"But the Jews, my sublime spiritual ancestors, kept the truth.

They adored the one God, Jehovah; and by their sacrifice they were

perpetually reminding him of the Redeemer he had promised them. It is

true, they became corrupted, and rejected him when he came; but I do

not forget that he was a Jew, that his first followers were Jews, and

that his Immaculate Mother was a Jewess. I tell you, I glory in the

history of that people. It is you who throw contempt on them, not I.

Catholicism proves and honors Judaism. If all were false, we might

then be deluded; but the Jews would be the deluders. We only complain

of them because they call themselves liars. Judaism, past and present,

would fall with Catholicism, and fall underneath. All the truth held

by the reformed Jews is a weak reflection of the light cast by the

Catholic Church back on old Judaism. To deny the authority of the

church is as though the moon should proclaim herself the source of day,

and try to extinguish the sun. If it were possible for the attempt to

succeed, the result would be an utter spiritual darkness, followed by

barbarism. Christ is the light of the world; and all the light there

was in the world before his coming was like the morning light before

the sun touches the horizon. The patriarchs and the prophets were the

planets and the moon of the spiritual system; they saw him afar off,

and told of him. Strange inconsistency! Men usually laugh at prophecies

till they are fulfilled, then pay them a retrospective homage; but in

this, they bow to the prophecy till the instant of its fulfilment, then

reject and scorn both together. If you believed in Christ, all your

altars would blaze up again, making a spiral circle of fire from the

creation to the redemption. He rounds the circle. '_I am the beginning

and the end_,' he says."

Whether he perceived or acknowledged any truth in what he heard, or

not, it certainly had the effect of making Mr. Schöninger ashamed of

his ill-temper.

"I have to apologize, sir," he said, "for having made a personal

attack instead of using argument, and for having acted like a whipped

school-boy. My only excuse is that I was smarting under punishment.

I am usually just enough to judge a principle by itself, not by its

upholders."

They had now reached the step of the priest's house, and paused there,

Mr. Schöninger declining mutely a mute invitation to enter.

"That is a point--that relating to persons--which we will discuss some

other time, when we both feel more like it," F. Chevreuse said. "But,

my friend," he added, with impassioned earnestness, "let the faults

of individuals, and communities, and nations go. They are irrelevant.

Let God be true, though all men may be false. _Ecce Agnus Dei!_ If a

haughty conqueror should demand your submission, I could understand why

you would feel like rebelling. But here there is nothing but love to

resist. Here there is only infinite sweetness and humility. Did he ever

persecute you? Did he ever revile you? He wept over you. 'O Jerusalem,

Jerusalem!'"

Standing on his own threshold, the priest suddenly put his arm around

the Jew's shoulder. "Love him, then hate whom you can. Love him, and do

what you will," he said. "I don't ask you to listen to the church, to

listen to me, to listen to any one, but only to behold the Lamb of God.

Look at him, study him, listen to him. O my God! that I had the tongue

of an angel! I love you! I am longing for your conversion, but I cannot

say a word. Good-night! May God bless you and speak to you!"

The Jew was alone, overpowered by the sudden and tender passion of that

appeal, feeling still the pressure of that more than brotherly embrace.

If his mind had recognized any truth, he did not at the moment perceive

or think of it, so moved was his heart at the vision of love that had

been opened to him. If divine love was added to the human, he did not

inquire; he only knew that the priest was sincere, and was at that

moment on his knees praying for him. He would have liked to go in and

beg his blessing, not, perhaps, as that of a priest, but as that of an

incomparably good and loving man.

He checked the impulse, though it led him so far as to extend his hand

to open the door.

Ah! if we did but yield to generous and affectionate impulses as we

yield to bad ones, how much happier the world would be! How often they

are checked by distrust of others or of ourselves, or by the petty fear

of being unconventional, when, if followed, they might warm a little

this cold human atmosphere, in which we stand so frozen that one might

almost expect our fingers to rattle like icicles when we shake hands.

But though Mr. Schöninger did not go in, neither did he turn

carelessly away. We wonder if any of our readers will understand how

much affection was expressed in what he did. It was a trifling act,

apparently. He laid his right hand, palm forward, against the door,

and let it press the panel a moment. From some it might not mean much,

but this man never gave his hand lightly, nor used it lightly; and it

was one of those hands which seem to contain in themselves the whole

person. It was a hand with a heart in it; and while it rested there,

his face wore an expression more tender than a smile, as if he gave

both a benediction and a caress to all within those walls for the sake

of one who dwelt there. Then he turned away, and walked slowly down the

street.

Mr. Schöninger was essentially and sufficiently manly. If the long

pursuit of money had been dry and distasteful to him, he had made no

complaint of the necessity, even to himself. That which must be done

he attempted and carried out as best he might, feeling, it may be,

a certain pleasure in exercising his will; perceiving, also, a goal

ahead where such sordid strife would end. It may be that even in the

fascinating and delightful exercise of his art, there had still been

a sense of something lacking; for the artist is, above all things,

human, and this man was alone; but he made no sentimental moan. The

want, if it had a voice, was never listened to. It was only now, in

the moment of a sharp and bitter pain that had cleft his heart, and a

soothing sweetness that had fallen on the wound like an unguent, that

he realized how utterly without sympathy his life had been, and how

all that had made it tolerable had been a looking forward to something

better. He was like one who, wandering long in a frozen desert, sees

unexpectedly the warm, red hearth-light shining toward his feet. It was

not his home-light, but another's; yet it touched him so that his heart

woke up with a cry, and demanded something in the present, and could no

longer be satisfied with a vague expectation.

He was angry with himself that he had not refrained from speaking to

Miss Pembroke, or that, having spoken, he had not been more persistent.

He would not believe that he could give so much and receive no return;

and it seemed to him certain that by waiting he could at least have

succeeded so far as to render it impossible for her to refuse him

without a regret too great for concealment. That was all he now

thought attainable, and, in comparison to what he had, it appeared

to him happiness. That is a cruelty without which no love can exist;

it demands the power to make its object unhappy in parting, if it is

denied the privilege of making it happy in union.

