and
after we had been enjoying the beauties of nature for ten hours on an
empty stomach, we found something eatable, though not in a superfluous
quantity. Not long after, we were regaling ourselves on a banquet of
fish fried in oil, and an adequate supply of bread and butter, served
in the irreproachable Milan hotel, once the palace of a fallen family,
and where our _privato_ dining-room had formerly been the _Sala di
Giustézza_, in which feudal lords sat dispensing justice to their clan
of retainers or hangers-on! And with this, farewell to the queen of
Italian lakes!
ODD STORIES.
IV.--THE INDIA-RUBBER MAN
One thousand three hundred and ninety-seven years ago, the city of
Cadiz was startled by rumors of the presence of a mysterious person,
whose irrepressible activity was the fear and wonder of many. Perhaps,
from a certain dusk which pervaded his countenance, it came to be
gossipped that he was an Indian by birth, and had arrived in Spain by
way of Africa. If, however, his color was no fair sign of his origin,
the manuscripts found in his apartments betrayed his affinity with the
Oriental stoics. Be this as it may, the devices and doings of Don Ruy
Gomia de Goma had so impressed the traditions of Cadiz that the maker
of ballads, Gil Cantor, sung of him in language the puzzling quaintness
of which we have endeavored to smooth out as follows into modern
English:
Oft have I seen, e'en now I see,
The presence I would ban;
'Tis he, the Afreet of my dreams,
The India-rubber man!
I pick him out among the crowd
As nimbly he goes by,
And points his gum-elastic nose,
And blinks his vitreous eye.
'Tis said he prowls the streets at night,
And, spite of the police,
With India-rubber ease commits
Ingenious robberies.
Abounding Mephistopheles
On stealthy tiptoe comes,
And, as he chokes you for your purse,
He shows his frightful gums.
Avoid, my friend, his outstretched hand--
That hand of gum and glue;
And, ere he catches you, beware
The friend of caoutchouc.
Fate tries in vain to crush him out,
She studies how to kill;
But, no--this grim contortionist
Is standing, springing still.
One day, ten ruffians clubbed him down--
He wasn't dead for that;
Up, grinning in their faces, sprang
That horrid acrobat.
An agile politician, now
The public back he mounts,
And much the rabble like him for
His gumption and his bounce.
He rises with the rise of stocks,
No crisis keeps him down;
And, dancing on a dividend,
He goes about the town.
He pesters busy men of trade,
And on their beds at night
A gum-elastic nightmare sits,
And will not quit their sight.
Oft have I marvelled at the man,
And searched his meaning more;
So many people set him down
A terror and a bore.
Elastic, everlasting soul!
In gloomy ages back
They must have tried to stretch him out
A martyr on the rack!
Victor, alas! and victim he--
His wretched fate I scan;
And much I pity, if I scorn,
The injured rubber-man.
Doubtless the whimsical Gil has here turned a venerable legend to a
subtle purpose of satire; for it appears, from a number of traditions,
that Don Ruy distinguished himself as a trader, courtier, gallant, and
knight-errant. He grew rich, because no debtor ever got rid of him till
payment, and, as a cavalier, the grace and flexibility of his carriage
and motions were the admiration of ladies. Thus it was that, though
denounced by jealous grandees as one sprung from the vulgar, and, in
fact, an upstart, his first appearance at court was a triumph, and all
the more so from the great ease of his genuflexion, and the modest
liveliness of his manner and deportment. The fact, however, which first
drew the general attention of Cadiz to the new cavalier was an open
insult which, it was alleged, he had cast upon the proud escutcheon
of the fair Doña Gumesinda Vinagrilla de Miraflores de Albujuera y
Albuquerque, Countess Delamar and Marchioness Delcampo.
The story runs that the marble heart of Doña Gumesinda had never
yielded except to the blandishments of the bold and nimble Don Ruy. One
day, addressing her at the court in terms of insinuating gallantry, he
stretched out his arms with so fine a gesture of command and entreaty
that the noble maid all at once resolved that no one should win her
love save the flexible and fascinating philosopher; being well assured
of the softness of his heart and the tenacity of his affections. Good
right, then, had Don Ruy to stand one night under her leafy bower, and,
according to the fashion of the times, sing a piteous ditty:
Mi corazon es suave
Como la goma dulce,
Mis lagrimas se corren
Con la resina triste;
Oid mi cancion elastica,
Oid mi cancion, señora![48]
Having thus appealed to the fair Gumesinda, he ascended at a leap into
a leafy refuge formed by the vines and trees near her window, and
prepared to finish his song, when he felt that one of his legs was
being pulled violently from below.
Nothing daunted, he allowed his covert enemies to pull it quite to the
ground, while, still seated near his lady's bower, he sang in strains
that moved her heart to more purpose than his disturbers had moved his
limbs. Tired of their vain attempt to budge him, they let go of his
leg, to their no small surprise at the suddenness of its springing
back. Immediately he leaped down, and laid about him; and, though
twice he was hit in vital parts by the infuriated relatives, and, in
fact, should have been run through, he was so invulnerably spry and
spirited that he killed a dozen or more of them before he embraced
the terrified Gumesinda with his outstretched arms, and carried her
away, bending somewhat under his burden. A large force of _alguacils_
barred his path, however, and he was brought, not without trouble,
before the chief magistrate of the city, who, being also a relative
of Doña Gumesinda, put him immediately to the rack. Vain, and all too
vain, was the cruel act of torture to extenuate the body and bones,
or conquer the irrepressible being, of Don Ruy Gomia de Goma. Gliding
on tiptoe behind his jailers, he one day escaped, and in the night
danced a fandango on the bed and body of the Governor of Cadiz. Who was
he? the good folk of Cadiz asked themselves time and again. Some few
visionaries said that he was the spirit of free inquiry, that could
never be put down or put out; and other wiseacres averred that he was
the veritable spirit of mischief, always upturning and turning up.
FOOTNOTES:
[48]
My heart is soft
As sweetest gum,
My tears they flow
With resin sad;
Hear my elastic song,
Hear my song, lady!
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
HISTORICAL SKETCHES. Third Series. By John Henry Newman, D.D.
THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY, defined and illustrated. By the same.
London: Basil Montagu Pickering. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
Publication Society.)
It would perhaps be proper to say that the revised edition of Dr.
Newman's writings bears the same relation to their original publication
that fulfilment and prophecy sustain to each other. In the one we see
the germ, the promise, and in the other the matured and mellowed fruit.
In the former, we foresee the inevitable result of the principles set
forth, on a mind so single and intent on the truth. And it is because
they do not reflect the perfect image of the truth he now holds that he
would blot some of the lines therein written. In the latter, readers
will again meet the same wise simplicity and transparency of style
which charmed them before, and which mark all the products of his pen.
As a study of diction, Dr. Newman's works are richly worth whatever
they cost. We doubt if any author of the time has done more to bring
both writers and speakers down from the stilts formerly thought
essential in the expression of thought. Almost unconsciously, the
leaven of his pure idiomatic English has worked, until its influence is
shown in a large number of written and spoken productions, both at home
and abroad. As a reflex of a truthful, honest soul, deeply solicitous
for the spiritual welfare of his kind, they have a pathos and unction
which will have an ever-increasing influence as time goes on.
The first of the above-mentioned volumes embraces the matter which bore
the title, _The Church of the Fathers_, on its first appearance in the
_British Magazine_; and the latter was published as _The Scope and
Nature of University Education_.
SACRED ELOQUENCE; OR, THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF PREACHING. By Rev.
Thomas J. Potter. Troy: P. J. Dooley. 1873.
This work is too well known to require any notice at our hands, having
received the warmest commendation of the hierarchy and press on its
first appearance in England. While this edition will hardly please
those who are fastidious in the matter of print and paper, it presents
an argument to the pockets of purchasers which many of our seminarians
will highly appreciate. Our clerical readers are already aware that
the _Sacred Eloquence_ was prepared for the author's own class in the
Missionary College of All Hallows, and resulted from the necessity felt
for a work adapted to English-speaking students in that department.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
From BURNS, OATES & CO., London (New York: Sold by The Catholic
Publication Society): Sermons for all Sundays and Festivals
of the Year. By J. N. Sweeney, D.D. Vol. II. 12mo, pp. vi.
498.--Spain and Charles VII. By Gen Kirkpatrick. 8vo, pp. 87.--A
Theory of the Fine Arts. By S. M. Lanigan, A.B., T.C.D. 12mo, pp.
xiii. 194.
From D. & J. SADLIER & CO., New York: Bible History. By Rev. James
O'Leary, D.D. 12mo, pp. 480.
From HENRY HOLT & CO.: Dimitri Roudine. By Ivan Turgénieff. 18mo,
pp. 271.
From BENZIGER BROS., New York: Neue Fibel, oder: Erstes Lesebuch,
für die Deutschen Katholischen Schulen in den Vereinigten
Staaten von Nord-America. Bearbeitet von mehreren Priestern und
Lehrern.--Zweites Lesebuch, und Drittes Lesebuch, of the same
series 12mo, pp. 58, 120, and 276.
From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: A Course of Philosophy,
embracing Logic, Metaphysics, and Ethics. By Rev. A. Louage,
C.S.C. 12mo, pp.
THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XVIII., No. 104.--NOVEMBER, 1873.[49]
SPIRITUALISM.
CHAPTER I.
"Spiritus sunt vagi, et insinceri, pervolantes et
perscrutantes."--_S. Max. Taur., Tract. iv., Cont. Pag._
It can hardly be denied that the question of spiritualism is forcing
itself every year more and more upon the public attention; and that
a belief in the reality of its phenomena, and, as almost a necessary
consequence, a suspicion of their at least partially preternatural
character, is on the increase amongst honest and intelligent persons.