"I was a fool!" he muttered, tossing the hair back from his burning

face and head. "I took my refusal as promptly as though I had asked

for a flower. A woman who is ready with her confession of love at

the first word of asking must have expected and prepared herself for

the proposal. Even a profound affection may be a little hidden from

her till after it is asked for, though visible to others. Besides,

she sometimes draws back from timidity, or to see if a man is really

in earnest. That proposal which he foresees and intends takes her by

surprise, and, even when willing to advance, her instinct is to retreat

at first. How inconsistent we are to expect and require that shrinking

modesty in a woman, and then complain of her for it!"

He wandered on through street after street, glancing at the lighted

windows of many a city home. In some houses, the curtains had been

pleasantly left up, and he could see the charming tableau of a family

gathered about the evening lamp. They read or sewed, raising their

faces now and then to smile at each other; they conversed, or they

rested, leaning back in their chairs.

Coming to a secluded little cottage in a quiet street, he leaned on the

garden fence, and looked into the sitting-room. He was acquainted with

the people there; they met him pleasantly in public, but it had never

occurred to them, apparently, to invite him to their home. All his

friends, indeed, were of that public kind.

The room was lighted by a shaded lamp that made a bright circle on the

table under it. A man sat at one side sketching what a nearer view

would have shown to be a Holy Family. Now and then he lifted his head

and gazed at the group opposite him, the models of his Mother and

Child; and the expression of his fine, spiritual face showed how his

soul strove to fan that visible spark of human affection into a flaming

vision of divine love.

The woman sat weaving bright wools into some fleecy shape, her slight

fingers flying as the work progressed under them. Her eyes were

downcast, and a faint smile shone on her happy face. One foot kept in

gentle motion a cradle, wherein a babe slept, its rosy little hands

curled up under its chin, like closed flowers. Now and then the mother

bent above the sleeper, seemed to hover over it, like a bird over its

nest, when the drapery her artist-husband had arranged on her hair

would drop forward and hide her profile from him. Once, when he wanted

an outline, he stretched his arm, drew her face round by the chin, and

seemed playfully to chide her excessive baby-worship. But it seemed

that the soft, blue fold had hidden something more than a mere loving

gaze; for a tear slipped from the brown lashes as they appeared. She

clasped the chiding hand in hers, and uttered a few words.

How well the looker-on outside could guess what sad thought had called

up that tear! She had feared that her happiness was too great to last.

The husband's answer was, evidently, cheerful and reassuring; and soon

the work and the drawing went on, and the smiles were restored.

Recollecting himself, Mr. Schöninger continued his walk. What had he to

do with such scenes? He was as shut out from all intimate friendships

as though he had been invisible to those about him. If he should be

ill, the doctor and the hired nurse would take care of him; if he

should die, strangers would bury him, without pity and without grief;

and his possessions in Crichton, such little belongings as friends

cherish when those they love are gone, would be tossed about and prized

only at their money value.

Never had he felt more despondent. The momentary pleasure derived from

the friendship of F. Chevreuse faded away like sunlight from rocks,

leaving only hard and sombre facts behind. There never could be a real

friendship between him and the priest. An insurmountable obstacle

separated them.

This solitary walk brought to his mind one night, months past, when he

had walked the streets of Crichton, as solitary and wretched as now,

from evening till daybreak. "I will not think of it!" he muttered, and

cast the recollection aside. "O my God! who shall pray for me, who

cannot pray for myself?"

A sound of singing caught his ear. He was passing a Protestant church,

where they were holding an evening meeting, and they were singing a

plain chant, with only a thread of accompaniment. It sounded tuneful

and earnest, and he stepped into the vestibule to listen.

They sang:

"Hear, Father, hear our prayer!

Wandering unknown in the land of the stranger,

Be with all trav'lers in sickness or danger,

Guard thou their path, guide their feet from the snare.

Hear, Father, hear our prayer!"

Some one was praying for him without being aware of it! There was

in the world a charity which stretched out beyond the familiar, and

touched the unknown sufferer.

As he was leaving the vestibule, he noticed two men, one standing at

either side, on the steps without the door. Rather annoyed at being

found in such a place, he passed them hastily, and went on. When he

thought himself free from them, his memory went back to that prayerful

strain:

"Guard thou their steps, guide their feet from the snare."

Yes, they were praying for him, these strangers, who had seemed so

alien.

Presently he became aware that he was not free from the persons who

had been observing him at the church door. The steps of two men were

following him. He quickened his pace, and they also quickened theirs.

He went into a side street, and perceived that they were still on his

track. There was no escape. His feet had not been guided from the

snare. A chilly sensation passed over him, which might be either anger

or fear. He paused one instant, then turned and faced his pursuers.

* * * * *

The next morning, after Mass, Honora Pembroke went in to see F.

Chevreuse, waiting in the church till she thought he had taken his

breakfast.

"I did not see you at communion this morning," he said, after greeting

her pleasantly. "Why was that, young woman?"

They were in the sitting-room that had belonged to Mother Chevreuse.

Her son now occupied these rooms, and all the little tokens of a

woman's presence had disappeared. No work-basket, with shining needles

and thimble, glittered in the sunlight; no shawl nor scarf lay over any

chair-back; no flower nor leaf adorned the place. All the grace had

gone.

Honora perceived, by the momentary clouding of the priest's face,

that he understood the glance she had cast about the room and the

involuntary sigh that had followed it, and she hastily recalled her

thoughts.

"I am an unfortunate sister of Proserpine," she said. "Some one sent

me a pomegranate yesterday as a rarity; and this morning, while I was

dressing, and thinking of my communion too, I ate two or three of the

seeds."

"You are a careless girl!" F. Chevreuse exclaimed, with that pretence

of playful scolding which shows so much real kindness. "But,

fortunately, your banishment is not so long as that of your Greek

sister was."

"I was not thinking without distraction," Honora continued. "There

was something else on my mind, or I should have remembered my fast.

On the whole, I am rather glad that I could not go to communion this

morning, for I was not so quiet as I ought to be. I have come to tell

you about it." A faint blush flitted over her face. She looked up for

the encouraging nod and "Yes!" which were not wanting, and then told

half her story in a sentence: "Mr. Schöninger told me last night that

he thinks a great deal of me."

F. Chevreuse nodded again, and did not look quite so much astonished as

she had expected him to be.