By preternatural phenomena, I mean manifestations of the operation of
intelligences that are not clothed in flesh and blood; for with other
than such as are so clothed, in the way of the senses, which is the way
of nature, we have no acquaintance.
I believe that few will examine seriously and patiently the phenomena
of spiritualism as a whole without coming upon much that they cannot,
without doing violence to their natural instincts, attribute to
anything but preternatural agency. Whether they reduce this to white
spirits or black, red spirits or gray, will depend for the most part
on the religious prepossessions of the inquirers. I have said the
phenomena as a whole, because some of these, such as cases of tables
turning, upon which the hands of the company are resting, and, again,
many of the communications through mediums speaking in trance or
otherwise, do not necessarily suggest preternatural interference.
The phenomena on which I am inclined to lay most stress are, 1st,
physical manifestations--the movement or raising in the air, without
contact of any sort, of heavy bodies, whether animate or inanimate;
2d, intelligent manifestations involving the communication of true
information through a human medium, which was unknown at the time both
to the medium and recipient. Such phenomena are not unfrequent at
successful séances, and spiritualists have a right to demand that we
should criticise their successes rather than their failures.
For examples of the phenomena of modern spiritualism, we shall depend
mainly upon two volumes: _Experiences in Spiritualism with D. D.
Home_, and the _Report of the Committee of the London Dialectical
Society_. The former is a well-known though unpublished relation of
seventy-eight séances; the relaters are gentlemen whose names are
guarantees for intelligence and honor. Of these séances, some were held
in rooms which Mr. Home had never before entered, others in a variety
of rooms belonging to gentlemen taking part in the proceedings. The
supposition of concealed machinery, possible enough were it question
of the magician's own den, is thus effectually precluded. The _Report_
is a still more remarkable volume. Even if spiritualism were exploded
absolutely, this volume would still retain its interest as a unique
collection of mental photographs representing every attitude which it
is possible for the human mind to take up with regard to spiritualistic
phenomena, from irreconcilable repulsion, through every shade of
intelligent hesitation, to complete acceptance.
The _Report_ consists of the reports of the séances of six experimental
subcommittees, minutes of the examination before the General Committee
of spiritualist witnesses, letters on spiritualism from a great number
of literary and scientific persons, and communications in the shape
of experiences and speculative essays on spiritualism by some of its
principal adherents.
Subcommittee No. 1 (_Rep._, p. 9) declares itself to have "established
conclusively" "the movements of heavy substances without contact or
material connection of any kind between such substances and the body
of any person present." This is confirmed by Subcommittee No. 2, and
embodied in the general report. Amongst a great mass of well-attested
phenomena, I select the following: "Thirteen witnesses state that they
have seen heavy bodies, in some instances men, rise slowly in the
air, and remain there without visible or tangible support." "Fourteen
witnesses testify to having seen hands of figures not appertaining to
any human being, but lifelike in appearance and mobility, which they
have sometimes touched and even grasped." "Eight witnesses state that
they have received precise information through rappings, writings,
and in other ways, the accuracy of which was unknown at the time to
themselves or to any persons present, and which, on subsequent inquiry,
was found to be correct." Many of these experimental séances took place
without the presence of any professional mediums. Subcommittees 1 and
2 declare that they have never used them, and these were particularly
fertile in instances of independent movement, No. 1 having witnessed no
less than fifty such motions.
There is absolutely no room for a suspicion of trickery, neither
is it more rational to suppose that the phenomena had no objective
existence, but were the mere phantasms of the excited imagination
of the company; for the witnesses testify that they were in no such
state of excitement, and their recorded conversation and behavior are
incompatible with any such supposition. Again, such excitement acts
spasmodically and irregularly; but, as a rule, the phenomena are seen
by all equally. In the few cases in which individuals have manifested
abnormal excitement, the séances have been frustrated. Subcommittee No.
2 sent for a neighbor to witness the phenomena when in full operation,
and they presented precisely the same aspect to him as they did to the
members of the séance.
There remains, then, a large number of objective phenomena of the kind
mentioned which have to be accounted for. Three hypotheses have been
advocated with more or less success, which I shall proceed to consider
in order.
1st. Unconscious cerebration expressing itself in unconscious muscular
action. 2d. Psychic force. 3d. Spirits. I would remark that the first
and second agree, in so far as they make the source of the phenomena
internal; they differ in that the first would make them the result
of a known law, the action of which had been previously detected,
whilst the second supposes a previously unknown law or force of which
spiritualistic phenomena are the sole evidence.
I.
The doctrine of unconscious cerebration is thus expressed by Dr.
Carpenter (_Rep._, p. 272): "Ideational changes take place in the
cerebrum, of which we may be at the time unconscious for want of
receptivity on the part of the sensorium, but of which the results
may at a subsequent period present themselves to the consciousness,
as ideas elaborated by an automatic process of which we have no
cognizance." Dr. Carpenter's ground for "surmising" that "ideational
changes" may be received unconsciously, and subsequently recognized,
and that the consciousness or unconsciousness of the reception depends
upon their being presented or not in the sensorium, is the following
analogy: The cerebrum, "or rather its ganglionic matter in which
its potentiality resides," stands in precisely the same anatomical
relation to the sensorium that the retina does; but visual changes
may be unconsciously received in the retina when the sensorium is
inoperative, and may be subsequently recognized. The reality of this
automatic reception and elaboration of ideas is confirmed by the
phenomena of somnambulism, which show "that long trains of thought may,
with a complete suspension of the directing and controlling power of
the will, follow the lead either of some dominant idea or of suggestion
from without." This doctrine, when applied to explain the intelligent
manifestations of spiritualism, comes to this, that you cannot argue,
from the fact that a man informs you truly of something which he could
not possibly have learned elsewhere, and which you know you were
never aware of in the ordinary sense of the word, that he is informed
by a superior intelligence; for you may have received unconsciously
into your cerebrum the information in question, or have unconsciously
elaborated it from premises so received, and may have communicated it
to your informant by unconscious muscular action.
I must do Dr. Carpenter the justice to admit that he nowhere, so
far as I have seen, attempts to apply his doctrine in detail to the
higher phenomena of spiritualism. He is contented with stating it
as indicating the direction in which a solution of such phenomenal
difficulties as do not seem to him wholly incredible is to be looked
for.
I have every wish to speak on matters of physiological experiment with
the modesty befitting my comparative unfamiliarity with the subject.
I have no difficulty in admitting all that Dr. Carpenter says, in his
article on "Electro-biology and Mesmerism" (_Quart._, Oct., 1853),
on the action of dominant ideas, whether original or suggested,
in the production of the phenomena of somnambulism and mesmerism;
but I hesitate as to the possibility of receiving in the form of an
unconscious ideational change such a piece of information as this: "I
have another sister besides those I am used to reckon"; and of its
recovery, not as an image or sensation such as a dream might leave,
but as an unequivocal assertion of a fact clothed in all its native
confidence. The nerve modification, which I suppose the "ideational
change" comes to, is here understood to play the part, not merely of a
bell whose prolonged vibrations, when taken cognizance of, may more or
less suggest the individual visitor, but of a photographic negative,
set aside, indeed, and overlaid, but from which at any moment exact
representations may be taken. This theory appears to me to belong to
the category of those which, to borrow Dr. Carpenter's expression
(art., p. 535), "cannot be accepted without a great amount of evidence
in their favor, but which, not being in absolute opposition to
recognized laws, may be received upon strong testimony, without doing
violence to our common sense." I must add that I have met with no such
evidence either in the _Quarterly Review_ or elsewhere. When we ask for
instances, in which modern science is ordinarily so fertile, it is at
least suspicious that the only at all adequate examples produced in the
brilliant article, "Spiritualism and its Recent Converts" (_Quart._,
vol. 131, 1871), are taken from the very spiritualistic phenomena
under discussion. Let us, however, for the moment grant all that is
expressly demanded on the score of unconscious cerebration, and then
see how far it affords an adequate explanation of the phenomena of
spiritualism. Of course, independent physical manifestations, such as
the subcommittees report, fall entirely without the sphere of this
explanation; and Faraday's ingenious machine for testing muscular
action has no place where there is no contact of muscles. But what are
we to say to communications such as the following (_Rep._, p. 195),
made to Signor Damiani, at Clifton? He asked of the rapping table,
"Who is there?" "Sister," was rapped out in reply. "What sister?"
"Marietta." "Don't know you; that is not a family name. Are you not
mistaken?" "No; I am your sister." He left the table in disgust, but
afterwards joined in another séance at the same house. "Who are you?"
he asks. "Marietta." "Again! Why does not a sister whom I can remember
come?" "I will bring one." "And the raps were heard to recede, becoming
faint and fainter, until lost in the distance. In a few seconds, a
double knock, like the trot of a horse, was heard approaching, striking
the ceiling, the floor, and, lastly, the table. 'Who is there?' 'Your
sister Antonietta.' That is a good guess, thought I. 'Where did
she pass away?' 'Chieti.' 'When?' Thirty-four loud, distinct raps
succeeded. Strange! My sister so named had certainly died at Chieti
just thirty-four years before." "How many brothers and sisters had you
then? Can you give me their names?" "Five names (the real ones), all
correctly spelt in Italian, were given. Numerous other tests produced
equally remarkable results." He is much perplexed, naturally, about
this sister "Marietta," and writes to his mother about her. He is
answered that, "on such a date, forty-four years before, a sister had
been born and had lived six hours, during which time she had been
baptized by the midwife by the name of Mary." Now, this is not a
case of an isolated bit of information that may have been given and
forthwith wholly disconnected from the current of life, as an Indian
child might have been told, on the eve of its voyage to England, that
a certain tropical berry was poisonous, which it never saw again. In
Signor Damiani's case, the sleep of unconscious cerebration must have
been very deep that so interesting a fact should not have been waked up
by all the friction it must have sustained every time of the thousand
of times that he asserted himself and his five brothers and sisters to
the exclusion of any others.
But these difficulties sink into the shade when we try to carry out
the explanation a step further. We have to explain not merely how
Signor Damiani knew, but how the medium knew, the astonishing fact. I
can understand how emotions of various kinds may be read in muscular
motions; how the almost inevitable slight hesitation at certain
critical letters may suggest them to the keen and practised observer;
but how, amongst all the threads of thought which cross the human mind,
the very one which must needs be the slenderest and most remote should
get itself expressed by unconscious muscular action, and how another
should read the hieroglyph, I simply cannot conceive. Nothing I have
met with in the wildest spiritualism is half so difficult to believe.
Here is another instance, from the testimony of Mr. Eyre (_Rep._,
p. 179). This gentleman wanted the register of the baptism of a
person born in England, and who had died in America a century ago. He
was led to suppose that this would be found either in Yorkshire or
Cambridgeshire. He hunted for it for three months, and then, in broad
daylight, without saying who he is or what he wants, consults a medium.
He says: "Before leaving home, I wrote out and numbered about a dozen
questions. Among them was the question, 'Where can I find the register
of the baptism I am searching for?' The paper with the questions I had
folded and placed in a stout envelope, and closed it. When we sat down
to the table, I asked, after some other questions, if the spirits would
answer the questions I had written and had in my pocket. The answer
by raps was, 'Yes.' I took the envelope containing the questions out
of my pocket, and, without opening it, laid it on the table. I then
took a piece of paper, and as the questions were answered--No. 1, 2,
and so on--I wrote down the answers. When we came to the question,
where I could get the register of the baptism, the table telegraphed,
'Stepney church,' and, at the same time, Mrs. Marshall, senior, in her
peculiar manner, blurted out, 'Stepney.' Being at that time a stranger
in London, I did not know there was such a place. I went on with the
questions I had prepared, and got correct answers to all of them. A few
days afterwards, I went to Stepney Church, and, after spending some
days in searching, I there found the register of the baptism, as I had
been told."
Here the medium had not even the light of the questions by which to
read the unconscious expression of unconscious cerebration. One cannot
help wondering what may be the muscular expression for "Stepney church."
The writer in the _Quarterly Review_, to whom I have before referred,
shall give us the next example from his own experience (vol. 131, p.
331). He owns that, on one occasion, he was "strongly impressed" by a
spiritualistic manifestation. "He (the medium, Mr. Foster) answered, in
a variety of modes, the questions we put to him respecting the time and
cause of the death of several of our departed friends and relatives,
whose names we had written down on slips of paper, which had been
folded up and crumpled into pellets before being placed in his hands.
But he brought out names and dates correctly, in large red letters on
his bare arms, the redness being produced by the turgescence of the
minute vessels of the skin, and passing away after a few minutes like a
blush. We must own to have been strongly impressed at the time by this
performance; but, on subsequently thinking it over, we thought we could
see that Mr. Foster's divining power was partly derived from his having
the faculty of interpreting the movements of the top of pen or pencil,
though the point and what was written by it was hid from his sight; and
partly from a very keen observation of the indications unconsciously
given by ourselves of the answer we expected." Indubitably in the
case of two accomplices, a preconcerted system of movements of the
top of the pencil might be made to indicate what was written; but,
considering the enormous variety of ways of writing, that any one can
acquire the art of so reading chance writing is incredible. At best
this explanation only applies to the questions. The answers, which were
given "correctly," in the shape of dates and causes of death, etc., in
red letters on the medium's arm, must have been read in the reviewer's
unconscious contortions. The force of the reviewer's admission of the
accuracy of these communications is not affected by the fact that
when _another_ way of answering questions was adopted--viz., the
questioner pointing successively to the letters of the alphabet, until
interrupted by the rap--there were indications of his manner being read
by the medium. Again, it is little to the purpose that "the trick by
which the red letters were produced was discovered by the inquiries
of one of our medical friends"--a most curiously vague statement, by
the bye--for the mystery to be explained is not the red letters, but
the correctness of the information they conveyed. There is nothing in
the necessity of some sort of _rapport_ existing between the medium
and his questioner inconsistent with the spirit hypothesis; there is
nothing in the subsequent experiments of the reviewer even tending to a
natural explanation of what had so strongly impressed him; and yet he
is able to shake off the strong impression triumphantly. One begins to
appreciate the eloquent words of Professor Tyndall:[50] "The logical
feebleness of science is not sufficiently borne in mind. It keeps down
the weed of superstition not by logic, but by slowly rendering the
mental soil unfit for its cultivation."
I recognize with gratitude, as one of the many services Dr. Carpenter
has done to science, his full admission of a series of facts in
connection with mesmerism and animal magnetism, until the other
day looked upon with suspicion by medical men and physiologists;
and, further, I am ready to admit that the influence of unconscious
cerebration upon some of the phenomena of spiritualism is probable
enough. But I maintain that it is distinctly inadequate as an
explanation. Its main use, as applied to spiritualism, has been that
of a learned label to attract the attention of scientific men--a
scientific rag wherewith spiritualism may cover its nakedness, but
which all the ingenuity in the world cannot convert into clothes.
II.
Numbers of intelligent persons, men distinguished in science, in
literature, in the learned professions, but whose "mental soil" has not
been rendered wholly unfit for the cultivation of all germs foreign
to the philosophy of the day, have acknowledged that the phenomena of
spiritualism are not only veritable, but inexplicable by any known
law. "The absolute and even derisive incredulity which dispenses with
all examination of the evidence for preternatural occurrences,"[51]
of which Mr. Lecky boasts as one of the results of civilization,
has certainly lost ground of late. Professor De Morgan says: "I am
perfectly convinced that I have both seen and heard, in a manner which
should render unbelief impossible, things called spiritual which cannot
be taken by a rational being to be capable of explanation by imposture,
coincidence, or mistake. So far I feel the ground firm under me."[52]
Mr. Edwin Arnold (_Rep._, p. 258) speaks to the same effect: "I regard
many of the 'manifestations' as genuine, undeniable, and inexplicable
by any known law or any collusion, arrangement, or deception of the
senses." And so we come very much to what S. Bonaventure said in the
XIIIth century: "Some have said that witchcraft is a nonentity in the
world, and has no force, save merely in the estimation of men, who, in
their want of faith, attribute many natural mishaps to witchcrafts;
but this position is derogatory to law, to common opinion, and, what
is of more importance, to experience, and so has no foothold."[53]
Law has, indeed, long ceased to have anything to say on the subject,
and popular sentiment, if not converted, has at least been reduced to
shamefaced silence; but once again experience claims her rights, and,
in a great wave extending across two hemispheres, the experience of
spiritualism breaks upon us, and the opposite opinion is found to lack
foothold. Even in this XIXth century, men are beginning to admit that
magic or mysticism, call it what you will, though overrun as ever with
trickery and delusion, is for all that no nonentity, but a long-ignored
reality, worthy, not of derision, but of patient examination. True many
of those who go furthest in their recognition of the genuineness of the
phenomena do not attribute them to spirits; still, however this may
be, no advocate of psychic force can deny that many of the so-called
marvel-mongers of the middle ages were at least no mere blind leaders
of the blind, but the witnesses of phenomena none the less true because
it has been for so long the fashion to ignore them.
In the middle ages, people thought that these marvels were the work of
spirits good or bad, or at least the result of their co-operation with
man. For such an hypothesis, modern science has an almost invincible
repugnance, in which I think there is much that is excusable. It is
not that the man of science necessarily disbelieves in the existence
of spirits; but the idea of their possible interference in phenomena
which he has to consider exercises a disturbing influence upon all his
calculations. He is as irritated as though he should be called upon to
submit to, and make allowance for, the tricks of mischievous children
who jerk his arm or clog his machinery. Again, he is haunted with the
notion that, by admitting the spirit hypothesis, he is contributing
to the inauguration of an era of disastrous reaction. To the eye of
his imagination, the bright, open platform, the familiar instruments,
each a concrete realization, in honest metal, of a known law, the
intelligent modern audience, his own classical tail-coat and white
neckcloth, melt away, and he sees himself propitiating fickle spirits
with uncouth spells, at the bottom of a mediæval grotto:
"A shape with amice wrapped around,
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea."
Not that the evil dream could ever be realized in its integrity; but
still, when once a spiritualist reaction has set in, who will venture
to fix its limits? And so, forgetting that the spirit hypothesis in
nowise excludes the operation of psychic conditions, he insists upon
every indication of such conditions, as though they were the key to
everything, and there were no indications of any other agency. His
"mental soil," perhaps, does not permit him to deny the reality of the
phenomena of spiritualism, or to talk of unconscious cerebration as a
sufficient explanation; and so he is contented to raise his altar to
an unknown god, provided only he may baptize him into the dynasty of
science by the name of "Psychic Force."
Psychic force has still to be defined. It is the unknown cause of
certain effects, taking its color from them only. With reference to
independent physical manifestations, it is the power to produce "the
movement of heavy substances without contact or material connection."
In this sense, Arago "is stated" to have reported to the Academy of
Science, "that, under peculiar conditions, the human organization
gives forth a physical power which, without visible instruments, lifts
heavy bodies, attracts or repels them, according to a law of polarity,
overturns them, and produces the phenomena of sound."[54] When
considered in relation to the whole mass of spiritualistic phenomena,
its vague, unsatisfactory character becomes still more apparent. The
nearest approach to a definition of psychic force, in its larger sense,
that I have met with occurs in Mr. Atkinson's communication (_Rep._,
p. 105): "It is nothing more than the ordinary and normal power of our
complex nature acting without impediment" (consciousness being one of
the impediments), "and diverted from its usual relations, though in
some cases abnormal conditions clearly favor the development." It is
hardly possible to mistake the pantheistic character of this passage;
for this unconditioned nature, underlying personal consciousness,
which, in virtue of its being unconditioned, knows all and can do
all, what else can it be but a common nature, an _anima mundi_, a
world-god? according to the pantheistic conception of Averrhoes, "an
intelligence which, without multiplication of itself, animates all
the individuals of the human species, in respect to their exercising
the functions of a rational soul."[55] I am convinced that psychic
force, if drawn out as the one solution of spiritualism, can end in
nothing short of this; but, on the other hand, I readily admit that the
"_anima mundi_" or rather, "spirit of nature," as advocated by Dr. H.