The other and most troublesome part of the story followed immediately,

breathed out with a kind of terror: "And after I had refused him, and

he had left the room, and walked away with you, I felt pained, not for

him, but for myself. I almost wanted to call him back; though, if he

had come, I should have been sorry. I do not understand it."

She looked like one who expects a severe sentence, and scarcely drew

breath till the answer came.

The priest spoke quite carelessly: "Oh! it is natural that we should

feel a kind of regret in refusing an offering meant to be good, though

it may not be good to us. You need not accuse yourself of that. Of

course, you are not going to marry a Jew, nor to wish to marry one.

That is out of the question. And there is no need of searching too

scrupulously into those vague and complicated emotions which are for

ever troubling the human heart. It will only confuse the mind and sully

the conscience. They are like mists that float over the sky. Keep your

eyes steadily fixed on the Day-star, and do not fear an occasional waft

of scud. As long as the star shines, all is well. When you no longer

see it, then is the time to fear."

Honora looked relieved, but not altogether satisfied. "But must there

not have been some fault in me, when 1 could feel even the slightest

regret in rejecting one who has rejected God?" she asked.

"I have but to repeat what I have said," was the answer. "You need not

disturb yourself about the matter. Dismiss it from your mind, except so

far as it is necessary for you to think in order to conduct yourself

properly toward him in future. I take for granted that your intercourse

must be a little more reserved than it has been."

"Oh! yes," she exclaimed. "I would rather not see him any more. And

there was my fault, father. I have been very presumptuous. Both Mrs.

Gerald and dear Mother Chevreuse were dissatisfied to have me associate

with him. I could see that, though they said nothing. But I fancied

that I was more liberal than they, and that I could decide perfectly

well for myself. I had almost a mind to be displeased with them for

wishing to keep him at a distance, as if they were uncharitable. Now I

am punished, and I know that I deserve it."

"Oh! well," the priest said gently, his face growing thoughtful and sad

at the allusion to his mother. "We all make mistakes; and to persons

who wish to be generous, but have not much experience, prudence seems

a very cold virtue, sometimes almost a vice. But believe me, my child,

it is possible for really kind and generous feelings to lead to results

far worse than even an excess of prudence might have caused. Don't

distress yourself! Only have a care of going too far in either way."

Their talk was here interrupted by a ring of the door-bell so

unusually loud as to betoken an excited visitor.

"A sick-call," said F. Chevreuse.

They heard Jane open the door; then a light step ran through the entry,

and, without any ceremony of knocking, Miss Lily Carthusen burst into

the room.

"O F. Chevreuse!" she cried, "Mr. Schöninger is in jail."

The priest looked at her without comprehending, and also without

speaking. When sudden and terrible news have come upon us once, casting

us to the earth, as though by a thunder-stroke, any startling address

awakens in us ever after something of the same terror and distress.

Jane had followed Miss Carthusen to the sitting-room door, and, the

moment she heard her announcement, broke out into exclamations: "I knew

it! I have known it all the time! O poor Mother Chevreuse!"

F. Chevreuse stood up, as if to take freer breath, and his face grew

crimson.

"In what way does this arrest concern me particularly, Miss Carthusen?"

he asked, striving to speak calmly.

"F. Chevreuse, cannot you guess?" she returned. "Many others have

suspected, if you have not. I believed it almost from the first."

"I do not believe it!" he exclaimed, and began to pace the room. "I

will not believe it! It is impossible!" And then, whether believing or

not in this accusation, he felt anew the whole force of that terrible

blow. "O mother, mother!" he cried, and burst into tears.

"I suspected him on account of the shawl," Miss Carthusen went on. "His

has not been seen in the house since that day; and...."

F. Chevreuse was leaning up against the wall, with his face hidden in

his arm; but he recovered his self-possession immediately, and put a

stop to these revelations. "Say no more!" There was a certain severity

both in his voice and gesture. "I do not wish to hear any surmises nor

particulars. I should suppose that some person in authority ought to

bring me this information. But I thank you for taking the trouble; and

perhaps you will be so kind as to stop at Mr. Macon's door on your way

home, and ask him to come to me. He cannot have gone out yet. I would

like to see him at once."

The young lady had no choice. She was obliged to go.

Mr. Macon was, in fact, already on his way to the house; and soon the

story received authoritative confirmation.

"He did not seem to be at all surprised, sir," said the officer who had

made the arrest. "He is a very cool sort of man on the outside; though

I would not have liked to go after him alone."

"Did he say anything?" demanded the priest.

"Not a word!"

"Did not he ask to see me?"

"No, sir!"

The face of F. Chevreuse darkened with perplexity and disappointment.

After what had occurred between them the night before, if the man had

trusted him then, and if he were innocent, surely he would have sent

for him at once.

"When I have said that I love him," he thought, "how could he suffer

me to rest a moment in ignorance of what had happened, or to wait for

his assurance? Or does his very silence prove his trust in me and

confidence in his own acquittal? Well, even if it does, I prefer a

confidence that speaks."

He looked the officer steadily in the face. "Sir," he said with

emphasis, "I wish every one to understand that I believe this

accusation to be a mistake, and that I regret it exceedingly. I shall

go to see Mr. Schöninger, if I am permitted, and say the same to him.

And now, gentlemen, if there is nothing more necessary to be said, will

you spare me the saying anything unnecessary on the subject?"

Jane had been trying to talk to Miss Pembroke, who put her back gently,

without answering a word; and as soon as their visitors had withdrawn,

she approached F. Chevreuse, and attempted to finish the story which

Miss Carthusen had begun. But he stopped her even more peremptorily

than he had done the other.

"That young lady is not a Catholic," he said, "but you are. Do not

forget charity. You have no right to hold any person guilty till

his guilt is proved, and even then you should not rejoice over his

condemnation. I forbid your saying any more on this subject to me

or any other person, except when you are questioned in court. I am

displeased at the spirit you have shown."

Jane withdrew, convicted, and, perhaps, a little indignant.

Then F. Chevreuse looked at Honora Pembroke. She had sat perfectly pale

and silent through it all. "Can you go home without assistance, child?"

he asked.