More, Glanvil, and, if he is not misrepresented, the famous Carmente
doctor, John Bacon,[56] is not pantheistic. More, formally rejecting
the doctrine of Averrhoes as "atheism," insists that the "spirit of
nature" is substantially distinct from, though in intimate relations
with, individual souls. He defines it to be "a substance incorporeal,"
how far possessing "sense and animadversion" he may not determine, but
certainly "devoid of reason and free-will," "pervading the whole matter
of the universe, and exercising a plastical power therein, according
to the sundry predispositions and occasions in the parts it works
upon, raising such phenomena in the world, by directing the parts of
matter and their motion, as cannot be resolved into mere mechanical
powers."[57]
As capable of holding automatic thought, processes, or their embryons,
such a spirit might lend itself as a vehicle of direct intellectual
influence between soul and soul, as also, of course, between souls
and spirits of another sort. But it must be remembered that, if this
might in some measure account for the intercommunication of thought,
it in no way tends to explain the genesis of information of which
all concerned are ignorant. That some such brute intelligence acts
as intermediary would seem to be borne out by the frequent spaces of
hopeless incoherency, like nothing so much as the shaking up of loose
type, which prelude and interrupt spiritual communications when the
intelligent will that would fain direct matters has not yet seized the
reins, or has dropped them from its grasp.
Whatever may be thought of the theory, the following passage from the
first edition of Glanvil's _Vanity of Dogmatizing_ is worth quoting.
The story in it was suppressed in subsequent editions, as too romantic
for the taste of the day:[58] "That one man should be able to bind the
thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular objects,
will be reckoned in the first rank of impossibles; yet, by the power
of advanced imagination, it may very probably be effected; and history
abounds with instances. I'll trouble the reader but with one, and the
hands from which I had it makes me secure of the truth on't.
"There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being
of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement
of preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there,
and to cast himself upon the wide world for a livelihood. Now, his
necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help of friends
to relieve him, he was at last forced to join himself to a company
of vagabond gypsies, whom occasionally he met with, and to follow
their trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the
insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their
love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery; in the
practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and parts, he soon grew
so good a proficient as to be able to outdo his instructors. After he
had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride
by a couple of scholars who had formerly been of his acquaintance. The
scholars had quickly spied out their old friend among the gypsies, and
their amazement to see him among such society had well-nigh discovered
him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew,
and, taking one of them aside privately, desired him with his friend
to go to an inn not far distant thence, promising there to come to
them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; after their first
salutations, his friends inquire how he came to lead so odd a life as
that was, and to join himself with such a cheating, beggarly company.
The scholar-gypsy, having given them an account of the necessity which
drove him to that kind of life, told them that the people he went with
were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a
traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the
power of imagination, and that himself had learnt much of their art,
and improved it further than themselves could; and, to evince the
truth of what he told them, he said he would remove into another room,
leaving them to discourse together, and, upon his return, tell them the
sum of what they had talked of; which accordingly he performed, giving
them a full account of what had passed between them during his absence.
The scholars, being amazed at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly
desired him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction
by telling them that what he did was by power of the imagination,
his fancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the
discourse they held together while he was from them; that there were
warrantable ways of heightening the imagination to that pitch as to
bind another's; and that, when he had compassed the whole secret, of
some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant, he intended to leave
their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.
"Now, that this strange power of the imagination is no impossibility,
the wonderful signatures of the fœtus, caused by the imagination of
the mother, is no contemptible item. The sympathies of laughing and
gaping together are resolved into this principle; and I see not why
the fancy of one man may not determine the cogitation of another,
rightly qualified, as easily as his bodily motion. This influence seems
to me to be no more unreasonable than that of one string of a lute
upon another, when a stroke on it causeth a proportionable motion in
the sympathizing consort, which is distant from it and not sensibly
touched. Now, if this notion be strictly verifiable, it will yield
us a good account of how angels inject thoughts into our minds, and
know our cogitations; and here we may see the source of some kinds of
fascination. If we are prejudiced against the speculation, because we
cannot conceive the manner of so strange an operation, we shall indeed
receive no help from the common philosophy; but yet the hypothesis
of a mundane soul, lately revived by that incomparable Platonist and
Cartesian, Dr. H. More, will handsomely relieve us; or, if any would
rather have a mechanical account, I think it may probably be made out
some such way as follows: Imagination is inward sense; to sense is
required a motion of certain filaments of the brain, and consequently
in imagination there is the like; they only differing in this, that
the motion of the one proceeds immediately from external objects, but
that of the other hath its immediate rise within us. Now, then, when
any part of the brain is strongly agitated, that which is next, and
most capable to receive the motive impress, must in like manner be
moved. Now, we cannot conceive anything more capable of motion than the
fluid matter that is interspersed among all bodies and is contiguous
to them. So, then, the agitated parts of the brain begetting a motion
in the proxime ether, it is propagated through the liquid medium, as
we see the motion is which is caused by a stone thrown into the water.
Now, when the thus moved matter meets with anything like that from
which it received its primary impress, it will proportionably move
it, as it is in musical strings tuned unisons; and thus the motion
being conveyed from the brain of one man to the fancy of another,
it is there received from the instrument of conveyance, the subtile
matter, and the same kind of strings being moved, and much what after
the same manner as in the first imaginant, the soul is awakened to the
same apprehensions as were they that caused them. I pretend not to any
exactness or infallibility in this account, foreseeing many scruples
that must be removed to make it perfect. It is only an hint of the
possibility of mechanically solving the phenomenon, though very likely
it may require many other circumstances completely to make it out."
There are abundant records of the marvels wrought by the imagination,
when, under the influence of desire or fear, or even simple
expectation, the attention is concentrated upon a particular spot or
a particular set of circumstances; but of the conditions and nature
of the operation almost nothing is known. It would seem as if there
were a tendency in every act of the imagination to create that which
it conceives, although it is only in rare cases that any palpable
result ensues. Various cases of recovery from the gravest illness,
some of which involved the arresting active, organic mischief, are
recorded as brought about by the vehement impression made upon the
imagination by a remedy supposed, but never really applied. The action
of imaginative sympathy is even more startling. Dr. Tuke relates the
following of a lady well known to him: "One day, she was walking past a
public institution, and observed a child, in whom she was particularly
interested, coming out through an iron gate. She saw that he let go the
gate after opening it, and that it seemed likely to close upon him, and
concluded that it would do so with such force as to crush his ankle;
however, this did not happen. 'It was impossible,' she says, 'by word
or act, to be quick enough to meet the supposed emergency; and, in
fact, I found I could not move, for such intense pain came on my ankle,
corresponding to the one I thought the boy would have injured, that I
could only put my hand on it to lessen its extreme painfulness. _I am
sure I did not move so as to strain or sprain it._ The walk home--a
distance of about a quarter of a mile--was very laborious, and, in
taking off my stocking, I found a circle round the ankle, as if it had
been painted with red-currant juice, with a large spot of the same on
the outer part. By morning, the whole foot was inflamed, and I was a
prisoner to my bed for many weeks."[59] In another case referred to by
Dr. Tuke, "a lady of an exceedingly sensitive and impressible nature,
on one occasion when a gentleman visited her house, experienced a very
uncomfortable sensation so long as he was present, and she observed
a spot or sore on his cheek. Two days after, a similar spot or sore
appeared on her cheek, in precisely the same situation, and with the
same characters."[60]
I have no fault to find with Dr. Tuke for extending this same principle
of sympathetic attention to the case of stigmatization, when he
says of S. Francis, absorbed in ardent realization of the Passion of
Christ, "So clearly defined an idea, so ardent a faith intensifying its
operation, were sufficient to reflect it in his body."[61]
I cannot help thinking that the Fathers recognized the creative power
of the imagination when they denounced so fiercely the masquerading
in beast-skins on the calends of January. "Is not all this false and
mad when God-formed men transform themselves into cattle, or wild
beasts, or monsters?"[62] The numerous accounts of the were-wolf
transformation, both in classical and mediæval times, all point in the
same direction; and Mr. Baring-Gould brings good authority for thinking
that the etymology of the "Barsark" rage of the Norsemen designates it
as an outcome of their bear-skins.
The direct action of the imagination upon external objects, attributed
to Avicenna (_Muratori della Fantasia_, p. 268), is, of course,
something further. The Arabian philosopher is reported to have said
that, "by a strong action of the fancy, one might kill a camel." At the
same time, the signature on the fœtus, not merely of the emotion of the
mother's fear or desire, but of the object or occasion of it, would
seem to imply some action _ab extra_, as well as such cases as that of
the sympathetic bruise referred to above.
That the ordinary acts of the imagination, for all their airy and
impalpable play, do leave behind them most momentous results, forming,
as it were, the very mould and measure of our whole life, is a matter
of constant experience. Hence it is that castles in the air are often
so costly, to say nothing of the danger that, though we have built
them ourselves, we may find them haunted.
I am quite prepared to admit what the Germans have called a night-side
of nature--that is, various rudimental powers of doing many things
of a seemingly miraculous character, which powers do very probably
often co-operate in the production of spiritualistic phenomena, and
under peculiar organic conditions, without any spiritual influence,
may be brought into considerably developed action. Moreover, as it is,
of course, in the investigation of these natural bases of magic that
science will succeed so far as it succeeds at all, it is only right
that it should expatiate in them. My complaint is that the modern
attempt to reduce spiritualism to psychic force involves an inadequate
analysis of the facts presented; and spiritualists have surely some
ground to complain of the _prima facie_ disingenuousness of a manœuvre
which, in regard to the same phenomena, began with, "This is not
natural, therefore it is certainly not true," and ends with, "This is
true, therefore it is certainly natural."
However much the scientific mind of the day may dislike the
preternatural stand-point, yet it may be that, seeing "an absolute
and derisive incredulity" is no longer regarded as the one scientific
attitude, some examination of the views entertained by Catholic writers
on the subject may not be without interest. Many of the acutest amongst
them for ages have given great attention to the phenomena of mysticism,
although mainly engaged in the consideration of their moral and
ascetical bearings. Before leaving this second hypothesis, I propose
to bring together such passages from the schoolmen as seem to make the
largest allowance on the side of psychic force. Whilst there are, I
think, sufficient indications that the scholastics generally admit
psychic force as a natural basis and concurrent cause in many of the
phenomena of both divine and diabolic mysticism, it must be allowed
that passages dwelling at any length on this point have at least the
merit of rarity.
Görres taught, reasonably enough, I conceive, in his _Mystik_, that
there is a physical basis for the great mass of miracles wrought by
Almighty God in and through his saints; that is to say, that they do
not, ordinarily speaking, involve the creation of an entirely fresh
power, but are rather the result of a divine excitation of a power
already existing in germ. Of course, he who "of these stones can raise
up children to Abraham" only subjects himself to the laws which he has
made in so far as it pleases him to do so; and the scholastics were
right in their insistence upon what they called the "obediential" power
of things--that is, their inherent capacity of becoming anything in
the hands of their Creator. Of course, too, it is often impossible to
ascertain in a given case whether God is using that _altum dominium_
which he possesses as Creator, or, on the other hand, is merely
developing previously existing powers. Everything tends to persuade us
that all nature, and especially the human soul, is full of rudimental
powers which may be developed, 1st, by the special, immediate action of
the Creator; 2d, by spiritual influences, good and bad; 3d, by certain
abnormal conditions of the bodily organism. I conceive that these
rudimental powers form a common natural basis for the great mass of
both divine and diabolic miracles, and that sometimes they may attain
to a considerable degree of development without any special influence,
divine or diabolic. The existence of such a common basis would seem
to be implied in the fact that the devil has been able to imitate
successfully and really, as in the case of Pharao's magicians, so many
of the divine miracles; for we know that he can at most develop what
already exists, without having the least power to create what is not.
We cannot imagine that God would ever create where he might develop,
according to the scholastic principle which Sir William Hamilton has
translated into the Law of Parsimony: _Deus non abundat in superfluis_.
To take a particular example, Görres maintains that the ascetic and
mystic process which the mind of the saint goes through by abstraction
from earthly things, and the habit of celestial contemplation,
does really co-operate in the phenomenon, so common in ecstasy, of
levitation. In which case, the saint would be rather aided by God,
acting upon his body through his soul, to rise in the air, than,
properly speaking, lifted up by him. This levitation is common enough
in the best authenticated cases of diabolical possession; and, if it
does not occur in cases presumably natural, at least a wholly abnormal
lightness and agility is not unfrequent in some of the movements of
somnambulism. We find an example of this in the following narrative,
taken from a rare treatise of the Benedictine Abbot Trithemius (sæc.
15), entitled _Curiositas Regia_ (p. 29): "Let any one who knows
nothing of nature tell me if the specific gravity of the body can be
lightened by the action of the mind. I, with two witnesses to back
me, will relate what I myself experienced when a boy at school. One
night, we were four of us sleeping in one bed; my companion rose from
beside me, as asleep as ever he was, the moon in its fifteenth night
shining in upon us, and wandered all over the house as though he were
awake, with his eyes shut. He climbed the walls more nimbly than a
squirrel. He a second and a third time clambered up on the bed, and
trampled upon all of us with his feet; but we felt no more of his
weight than if he had been a little mouse. Wherever his sleeping body
came, at once all the fastenings of the doors fell back of their own
accord. With exceeding swiftness, he got to the top of the house, and,
sparrow-fashion, clave to the roof. I am telling what I saw, not what I
heard in idle talk. This would seem to be the part, not of a body, but
of a spirit which freely uses its native power, so to speak, when the
corporal senses are bound, and it wanders outside the mansion of the
body.... We do not suppose that this will appear wonderful to the wise,
who have a true conception of the power and nobility of the human mind,
which in some respects is accounted the equal of the angels, being only
separated from them by the interposition of the body."
After speaking of the miracles wrought, first by the invocation of
faith, second by sanctity, which commands the ministration of angels,
third by the assistance of demons through explicit or implicit compact,
he continues: "Some persons add to these three ways a fourth, saying
that the mind or spirit of the man himself can naturally work its
miracles, provided only it knows how to withdraw itself from the
accidental, in upon itself, above the exercise of the senses, into
unity. Those who can compass this undertake to work marvels, to
predict the future, to lay open the secrets of men's hearts, to dispel
diseases, and suddenly to change men's counsels." Trithemius is willing
to admit that some such power exists, whilst denying that it can attain
to any perfect exercise without some external assistance from good or
evil spirits. He gives the same account with Görres of the ecstatic
_volatus_, viz., that the power of God co-operates with the energy of
the saint's soul.
William of Auvergne, Bishop of Paris, in the beginning of the XIIIth
century, recognizes the reality of several of the phenomena of
spiritualism, and indicates a natural basis. Thus, speaking of the
mirrors upon which magicians make their patients look, he says that no
images are seen in the glass, but that what takes place is "a bending
back of the mind's edge upon itself--of his mind, I say, who looks
upon such an instrument; for its brightness forbids the mind's vision
exteriorating and directing itself, and flings it back and reflects
it in such sort that it cannot but look into itself."[63] Within the
mind, he says, all sorts of wonders may be read, for therein abides the
light "to which our souls in respect to their noble powers are most
closely united; and one of the wisest Christians saith that 'this light
is the Creator ever blessed,' meaning by these words that betwixt our
minds and the interior light, which is God, there is no intermediary,
according to the prophet's word, which, addressing the Creator, saith,
'The light of thy countenance is sealed upon us, O Lord'; that is,
thy lightsome countenance, which is naught else but thyself." Whilst
acknowledging that this light is "sealed," and that its rays do but
break out like lightning flashes in a dark night, and confessing that
he has long been cured of that error of his youth, the notion that the
purification and abstraction necessary for such inward vision could
be profitably achieved without the "grace of the Creator," he yet
maintains that this light is, up to a certain point, communicated
according to a natural law, analogous, it would seem, to that of the
infusion of life. He considers that a melancholy temperament favors
this abstraction, and insists that melancholy madmen, in virtue of
their abstraction, do receive true irradiations of this divine light,
although indefinitely fragmentary (_particulatas et obtruncatas_),
"wherefore _naturally_ they begin to discourse like prophets of divine
things, yet continue not to talk so, save for a little while, but
lapse into words of accustomed folly." He attributes this relapse to
their shattered condition and the excess of the melancholy fumes which
overpower them.
Whatever may be thought of the theory, few can have seen much of
mad persons without noticing the noble fragments with which their
disjointed talk is not unfrequently interspersed. The present writer
has often heard one of the persons concerned relate the following story
of a madman's prophecy:
The narrator, with two lady friends, had just been received from
Anglicanism into the Catholic Church in Italy, and they were
anxiously looking forward to the new phase of life awaiting them in
England. They were all three going over a lunatic asylum at Palermo,
when suddenly one of the inmates strode up to them, and with great
solemnity, touching each of them in turn, said to one of the ladies,
"_Il Paradiso_"; to the other, "_La Madalena_"; and to the gentleman,
"_Molto, molto d'Argento_." Of the two ladies, the first died a holy
death on the threshold of her Catholic life, whilst the other entered
an order devoted to the reformation of fallen women. The third part
only remains unfulfilled, and may possibly mark the relapse into our
author's _desipientia consueta_.
William of Auvergne extends these natural divine irradiations even to
the minds of animals, for which he entertains a most unscholastic-like
respect: "Yea, this light (splendor) is given to dogs to hunt out the
most secret thieves; ... for the dog perceives not the thief himself,
and the sense of smell represents him not; for a thief, as such, has no
odor."
Trithemius and William of Auvergne may be regarded as authors who lay
an exceptional stress upon the natural basis of the supernatural. The
former indicates the possibility of the alteration of the specific
gravity of the body by the action of the soul within it; the latter
suggests a system of natural revelation akin, it would seem, to what
one meets with in the mesmeric or somnambulistic trance.
The somnambulistic and mesmeric states would seem to be substantially
identical, although the latter involves a relation of subjection to
the will of another which is not necessary, though possible, at least
in some degree, to the former. Somnambulism very frequently produces
the phenomenon of the exaltation of the natural powers; for instance,
when in a somnambulistic state, the singer sings more sweetly, the
dancer dances more gracefully, than in their normal condition. The same
exaltation of natural power has been stated sometimes to take place in
deranged persons, as Lamb indicates was the case with himself, in his
letter to Coleridge: "Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the
grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad. All seems to me
now vapid, comparatively so." I remember being told by an intelligent
person very fond of singing, who was subject to occasional fits of
derangement, that, when mad, his voice gained in compass a good octave;
even if this proves to be nothing but a lunatic's delusion, it is
sufficiently curious that somnambulism should effect in reality what
madness vainly imagines.