She understood his wish to be alone, and rose with an effort. "I am not

faint; I am horrified," she said. "It is a monstrous injustice. I wish

you would come to us by-and-by." She looked at him imploringly.

"I will go to Mrs. Gerald's directly after having seen him," he

promised.

When he was alone, F. Chevreuse locked the door, and began to pace the

room, tears running down his cheeks. "O my sweet mother!" he said, "so

it's all to be dragged up again, and your dear name associated with all

that is cruel and wicked in crime!"

He opened a closet, and took down a little faded plaid shawl that his

mother had used for years to throw over her shoulders in the house when

the air was chilly. It hung on the nail where she had left it; and

while he held it at arm's length, and looked at it, her form seemed to

rise up before him. He saw the wide, motherly shoulders, the roll of

thick, gray hair, the face faintly smiling and radiantly loving. And

then he could see nothing; for the tears gushed forth so passionately

as to wash away both vision and reality.

TO BE CONTINUED.

SLEEP.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

O sleep! O missing first-born of the night!

Child of the silent-footed shadow, thou

Who comfortest the sick, and makest light

Of ills, bringing forgetfulness of woe;

Succor the broken spirit that faints for sight

Of thee; these limbs, that travail hath brought low,

Refresh. Come, sleep, and on my temples light,

And make thy dark wings meet above my brow.

Where is sweet silence which the day forsakes?

And the shy dreams that follow in thy train,

The silly flock that scatters at a touch?

Alas! in vain I summon thee: in vain

Flatter the chilly dark. O thorny couch!

O heavy watches till the slow dawn breaks!

SPIRITUALISM.

CHAPTER II.

Before considering the merits of the third hypothesis for accounting

for the phenomena of spiritualism, I propose to draw out at some length

the church theory of magic and formal diabolic interference.

Magic, in the sense of a systematized use of and intercourse with the

spiritual world by other means than authorized prayer and ritual, has

been an idea familiar to all races and to all times. Its hostile or

consciously diabolical character has depended upon the vividness with

which it has appreciated the nature of God and his sanction of the

religion which it is confronting, and upon its consequent inability

to regard itself as an appendix to, rather than a contradiction of,

religion. Hence, it has been peculiarly virulent when it has had to

manœuvre in the face of the precise enunciations of Catholicism, as

was the case in mediæval Christendom; whilst, on the other hand, in

a system of tolerant eclecticism like that of pagan Rome or modern

America, it has naturally adopted a milder form.

The accounts given of the origin of magic in pagan and rabbinical

tradition are almost identical, and read much like a rude allegory of

Christian theology. In the first, the fair and proud Lamia, beloved

of Zeus, in revenge for being herself ousted and her children slain

by Hera, takes general vengeance upon the subjects of Zeus. In. the

second, Lilith, Adam's first wife, is ever seeking to destroy the

children of her successful rival, Eve. According to the more common

Catholic teaching, sundry of the angels, God's first creation, destined

to be the first partners of his bliss, fell for resisting God's designs

in behalf of his second creation, man, whose nature he was to espouse

in the Incarnation; whence the devil's hatred of the children of men.

The fathers[94] considered that the rebel angels first taught men magic

in the evil days before the Flood, and that the seeds of the black art

were carried on into the new world by Cham. His grandson, Mesraim,

or Zoroaster, was said to have used it extensively to give life and

reality to the false worship which was his legacy to his children, the

Egyptians, Babylonians, and Persians.

The worship of the hosts of heaven--the sun, moon, and stars--would

seem to have been the earliest form of false worship, and all

mythological research tends to show that this is, in fact, the core

even of those cults which at first sight would seem most unlike it. The

Persians were fire-worshippers, but fire was stolen from heaven; and

one of the miracles recorded of Zoroaster was his drawing magic sparks

from the stars. The name given him by his disciples was "the Living

Star." The host of deities with which the Greek and Roman world was

peopled, many of whom would at first sight suggest a purely terrestrial

origin, for the most part group themselves round central figures,

which, on examination, prove to be earthly reflections of astral

influences--of the sun or moon gods and their supposed satellites.

According to the fathers, magic was the very life and soul of idolatry,

and pagan worship was regarded as a union of conventional deception and

diabolic energy, the one or other element predominating according to

circumstances. Thus _diablerie_ lay beneath such orderly institutions

as, for instance, the national cultus of ancient Rome, like the

volcanic fires of Vesuvius under the rich vineyards which they have in

part created and for a while sustain.

But whilst it is to a great extent true that paganism was substantially

little better than an organized _diablerie_, and the devil, as the

strong man in the Gospel, was keeping his house in comparative peace,

still the very elements of man's nature, despite his fall, did in

various ways protest against the enemy and impede his action. The idea

of a supreme God could not be wholly withdrawn from the minds and

hearts of men, and many true prayers, despite the demon's elaborate

machinery to intercept them, pierced the heavens. Nay, the very forms

themselves of idolatry would often suggest thoughts and acts of worship

which no evil influence could control; for the world had been given

to men, and not to the demon. Even the senses, for all they were so

many inlets of temptation, did, by bringing men under the wholesome

influence of external nature, and by their equable excitation of his

mental powers, tend, in fact, to break the fascinating grasp which the

fiend would hold upon his imagination. The material world at once spoke

to him of God, and housed him from the pitiless storm of spiritual

influence with which he was assailed. Common sense was not without its

power of natural exorcism, and true affection often grew and flowered

where the devil only thought to have nurtured lust.

In the cults which express the religious sentiments of the more

civilized nations, we meet with much that is humane and noble, whilst,

at the same time, we are often shocked by manifestations of a very

different character--rites in which the fire of the pit seems to have

found a direct vent.

On the whole, in pre-Christian, as compared with Christian, times, the

devil reigned. When the apostle would warn the faithful of the foes

with whom they would have to contend, he says: "Our warfare is not

against flesh and blood"--_i.e._ these are, under the circumstances,

hardly worth considering--"but against principalities and powers;

against the rulers of the world of this darkness; against spiritual

wickedness in high places." It was by the direct onslaught of the early

church upon the citadel of paganism--her forcing the devil, by the

intolerable brightness of her presence, to show himself in his true

colors--and by thus enlisting on her side all the more honest elements

of human nature, that she gained the victory, and the devil was fairly

outlawed. In the expressive language of the Theodosian Codex (ix. tit.

xvi.), sorcerers are denounced as "aliens of nature," (_peregrini

naturæ_). Still, for all this, the war was by no means over, and its

character remained substantially what it had always been. The devil did

not lose his power of working marvels, but, as in the case of Pharaoh's

magicians, he was outdone and baffled.

I think there will be little difficulty in showing that the teaching

of the church on the subject of the devil's power was in the earliest

times substantially what it was in the middle ages and what it is

now. The contrary has been maintained by Janus, and we must do him

the justice to acknowledge that even reputable writers like Maffei and

Cantù have gone some lengths in the same direction. As Janus is still

quoted as an authority in this country, it will not be amiss to combine

his refutation with the illustration of my subject.

Janus maintains in so many words that in the Christian Church "it

was long looked upon as a wicked and unchristian error, as something

heretical, to attribute supernatural powers and effects to the aid

of demons"; that "for many centuries ... the popular notions about

diabolical agency, nocturnal meetings with demons, enchantments and

witchcrafts, were viewed and treated as a folly inconsistent with

Christian belief"; that this doctrine continued until gradually ousted

by the "threefold authority of the popes, Aquinas, and the powerful

Dominican Order."[95] Now, I of course admit that the action taken by

the authorities of the church in regard to particular phenomena of

witchcraft has varied extremely with circumstances; but she has always

held that the devil has the power, which he is sometimes allowed to

exercise, either _en rapport_ with human agents or independently of

them, of working marvels which transcend the natural power of the

particular nature in conjunction with which they are wrought, though

not transcending the sphere of universal nature; and that these are

done by rapid, imperceptible combinations of other natural powers.

When theologians disputed as to whether the devil could do this or

that particular marvel--for example, transport imprisoned witches

through their prison-walls to the "Sabbath"--the dispute did not turn

on the reality or non-reality of magic, but upon whether the marvel in

question did or did not transcend the sphere of universal nature. On

the other hand, theologians have always maintained that in a certain

sense witchcraft is an absurdity, no craft at all, an _ars nugatoria_,

as S. Thomas calls it, since it is founded upon no fixed principles,

but depends for its issues on the free will of one who has been a

deceiver from the beginning. The scholastics made a great point of

insisting upon the essentially unscientific character of witchcraft,

since the devil had taken advantage of the extraordinary thirst for

learning which prevailed in the middle ages to present himself in the

light of a guide to new realms of science.

Janus relies for the justification of his statement upon a document

long known as a chapter of the Council of Ancyra, but generally

acknowledged to be the utterance of some IXth century Frank council.

I subjoin it at length, together with the kindred questions from the

_Penitentiary_ of Burchard. Over and above their controversial value,

they have an antiquarian interest which I hope not to neglect:

"Neither must this be passed over, that certain wicked women, turning

back after Satan, and seduced by the illusions and phantasms of demons,

believe and profess that they ride by night with Diana, goddess of

the pagans, or with Herodias and a countless multitude of women, upon

certain beasts, and silently, and in the dead of night, traverse many

lands, obeying her commands as their mistress, and were, on certain

nights, summoned to do her service. And would that these only had

perished in their faithlessness! for an innumerable multitude, deceived

by this false opinion, believe these things to be true, and, so

believing, deviate from the true faith, and relapse into the errors of

paganism, in believing that aught divine and godlike can be besides

God. Wherefore, priests in the churches under their charge should

preach to the people with all earnestness, so that they may understand

that these things are, in all respects, false, and that such phantasms

are injected into the minds of the faithful, not by the spirit of God,

but by the evil spirit.

"Verily, Satan himself, who transfigures himself into an angel of

light, after seizing upon the mind of some silly woman, and subjugating

her to himself by infidelity, thereupon transforms himself into the

forms and semblances of various persons, and in dreams deceiving the

mind which he holds in captivity, and showing it anon pleasant things,

anon sad, anon known, anon unknown, leads it everywhere from the road;

and whilst the spirit alone undergoes this, the unfaithful mind thinks

that this is taking place, not in the soul, but in the body? But who,

in dreams and visions of the night, is not carried out of himself, and

does not see many things in his sleep which he had never seen awake?

yet who is so silly and stupid as to think that all these things which

take place in the spirit only, occur also in the body? seeing that

Ezechiel the prophet saw the visions of the Lord in the spirit, and not

in the body, and the Apostle John saw the mystery of the Apocalypse

in the spirit, not in the body. 'At once,' he saith, 'I was in the

spirit'; and Paul dared not say that he had been taken out of the body.

Wherefore, all must be told that whosoever believes these things and

the like loses the faith, and he who hath not the right faith in the

Lord is not the Lord's, but his in whom he believes--that is, the

devil's; for of our Lord it is written, 'By him all things were made.'

Whoever, then, believes that it can happen that a creature should be

changed into a better or a worse, or be transformed into another sort

or species save by the Creator who made all things, and through whom

all things were made, of a surety is an infidel, and worse than a

pagan."

The following are passages from what Burchard transcribes as an ancient

_Roman Penitentiary_, and are specimens of a practical application of

the preceding chapter:

"Hast thou ever believed or taken part in the perfidious credence

that enchanters and those that call themselves storm-senders can,

by the enchantment of demons, excite storms or alter men's minds?

If thou hast believed or taken part, thou shalt do penance for one

year on the lawful Ferias.

"Hast thou believed or taken part in the credence that there be

women who, by certain charms or incantations, can change men's

minds, that is to say, from hatred to love, or from love to hatred,

or can injure or abstract men's goods by their charms? If thou hast

believed or been partaker, one year, etc.

"Hast thou believed that there be women who can do this, according

to the saying of certain women beguiled by the devil, who maintain

that they must of necessity and of precept so do--that is to say,

must ride upon certain beasts, with a great multitude of fiends

transformed into the semblance of women, which the foolish call

_Holda_, and have been bound in fellowship with them? If thou hast

been partaker in that belief, one year, etc."