From time to time, somnambulism seems to open a door in the soul to a
source of natural revelation, such as William of Auvergne speaks of.
The following authentic instance is particularly noteworthy, because
the possibility of expectation, having produced, as it often does, what
was expected, is precluded. At a school at Thorp Arch, in Yorkshire,
at the beginning of the present century, a boy was known to be a
somnambulist. One night, the usher saw him rise from his bed and wander
down-stairs into the school-room. He followed, and saw the boy go to
his desk, take out his slate, and write. On looking over his shoulder,
he read: "On such a day of such a month next I shall die." The boy
almost directly after went up to bed, and the usher took the slate to
the head-master. They agreed to say nothing about it, and another slate
was substituted. The boy went on with his routine life, apparently
quite unconscious that anything was impending; and, indeed, it is on
all hands admitted that somnambulists in their waking state recollect
nothing of their somnambulism. When the day came, the boy died.
Sister Anne Catherine Emerich (1774-1824), an ecstatica of Westphalia,
has expressed herself with considerable precision on the subject of
mesmerism. Whilst earnestly warning people against its use as to the
last degree dangerous, she admits that the phenomena are objective, and
that the power brought into action is _substantially_ natural. What
she says is so remarkable that I shall not hesitate to quote at some
length.[64]
"My impression in regard to it [mesmerism] was always one of
horror, and this sprang less from the thing itself than from the
enormous danger to which I saw such as practised it almost always
fall a prey.
"The practice of magnetism borders on that of magic; in the
former, indeed, there is no invocation of the devil, but he comes
of himself. Whoever gives himself up to it plucks from nature
something that cannot be lawfully won except in the church of
Jesus Christ, and which cannot keep its power of healing, and
sanctifying, except in her bosom. Nature, for all such as are not
in active union with Jesus Christ by true faith and sanctifying
grace, is full of satanic influences. Magnetic subjects see nothing
in its essence and in its relation of dependence upon God; they
see everything in a state of isolation and separation, as if they
were looking through a hole or crack. They see one ray of things;
and would to God this ray were pure--that is to say, holy! It is in
God's mercy that he has veiled and separated us from one another;
that he has raised a wall between us. Since we are all full of
sin, and exercise influence one upon the other, it is well that
we should be obliged to interpose some preamble before seducing
one another and reciprocating the contagious influence of the evil
spirit. But in Jesus Christ, God himself made man is given us as
our head, in union with whom we can, when purified and sanctified,
become one--one body--without bringing into this union our sins and
evil inclinations. Whoever would bring to an end in any other way
this separation which God has established is uniting himself, after
a most dangerous fashion, to fallen nature, in which he reigns with
all his allurements who drew it to its fall.
"I see that magnetism is essentially true; but in that veiled light
there crouches a thief who has broken his chain. All union amongst
sinners is dangerous, interpenetration more especially so. But when
this befalls a soul that is altogether cloudless; when a state, the
condition of whose clairvoyance is its simplicity and directness,
falls a prey to artifice and intrigue, then _one of the faculties
of man before his fall--a faculty which is not quite dead_--is in a
certain manner revived, to leave him more unarmed, more mystified,
and exposed internally to the assaults of the demon. This state
is real--it exists; but it is covered with a veil, because it is a
spring poisoned for all except the saints.
"I feel that the state of these persons follows a course in certain
respects parallel to mine, but moving in an opposite direction,
coming from elsewhere, and having other consequences. The sin of
a man with only the faculty of ordinary vision is an act wrought
by the senses or in their forum. The inward light is not thereby
darkened, but speaks in the conscience, and urges from within, like
a judge, to sensible acts of repentance and penance. It leads us
to those remedies which the church administers under a sensible
form--the sacraments. Then the sensitive part is the sinner, and
the inward light the accuser.
"But in the magnetic state, when the senses are dead, when the
inward light receives and yields impressions, then that which
is holiest in a man, the interior watcher, is exposed to deadly
influences, to contagious infection of the evil spirit, such as the
soul in the state of ordinary wakefulness can have no consciousness
of, owing to the senses, subject as these are to the laws of time
and space. At the same time, it cannot free itself of its sins by
the purifying remedies of the church. I see, indeed, that a soul
altogether pure and reconciled with God, even in the state in which
the whole interior life is open, may chance not to be wounded by
the devil. But I see that if she has previously consented to the
least temptation, as very easily happens, especially to those of
the female sex, Satan is free to play his game in the interior
of the soul, which he always manages in a way to dazzle her with
the semblance of sanctity. The visions become lies, and, if she
perchance discover some way of healing the mortal body, she pays a
costly price for it in the secret defilement of an immortal soul."
With regard to another kindred phenomenon, viz., the projection of the
thinking soul in a visible envelope, there is a remarkable passage in
S. Augustine (_De Civ. Dei_, lib. xviii. 18). He is speaking of a story
he heard when in Italy of men being turned into asses by enchantment,
and made to carry burdens:
"To say nothing of the soul, I do not believe that a man's body
could any how by demons-craft be turned into bestial limbs and
lineaments; but the fantastic part of man's nature (which, in the
processes of thinking and dreaming, is countlessly specificated,
and which, though itself no body, yet with wondrous swiftness, when
the man's bodily senses are holden in sleep or bondage, adapts to
itself the images of bodies) may be presented in some I know not
what ineffable way, under a bodily form, to the senses of others,
the while their bodies be elsewhere alive, indeed, but with their
senses much more heavily and mightily bound than in sleep. And
that fantastic part appears to the eyes of others, as it were,
incorporated in the likeness of another creature; and such the man
seems to himself to be, and to carry burdens. While burdens, if
they be real bodies and not fantastic, the demons carry to deceive
spectators, who see on the one hand the burdens, which are real; on
the other the beasts, which are mere appearances."
The phenomenon described, or rather suggested, by the saint is
substantially identical with that of the wraith, or apparition of the
spirit of a living person, when the soul is supposed to be projected
in a visible envelope under the influence of some strong emotion, the
bonds uniting soul and body being indefinitely stretched, without
being broken. Fanciful as this sounds, the apparition of the wraith is
perhaps the best authenticated of all ghost phenomena.
Plutarch (_De Gen. Soc._ p. 266) would seem to indicate the same
phenomenon. The Neoplatonic interlocutor, having distinguished the
intelligence (νοῦς) from the soul (ψυχή), inasmuch as the former is not
properly the body at all, except by reflection, as light in a mirror,
but floats above the man's head, bound to the incorporated soul and
yielding light for its conduct, says, in respect to the case of one
Hermodorus, whose soul was supposed periodically to leave his body:
"But this is not true, for his soul did not go forth from his body,
but, slackening and loosing the reins to the intelligence (the δαίμων,
as the wise call it, regarding it as something external), allowed it
circumgyration and circum-frequentation (περιδρομὴν καὶ περιφίτησιν),
and, when it had seen or heard anything, to bear in the tidings."
Catholic theologians, although commonly denying that the soul can
be separated from the body in natural or diabolical ecstasy, admit
generally that, in the case of the divine _raptus_, this separation, or
rather projection--for death is supposed not to ensue--may take place;
although many of them--amongst others Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib.
iii. cap. 49)--deny that, in fact, such separation ever does occur.
On this question, Cardinal Bona (_De Discret. Spir._, cap. 14) says:
"Whether the soul, in the higher or more vehement rapt, sometimes
leaves the body, or can leave it, is a doubtful and difficult question;
for the apostle, caught up into the third heaven, professed that he
knew not whether this was in the body or out of the body; and what so
great a man did not know it is not for us to define. 'For who,' saith
Augustine, most learnedly disputing of the rapt of Paul, 'would dare to
say he knew what the apostle said he did not know?' The same ignorance
possessed S. Teresa's mind; for, describing the effects of rapture in
_The Castle of the Soul_, mans. 6 c. 5, she says: 'Whether in the body
or out of the body these things take place, I cannot tell: I certainly
dare not affirm on my oath either that the soul is then in the body,
or that the body can, in the meanwhile, live without the soul.' Then,
making use of some similitude to explain the matter, she ends by saying
she knows not what to say. But S. Catherine of Sienna, herself a divine
patient (_Epist. xii. ad P. Raym._), does not hesitate to affirm for
certain that her soul sometimes left her body and tasted the sweets
of immortality; which occasional separation of the soul and body it
is manifest could take place, not by the powers of nature, but by the
omnipotence of God." I would suggest that separation or projection
would seem to admit of degrees, some of which may be possible to other
powers short of omnipotence.
To this phenomenon of projection I should be inclined to reduce the
majority, if not all, the cases of replication or bilocation recorded
in the lives of the saints. Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib. iv. pars.
i. cap. 32), when discussing the apparitions of living saints, is
careful to explain that he is not pretending to entertain the question
of the possibility of "one and the same body of a living man being at
the same time in two places, which philosophers call replication."
Both S. Thomas and S. Bonaventure insist upon the intrinsic
impossibility of the presence of a body "extensive"--_i.e._ clothed
in its dimensions--at the same time in more than one place. That
this is so, De Lugo, whilst advocating against Vasquez the contrary
opinion, intrepidly admits. We may add that the fact of trilocation
being unheard of is, so far, an argument against the possibility of
replication; for once admit that replication is possible, and there is
no reason for limiting to duality of presence.
It would seem to be essential to the phenomenon of projection that
the body remain in a trance during the process. When simultaneous
intelligent activity has been proved, the hypothesis is shown to be
insufficient. The best authenticated cases, however, of so-called
bilocation seem to me to fail precisely in this proof of simultaneity.
Take, for instance, the wonderful miracles of this kind related of
S. Alphonso Liguori, such as his preaching in the church and hearing
confessions in the house at the same time; the possibility either of
his having passed, with miraculous rapidity of course, from the one
place to the other, or, again, of the projection of his soul, does not
seem to me to have been fairly disproved.