The following points have to be considered in estimating the

controversial value of this chapter as used by Janus: 1st. How far do

its enunciations necessarily represent the theology of the universal

church? 2d. Do the beliefs which the chapter condemns, or do they not,

involve something more than the attribution of "supernatural powers

and effects to the aid of demons"? As to the first, this chapter is no

utterance of a council representing the church universal; for, even

supposing it really to belong to the Council of Ancyra, this was not

a general council. But, as Janus admits, the chapter is first quoted

without any title by the Benedictine, Regino, Abbot of Prumium, in the

diocese of Treves, who wrote about 906. It was first called a canon

of Ancyra by Burchard, another Benedictine (1020), who extracted it

from Regino's collection, and inadvertently headed it with the title

belonging to another passage. There is no trace to be found of it in

the early MSS. of either the Greek or Latin acts of the Council of

Ancyra. It is not to be met with in any collection of canons previous

to the XIth century. Baluze was no doubt right in suggesting that it

was part of some old Frank capitulary as yet undiscovered.

Janus[96] says that Regino compiled the chapter in question from

passages in the pseudo-Augustinian writing, _De Spiritu et Anima_--a

sufficiently remarkable statement, if we consider that Regino wrote

early in the Xth century, and that the _De Spiritu et Anima_, which

contains passages from S. Bernard and Hugo of S. Victor, was certainly

not composed before the XIIth century.[97]

But, it may be urged, on the strength of the passages from Burchard's

_Roman Penitentiary_, the Roman Church had given its sanction to this

chapter, and had embodied it in its practice, even before Burchard

had assigned it its imposing title. To this I reply that the brothers

Ballerini[98] produce an XIth century MS. of a _Roman Penitentiary_

(Vatican Codex, 3830) identical with Burchard's, save that it is

without certain passages, and among them this very interrogatory on

magic. The Ballerini remark that the expression, "were-wolf," which

occurs in a passage of the interrogatory which I have not quoted,

evidently marks it as belonging to some local German council. I may

add that the expression, "Holda," indubitably indicates the same

nationality; Holda, or Holle, being the wandering moon-goddess of the

Teutons.

As to the second point, the beliefs condemned clearly involve something

more than the attribution of supernatural power to the devil--viz.,

the acknowledgment that there is something "divine and godlike beside

the one God"; whence it follows that the fiend can exercise his power

independently of God; can force the wills of men to his service "by

necessity and precept"; and can change one thing into another wholly

different. Now, all these points have been persistently condemned by

the church of all ages. That this is the one admissible interpretation

of the chapter will become more and more evident as we examine the

teaching of previous and contemporaneous theology.

If it be urged that, anyhow, this chapter represents a more civilized

legislation, one more consonant in its wise leniency with the

sentiments of to-day, than that which prevailed in the last half

of the middle ages, and, indeed, for some centuries longer, I must

remind my readers that I have been engaged in refuting a specific

allegation of Janus, to the effect that the theology of the church had

undergone a substantial change on the subject of witchcraft. I admit,

of course, fully that the system which prevailed for some centuries

in church and state was calculated by its extravagant severity to

provoke the evil it was intended to repress. This has been often

admitted by Catholic writers. Cardinal de Cusa, in the first half of

the XVth century, when legate _a latere_ in the German Empire, used

these weighty words: "Where men believe that these witchcrafts do

produce their effect, there are found many witches; neither can they

be exterminated by fire and sword; for the more diligently this sort

of persecution is waged, so much the stronger grows the delusion;

for the persecution argues that the devil is feared more than God,

and that, in the midst of the wicked, he can work evil; and so the

devil is feared and propitiated, and thus gains his end; and though,

according to human law and divine sanction, they deserve to be utterly

extirpated, yet we must act cautiously and with great prudence, lest

worse come of it."[99] He goes on to say that he himself examined two

witches, and found them to be half mad. He shut them up, and made them

do penance. The name of the Westphalian Jesuit, F. Spee (A.D. 1631),

is identified with the relaxation of the penalties against witches,

as completely as that of Wilberforce with the abolition of slavery,

or that of Howard with the reformation of prisons; although he was

unable to accept the rationalist thesis, "It is impossible for one

person to influence another, except through sensible mediums; and

the devil is an absurdity." The rationalist text is, no doubt, the

sovereignest remedy on earth for cruelty to witches; but in the same

sense is the tenet, "All worship is absurd," the most effectual bar

to idolatry; and there are other less costly remedies. Whatever may be

said on the score of prudence, it cannot be denied that such witches

as deliberately produced fatal mischief by acting upon the excited

imaginations of their victims were justly put to death, and that the

formal transference of allegiance from Christ to the devil was formal

high treason against the constitution of Christendom. Abuses of justice

had no doubt crept into local practice, such as that of putting the

possessed person--that is to say, the devil within him--into the

witness-box, in order to discover the witch. This arose from the

delusion that the devil might, by certain formulas, be bound over to

speak the truth. It is vehemently denounced by all the standard writers

on the subject--_i.e._ Delrio and Carena. Pegna (_De Cffic. Inquis._,

pars ii. tit. xii. §§ 26 and 27) points out that the Roman inquisition,

contrary to the practice elsewhere, has always refused to submit a

witch to the question on the evidence of a companion, or to accept

the testimony of one witch as to another's presence at the "Sabbath,"

because of the great likelihood of delusion. Indeed, Rome seems to have

been always comparatively just and moderate in her practice, and often

singularly lenient. It was such specimens of provincial ecclesiasticism

as the Spanish inquisition, in which the secular interest had the

lion's share, that went furthest in active persecution; and these,

again, in their cruel persecution of witches, as the learned editor of

_Hudibras_, Dr. Zachary Grey, confesses, the sectaries of England and

Scotland "much exceeded."[100] Perhaps this was owing to their still

further separation from the centre of Christendom.

The arguments against execution for witchcraft of Spee and De Cusa

come pretty much to this: 1st. The imaginations of these unhappy people

are in such a condition that you cannot make out how much is reality,

how much delusion, nor, again, how far they are free agents. 2d. The

whole subject is one on which people's imaginations are so excitable,

and imagination has so large a share in the productions of witchcraft,

that fire-and-sword persecution breeds more mischief than it destroys.

If ever a belief in the substantial reality of spiritualism becomes

established as of old, and--as will inevitably happen--spiritualism

is used, not merely for amusement, but for mischief, the champions of

civilization may be glad to avail themselves of these almost forgotten

Catholic arguments against persecution.

This so-called chapter of Ancyra is so interesting an exhibition of

the blending of classical and mediæval _diablerie_ that I shall make

no apology for interposing a detailed examination of its mythology.

It will subserve my argument against Janus, by bringing out the

idolatrous, and so far unreal, element of magic as that which naturally

presented itself to the early church as the object of its denunciations.

Diana (Dia Jana) was one of the deities of ancient Latium; although

a Latin federal temple was erected to her by Servius Tullius on the

Aventine Hill, she never took any very high rank amongst the divinities

of Rome, but remained the special patron of slaves and rustics--that

is to say, the immediate cultivators of the soil.[101] Livy and Strabo

tell us that this goddess was identical with the Ephesian Artemis--an

acquaintance with whose cult the Latins might have obtained through

the Phocean colony at Marseilles. Dr. Döllinger describes the Ephesian

goddess as "a kind of pantheistic deity, with more of an Asiatic than

an Hellenic character. She was most analogous to Cybele as physical

mother and parent of all." S. Jerome (_Proœm. ad Ephes._) says that

the Ephesians worshipped Diana, "not the huntress who carries the bow

and is high-girt, but that many-breasted one, which the Greeks call

πολυμαστης."

The cultus of Diana in Italy, though substantially of a benignant

character, seems to have been early qualified by the sterner rites of

Thrace, where bloody flagellations had been accepted as a compromise

for human sacrifice. Aricia, one of the oldest towns in Latium, boasted

that its image of the goddess had been brought from Tauris.

Originally, Dr. Döllinger reminds us, neither the Roman Diana nor the

Grecian Artemis were connected in any way with the moon. As the ancient

Latin sun-god Janus' sister, Diana was the female divinity of the sun.

Æschylus is generally said to be the first author who speaks of Artemis

as the moon-goddess; whereas Hecate was an original goddess of the moon

and of the night. Hence, when she came to be identified with Artemis,

and through her with Diana, by an amalgamation of rites, Diana became

undisputed goddess of the moon and of the mysterious realms of the

night, the resort of ghosts and fays. Hecate was a Titan, the only one

who retained power under the Zeus dynasty; hence her name, Titanis,

or Titania, with which Shakespeare has familiarized us. Statius

(_Thebaid_, lib. i.) applies this epithet to the moon:

"Titanis late mundo subvecta silenti

Rorifera gelidum tenuaverat aëra biga."

Virgil doubtless gives this title to the stars as to the moon's

supposed satellites (_Æneid_, lib. vi.):

"Lucentemque globum lunæ Titaniaque astra."

In Lucian we have frequent mention of Hecate and her dogs; in a

fragment of S. Maximus of Turin the same "aerial dogs" are referred

to, and S. Hippolytus speaks of Diana and her dogs appearing in the

magician's cauldron.

The amalgamated worship of Hecate and Diana, the queen of ghosts

and the goddess of fertility, presents precisely those apparently

incongruous elements which strike us in fairy mythology, where fairies,

and ghosts, and witches combine so oddly in the web of mediæval

folk-lore.

It was very long before the pagan element to which the chapter

witnesses--the Manicheism which holds that there is something "divine

and godlike beside the one God"--had ceased to hold a prominent place

in the fancy of persons professedly Christian. S. Maximus of Turin, in

the fifth century, thus warns the Christian farmers of North Italy of

their responsibility in the idolatry of their servants: "My brother,

when you know that your farm-servant sacrifices, and you do not prevent

his immolation, you sin. Though you give him not the wherewithal,

yet leave is granted him. Though he do not sin by your orders, yet

your will co-operates in the fault. Whilst you say nothing, you are

pleased at what your servant has done, and perhaps would have been

angry if he had not done it. Your subordinate sins, not only on his own

score, when he sacrifices, but on his master's who forbids him not,

who, if he had forbidden him, would certainly have been without sin.

Grievous indeed is the mischief of idolatry; it defiles those who

practise it; it defiles the neighborhood; it defiles the lookers-on;

it pierces through to those who supply, who know, who keep silent.

When the servant sacrifices, the master is defiled. He cannot escape

pollution when partaking of bread which a sacrilegious laborer has

reared, blood-stained fields have produced, a black barn has garnered.

All is defiled, with the devil in house, field, and laborers. No part

is free from the crime which steeps the whole. Enter his hut, you will

find withered sods, dead cinders--meet sacrifice for the demon, where a

dead deity is entreated with dead offerings! Go on into the field, and

you will find altars of wood, images of stone--a fitting ministration,

where senseless gods are served on rotting altars! When you have looked

a little further, and found your servant tipsy and bleeding, you ought

to know that he is, as they call it, a _dianatic_, or a soothsayer."

In the VIth century, S. Cæsarius of Arles, in an almost contemporary

"Life," is said to have cast out "a devil, which the rustics call a

diana."[102]

In the XIIth, XIIIth, XIVth, and XVth centuries, this idolatrous cultus

was not extinct. Montfaucon quotes part of a decree, in which Auger of

Montfaucon, an ancestor of his own, Bishop of Conserans, in the South

of France, at the close of the XIIIth century, found it necessary to

denounce _dianaticism_: "Let no woman profess that she rides by night

with Diana, goddess of the pagans, or with Herodias, or Bensozia, and

raise a route of women to the rank of deities; for this is a diabolical

illusion."[103]

In the Bollandist _Life of S. James of Bevagna in Umbria_, who died in

1301, we are told that the saint distinguished himself "by rebuking

those women who go to the chase with Diana"; and in 1317, John XXII.,

in his bull addressed to the Bishop of Frejus, denounces those "who

wickedly intermeddle with divinations and soothsayings, sometimes using

Dianas."