Setting aside the hypothesis of replication, the apparitions of saints
simultaneously existing elsewhere need not be the result of projection,
as it is quite conceivable that they may be represented by their
angels. This seems to be suggested by S. Augustine (_De Cura Gerenda
pro Mortuis_, cap. 10). Such representation would cover simultaneous
activity should this be proved. For the perfection of the phenomenon
of projection, we require the patient's own testimony that he and no
other has been consciously acting in some place where his body was not,
and, in default of witnesses, some proof that he has been there. For
obvious reasons, such self-testimony is very rare in the lives of the
saints. The most remarkable I have met with is the following from the
_Life of S. Alphonso Liguori_ (vol. iii. p. 417, Orat. Series). It is
unfortunately defective in there having been no witnesses at the term
of projection:
"In the morning of the 21st of September, 1774, after Alphonso
had ended Mass, contrary to custom, he threw himself into his
arm-chair; he was cast down and silent, he made no movement of any
sort, never articulated a word, and said nothing to any one. He
remained in this state all that day and all the following night;
and, during all this time, he took no nourishment, and did not
attempt to undress. The servants, on seeing the state he was in,
did not know what was going to happen, and remained up and at his
room door, but no one dared to enter it.
"On the morning of the 22d, he had not changed his position; and
no one knew what to think about it. The fact was that he was in a
prolonged ecstasy. However, when the day became further advanced,
he rang the bell to announce that he intended to celebrate Mass.
This signal was not only answered by Brother Francis Anthony,
according to custom, but all the people in the house hurried to him
with eagerness. On seeing so many people, his lordship asked what
was the matter, with an air of surprise. 'What is the matter?' they
replied. 'You have neither spoken nor eaten anything for two days,
and you ceased to give any signs of life.' 'That is true,' replied
Alphonso; 'but you do not know that I have been with the Pope, who
has just died.'... Ere long, the tidings of the death of the Pope
Clement were received; he passed to a better life on the 22d of
September, at seven o'clock in the morning, at the very moment when
Alphonso came to himself."
To all appearances, precisely the same phenomenon is to be found both
in the diabolical and the natural order. Innumerable instances are
recorded of diabolical projection. Here is one quoted by Görres from
Senert (_De Morbis Occultis_): "A woman, accused of being a were-wolf,
anointed her body in the presence of the magistrate, who promised her
her life if she would give him a specimen of her art. Immediately after
the anointing, she fell on the ground, and slept profoundly. She awoke
three hours after, and, on being asked where she had been, answered
that she had been changed into a wolf, and had torn to pieces a sheep
and a cow close to a little village, which she named, and which was
situated a few miles off. They sent to this village, and, on inquiry,
found that the mischief she claimed to have perpetrated was a reality."
The following narrative of presumably natural projection is
characterized by Görres (_Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 267, French Trans.) as
"very noteworthy and perfectly authentic":
"Mary, the wife of John Goffe, of Rochester, was attacked by a
lingering illness, and was removed ten miles from her home to
her father's house at West Malling, at which place she died June
4, 1691. On the eve of her death, she was possessed with a great
longing to see her children, whom she had left at home with their
nurse. She besought her husband to hire a horse, that she might
go to Rochester and die with her children. They pointed out to
her that she was not in a condition to leave her bed and mount on
horseback. She insisted that anyhow she would make the attempt. 'If
I cannot sit upright,' said she, 'I will lie down on the horse; for
I must see my dear little ones.' The clergyman visited her about
ten o'clock at night. She seemed perfectly resigned to die, and
full of confidence in the divine mercy. 'All that troubles me,'
said she, 'is that I am not to see my children any more.' Between
one and two in the morning, she had a kind of ecstasy. According to
the statement of Widow Turner, who was watching beside her during
the night, her eyes were open and fixed, and her mouth shut. The
nurse put her hand to her mouth and nostrils, and felt no breath;
she therefore supposed that the sick woman had fainted, and,
indeed, was not clear whether she was alive or dead. When she came
to herself, she told her mother that she had been to Rochester, and
had seen her children. 'Impossible,' replied the mother; 'you have
never for a moment left your bed.' 'For all that,' rejoined the
other, 'I went to-night and saw my children during my sleep.' The
Widow Alexander, the children's nurse, declared on her side that,
a little before two o'clock in the morning, she saw Mary Goffe
come out of the room next to hers, where one of the children was
sleeping by itself, with the door open between them, and enter her
room; and that she remained about a quarter of an hour close to the
bed where she was lying with the youngest child. Her eyes moved and
her lips looked as if they were speaking; but she said nothing. The
nurse professed herself willing to affirm on oath in the presence
of the authorities all that she had said, and to take the sacrament
upon it. She added that she was perfectly awake, and that the dawn
was beginning to break, as it was one of the shortest nights of the
year. She sat up in bed, and watched the apparition attentively.
She heard the clock on the bridge strike two. After a few moments
had passed, she said, 'In the name of the Father, and the Son,
and the Holy Ghost, who are you?' At these words, the apparition
vanished."
Here is another example from Mr. Varley's evidence (_Report on
Spiritualism_):
"My sister-in-law had heart disease. Mrs. Varley and I went into
the country to see her, as we feared, for the last time. I had a
nightmare, and could not move a muscle. While in this state, I
saw the spirit of my sister-in-law in the room. I knew that she
was confined to her bed-room. She said, 'If you do not move, you
will die,' but I could not move; and she said, 'If you submit
yourself to me, I will frighten you, and you will then be able
to move.' At first I objected, wishing to ascertain more about
her spirit-presence. When at last I consented, my heart had
ceased beating. I think at first her efforts to terrify me did
not succeed; but when she suddenly exclaimed, 'O Cromwell! I am
dying,' that frightened me exceedingly, and threw me out of the
torpid state, and I awoke in the ordinary way. My shouting had
aroused Mrs. Varley; we examined the door, and it was still locked
and bolted, and I told my wife what had happened, having noted the
hour--3:45 A.M.--and cautioned her not to mention the matter to
anybody, and to hear what was her sister's version, if she alluded
to the subject. In the morning, she told us that she had passed a
dreadful night, that she had been in our room, and greatly troubled
on my account; and that I had been nearly dying. It was between
half-past three and four when she saw I was in danger. She only
succeeded in rousing me by exclaiming, 'O Cromwell! I am dying.' I
appeared to her to be in a state which otherwise would have ended
fatally."
In considering the psychic-force hypothesis, I have been anxious to do
justice to every slightest indication of such abnormal power in the
speculations and experiences of Catholic writers. For this reason, I
have spoken of projection, although I am not aware that any attempt
has been made by the advocates of psychic force so to explain it.
Whilst reiterating my belief that the mind has many mysterious powers
capable of being brought into active operation by various influences,
and that these are, in all probability, operative in several of the
phenomena of spiritualism; granting, moreover, that it is hardly
possible to define precisely the extent of the soul's co-operation in
the production of these phenomena, I contend, notwithstanding, that the
psychic-force hypothesis is the result of a non-natural and inadequate
analysis of the phenomena of spiritualism. For, 1st, in the form in
which it has been presented, it is indubitably obnoxious to the charge
of being an expedient to escape a recognition of spiritual influence,
which recognition, in a XIXth-century man of science, would be so very
unsportsmanlike, to say the least of it. 2d. It wholly ignores the
sense of personal dualism in spiritual experience, to which the history
of spiritualism in all ages bears consistent witness. As the idealist
would convince us that there is no external world distinct from the
phenomena of sensation, so the advocate of psychic force would persuade
spiritualists that they have been merely conversing with their own
shadows, as with real beings who could hear and answer their questions,
and have attributed to these, as independent agents, feats which they
were themselves performing. 3d. So far as we have any indication of a
thaumaturgic element in the mind, it manifests itself in the supreme
efforts of the imagination, kindled by emotion, and abstracted and
concentrated by expectation; whereas, in the mass of spiritualistic
experiences, imagination in those concerned seems distinctly to fall
short of its highest stages.
The third hypothesis remains for consideration; but, in order to do it
justice, I shall have to enter at some length into the church notion
of magic and direct diabolical interference; and this will form the
subject of my second chapter.
FOOTNOTES:
[49] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.
T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C.
[50] _Scientific Scraps._
[51] _Hist. of Rat._, chap. i.
[52] Pref. to _From Matter to Spirit_.
[53] Lib. iv. dist. 34, art. 2.
[54] Dr. Tuke, _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 355.
[55] _Biog. Brit., Baconthorp._
[56] Haureau, _La Philosophie Scholastique_, tome ii. cap. 29.
[57] _The Immortality of the Soul_, op. p. 212.
[58] _Biog. Brit._
[59] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 260.
[60] _Ibid._, p. 428.
[61] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 82.
[62] S. Max. Taur., _Hom._ xvi.
[63] _De Universo_, pars iii. cap. 18, 20.
[64] _Vie_, par Schmoeger, tome i., p. 484 _et seq._
THE SON OF GOD, ARCHETYPAL BEAUTY.
My heart's voice is to thee, my Lord and Eternal King, Christ Jesus.
The work of Thy hand dares to address Thee with loving boldness, for
it yearns after Thy beauty, and longs to hear Thy voice. O Thou, my
heart's desired One, how long must I bear Thy absence! How long must
I sigh after Thee, and my eyes drop tears? O Lord, all love, all
loveable, where dwellest Thou? Where is the place of Thy rest, where
Thou reposest all joyful among Thy favorite ones, and satisfiest them
with the revelations of Thy glory? How happy, how bright, how holy, how
ardently to be longed for, is that place of perennial joys! My eye has
never reached far enough, nor my heart soared high enough, to know the
multitude of the sweetnesses which Thou hast stored up in it for Thy
children. And yet I am supported by their fragrance, though I am far
away from them. The breath of Thy sweetness comes to me from afar--a
sweetness which to me exceeds the odour of balsam, and the breath of
frankincense and myrrh, and every kind of sweet smell.--_S. Anselm._
DANTE'S PURGATORIO.
CANTO ELEVENTH.
In the Ninth Canto Virgil declares to Dante: _Tu sei omai al
Purgatorio giunto_-"Thou hast arrived at Purgatory now!" and it
is not until the next Canto that the gate of Purgatory proper is
unfolded to the poet. The first nine Cantos being preliminary, are
by Italian critics called the Ante-Purgatorio.
In the first cornice of the true Purgatory, "_La, dove 'l
Purgatorio ha dritto inizio_," Dante meets a procession of spirits
crouching under great burdens of stone, in expiation of their sin
of pride. As this Tenth Canto, however, is mostly occupied with an
elaborate description of certain sculptures around the cornice,
illustrative of the same deadly sin, and might be less interesting
to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we proceed to the Eleventh,
where we are introduced to the spirits of Omberto Aldobrandeschi,
Oderisi the illuminator, and Provenzan Salvani, lord of Sienna. In
Omberto the pride of birth is especially reproved; and in Salvani
the pride of place, the arrogance of power. The sin of Oderisi is
of the æsthetic order common to a period of larger culture. Himself
an artist, whose fault was pride of art, he inveighs against the
vanity of painters and of poets, and the emptiness of a present
reputation.
PRAYER OF THE PROUD SPIRITS--A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER.
"O thou, our Father, dwelling there in heaven!
Not circumscribed, save by the larger love
Which to thy love's first offspring must be given,
Who from the first have dwelt with thee above!
By every creature hallowed be thy name
And praised thy goodness, as for man was meant
To render thanks to thy benignant flame:
May to our souls thy kingdom's peace be lent,
For of ourselves we could not come thereto
With all our intellect, unless 'twere sent:
And even as of their will thine Angels do
(Chanting Hosanna) sacrifice to thee,
So to Thy Will may men their own subdue:
Our daily manna give to us this day,
Without which help, through this rough wilderness,
Who strives to go falls backward on his way.
And even as we forbear us to redress
The wrong from others which we have to brook
Pardon thou us, benignant One! and less
On our deserving than our weakness look:
Try not our virtue, ever prone to yield,
'Gainst the old enemy who spurs it so;
Deliver us from him and be our shield:
This last petition, dearest Lord! we know
We have no need of;--but for them we plead
Who after us amid temptation go."
Thus praying for themselves and us God-speed,
Those weary shadows, underneath a load
Like that we sometimes dream that we endure,
Toiled in unequal anguish[65] o'er the road
Round the first cornice, all becoming pure
From the world's tarnish. O if alway there
For us they say such gracious words! for them
What might be here performed in act or prayer
By souls whose will is a sound-rooted stem:
Well might we help them wash whatever stain
They bore from _this_ world, that sublimed and fair
They to the starry circles might attain.
VIRGIL.
"Ah so may pity soon, and justice spare
You souls this load, that you may move the wing
That lifts you upward to celestial air!
Show us which way most speedily may bring
Us towards the ascent. If more than one there be,
Point us that pass the least precipitous;
Since he who comes and fain would climb with me
Through flesh of Adam is encumbered thus."
Who made their answer to these words which he
Whom I was following unto them addrest
Was not discernible, but this was said:
OMBERTO.
"To the right hand, along the bank, 'tis best
You come with us. This way to living tread
The pass is possible that you request:
And were I not impeded by the stone
Which my proud neck so masters with its weight,
That I perforce must hold my visage down,
This man who liveth, and who doth not state
What name he bears, I would look up to see
If I do know, and make compassionate
His heart for this huge load that bendeth me.
William Aldobrandeschi was the name
Of a great Tuscan; I was born his son,
Of Latin race: whether his title came
To your ears ever, knowledge have I none.
Mine ancestors, their ancient blood, and what
They wrought by prowess, rendered me so high
In arrogance, that never taking thought
About our common Mother, all men I
So scorned, that as the Siennese all know,
I to my death at last was brought thereby,
And every child in Campagnatico
Knows how I there did perish for my sin.
I am Omberto, and not me alone
Hath pride done damage to, but all my kin
Hath it dragged hither with myself to groan,
And I who living never bowed my head,
Till God be satisfied, and mercy shown,
Must bear this burden here among the dead."
Listening I held my visage down intent,
And one of them, but not the same that spoke,
Writhing looked up, beneath his burden bent,
And recognized, and called me; still his look
With strained eyes fixing upon me who went
All bowed beside them. "O!" exclaimed I then,
"Art thou not Oderisi, Gubbio's pride,
And honor also of that art which men
In Paris name _illuming_?" He replied:
ODERISI.
"Brother! those leaves with hues more smiling shine
Touched by the pencil of the Bolognese
Franco, whose whole fame was but partly mine.
Haply in life such courteous words as these
I had not spoken, so my heart was set
All others to excel. For such poor pride
Here I must pay the penalty; nor yet
Should I be here, but that before I died
I turned to God, still having power to sin.
O thou vain-glory of man's boasted powers!
How little while thy summit keeps its green,
Unless gross ages come that yield no flowers!
Once Cimabuè thought to keep the crown
In painting's field; now all cry Giotto best,
So that the former hath but dim renown:
Thus could one Guido from the other wrest
The glory of language, and perchance is born
He that shall drive out either from his nest.
Naught is the world's voice but a breath of morn
Coming this way and that, and changing name
Even as it shifteth side: what more shalt thou,
If old thou cast thy flesh, enjoy of fame
Than if death's hand had touched thy baby brow
Whilst thou wert babbling, ere a thousand years
Have past? which unto God's eternity
A space more insignificant appears
Than would the twinkle of an eyelid be
To the least rapid of the heavenly spheres.
Yon soul before me, moving on so slow,
Once through all Tuscany was noised for great,
Now scarce Sienna breathes his name, although
He was her sovereign, when the infuriate
Spirit of Florence met such overthrow;
For she, now vile, swelled then in proud estate.
Men's reputation is the fleeting hue
Of grass, that comes and goes! even that whereby
Fresh from the soil its tender verdure grew,
The sun, discolors it and leaveth dry."
ANTE.
And I: "Thy truthful words teach me to seek
Goodness in humbleness, and quell my pride.
But who is he of whom thou just didst speak?"
ODERISI.
"That's Provenzan Salvani," he replied;
"And he goes here because he so presumed
In bringing all Sienna 'neath his sway:
Thus ever since he died hath he been doomed,
Without repose, to walk his weary way.
_Who dares too much there in such coin pays back._"
DANTE.
I then: "If every soul who doth delay
Repentance till the limit of life's track,
Must wait below, nor be up here received
Unless good prayers assist him on his road,
Before as much time pass as he hath lived,
How comes this largess upon him bestowed?"
ODERISI.
The spirit replied: "When he was living still
In the full glory of his most high state,
All shame subduing, of his own free will
Amid Sienna's public square he sate,
And there his friend to ransom from the pain,
Which Charles had doomed him, of his dungeon's grate,
Did that which made him tremble in each vein.[66]
I say no more and know I darkly teach
But in short while thy neighbors unto thee
Will so conduct that thou mayst gloss my speech:
Him from those confines did this act set free."
NOTE.
In the translation of Canto VII., published in the April No. of
THE CATHOLIC WORLD, I proposed a new rendering of the 74th verse,
namely,
_India's rich wood, heaven's lucid blue serene_,
for
_Indico legno, lucido e sereno_,
which line I would then have read,
_Indico legno, lucido sereno_,
without the conjunction. I had not found this reading in any
edition which fell to my hands, and it was merely a suggestion of
my own to make intelligible what seemed to be unsatisfactory to the
sense.
In a late No. (June 14) of the London _Athenæum_, Dr. H. C. Barlow,
a very learned Dantean, confirms my reading by one of the older
texts in his library, and also adds that, "in the edition of the
_Divina Commedia_ by Paola Costa, we find the reading recently
adopted by Mr. Parsons ... which the editor says is an emendation
of Biondi, who has defended it with much learned reasoning."
Nevertheless, Dr. Barlow does not accept this amendment; but
believes, with Monti, that Dante meant to compare the rich and
varied hues of a flower-bed to something like charcoal; to wood,
clear and dry; for instance, _ebony_; and he quotes from Monti this
word: "What can be darker than the night? yet when free from clouds
we call it _serene_." The answer whereto is that when the night is
free from clouds, and starry, or serene, it is _not_ dark, and many
objects in nature are blacker than such a night.
I cannot feel quite so sure of my reading as Dr. Barlow appears to
be of his own interpretation, but I have some confidence that Dante
did not mean _ebony_, for the obvious reason that _ebony_ is not
a brilliant color such as Dante was describing; and the statement
which Dr. Barlow takes such pains to prove, namely, that painters
often introduce black for the sake of contrast, does not apply at
all to a verbal description--"_segnius per aurem_," etc.
I am after all inclined to think that the true reading of this
much-disputed verse may be
_Indico legno, e lucido sereno_,
but my mind is not made up entirely, and one object of publishing
these Cantos in a periodical is that my version, before it is
completed, may have the advantage of critical suggestions, and
perhaps elucidation, in doubtful passages, from the learning and
ingenuity of such Italian scholars in England as Mr. Haselfoot, Dr.
Barlow, and Sir Frederic Pollock.
TRANSLATOR.
FOOTNOTES:
[65] That is, under loads of divers weight proportioned to their degree
of sin.
[66] That is to say he begged: in which act of terrible humiliation to
so haughty a spirit Dante is recalling his own bitter experience.
THE FARM OF MUICERON.
BY MARIE RHEIL.
FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.