In the XVth century, Cardinal de Cusa speaks of examining two women who

"had made vows to a certain Diana who had appeared to them, and they

called her in Italian Richella, saying she was Fortune."[104]

John of Salisbury, Bishop of Chartres in 1136, talks of this "Sabbath"

company in language which is a curious medley of classical and mediæval

phraseology. He speaks of the delusion of those "who assert that a

certain night-bird (_nocticulam_, or, according to the generally

received emendation, _nocte lucam_, the night-shiner, a synonyme for

Hecate), or Herodias, or the lady president of the night, solemnize

banquets, exercise offices of diverse kinds; and now, according to

their deserts, some are dragged to punishment, others gloriously

exalted."[105]

William of Auvergne, Bishop of Paris in 1224, tells us a good deal

about this queen of the ladies of the night. They call her, he says,

"Satia (_a satietate_), and the Lady Abundia, from the abundance she

is said to bestow upon the houses which she frequents." He goes on to

say that these ladies are seen to eat and drink, yet in the morning

the things are as they were. The pots and jars, however, must be left

open, or they will go off in a huff. To guard against such visitations,

Alvernus thinks, it was prescribed in the Levitical law that vessels

should be covered, or accounted unclean. He speaks of the "old women

amongst whom this delusion abides"; but it is evidently the cultus he

regards as a delusion, and the belief that there are spiritual beings

independent both of God and Satan, not the belief that these are real

diabolical phenomena.[106] Even in classic times, it would seem that

Diana and her crew fulfilled in some measure the office of household

fairies:

"Exagitant et lar et turba Diania fures";[107]

and in another passage of the same poet we find what seems to be an

early indication of the connection between witches and the feline race.

When worsted by the first onslaught of the Titans, the gods thus chose

their hiding-places:

"Fele soror Phœbi, niveâ Saturnia vacca,

Pisce Venus latult, Cyllenius ibidis alvo."[108]

But to return to the "ladies of the night." Alvernus says, "They

sometimes enter stables with wax tapers, the drippings of which appear

on the hairs and necks of the horses, whilst their manes are carefully

plaited." May we not exclaim with Mercutio,

"This is that very Mab

That plaits the manes of horses in the night,

And bakes the elf locks in foul, sluttish hairs"?

Alvernus' expression is "_guttatos crines_," wax-clotted hairs.

Shakespeare's Mab seems to have played the same trick upon human beings.

The Lady Abundia is distinctly identified with Diana's crew, nay,

herself represents that goddess, in a most curious passage from an

early MS. of the _Roman de la Rose_, which was a composition of this

same thirteenth century:

"Et les cinq sens ainssi deçoivent

Par les fantosmes qu'ils recoivent

Dont maintes gens par leur folies

Quident estre par nuit estries

Errans avecque dame _Habonde_

Et dient que par tout le monde

Le tiers enfant de nascion

Sont de cette condition;

Qu'ils vont trois fois en la semaine

Si çon destinée les mainne,

Et par tous les ostiex se boutent

Ne clos ne barres ne redoutent

Ains' sen entrent par les fendaces

Par charnieres et par crevaces

Et se partent des cors les ames,

Et vont avec les bonnes dames

Par lieux forains et par maisons."[109]

Bensozia, or Bezezia, as she is called in the _Glossarium Novum_

from some MSS. statutes of S. Florus, has been a great puzzle to

antiquarians. Montfaucon is inclined to identify her with the _domina

noctis_, or Abundia. The _Glossarium Novum_ suggests desperately that

it may be a name for Herodias' daughter. Mr. Baring-Gould, following

Grimm, has unwittingly furnished, I think, the true solution. He thus

comments upon a remark of Tacitus in his _Germania_--"a part of the

Suevi sacrifice to Isis": "This Isis has been identified by Grimm with

a goddess Ziza, who was worshipped by the inhabitants of the parts

about Augsburg. Kuchlen, an Augsburg poet of the XIVth century, sings:

"'They built a great temple therein

To the honor of Zize, the heathen goddess.'"

This Ziza, Mr. Gould suggests, is no other than Holda, or Holle, the

wandering moon-goddess of the Teutons, in other parts called Gôde,

under which name she resembled Artemis as the heavenly huntress

accompanied by her maidens; in Austria and Bavaria, Berchta, or Bertha

(the shining); in Suabia and Thuringia, Hörsel, or Ursel; in other

places, the night-bird, Tutösel. Bezezia would there be Bena Ziza--the

good Ziza. Alvernus' "Satia" is, in all probability, an attempt to

Latinize the sound, as "Abundia" the sense; and so the three names are

reducible to one.

Although the suggestion of the _Glossarium Novum_ is inadmissible, I

cannot but feel that its attempt to introduce Herodias' daughter into

the "Sabbath" crew is reasonable enough.

I should myself be tempted to think that Herodias should be understood

as Herodias Junior. Not only is there a propriety in this, considering

the daughter's antecedents, but it is clear that fancy was early busy

with her name; witness the weird story told by the Greek historian,

Nicephorus, of her setting to dancing on the ice in her mother's

sight, and persisting therein until she gradually broke through, and

finished by dancing her head off against the sharp edge. On the other

hand, this is, of course, in the teeth of what must be accepted as

the authentic account given by Josephus, who calls her Salome, and

allots her two husbands and three children. Moreover, Cesare Cantù is

able to produce a myth accounting for the mother's presence, though he

omits all reference to his authority, which I have vainly attempted to

discover. It is at least _ben trovato_: "Credevasi pure che Erodiade

ottenuto il teschio del Battista volle bacciarlo, ma quello si

ritrasse e soffio, di che ella fu spinta in aria, e ancora si va tutte

le notte."[110] There is nothing surprising in meeting with Jewish

features in the rites of mediæval magic, since Jews were notoriously

the leading magicians, both in Christian and Moorish states; as,

indeed, they had been before the Christian era, wherever they had been

known throughout the pagan world. The term "Sabbath," as applied to

the magic gathering, naturally suggests itself; but I think it is not

really any direct outcome of Jewish influence. The word, before its use

in _diablerie_, had come to be a general expression for a feast in the

Spanish Peninsula, and had thence no doubt found its way into France

and Germany. The _Glossarium Novum_ gives an extract from the will of

Sancho of Portugal (A.D. 1269): "Item ad unum Sabbatum faciendum mando

duas libras."

The idea of Diana, Herodias, and Bezezia as a magic trinity, or,

rather, as a triform manifestation of one deity, Latin, Jewish, and

barbarian, was no unnatural outcome of a mixed race such as peopled

Gaul and North Italy in the first centuries of the Christian era, and

to such an idea the common image of the triple Hecate, "Tergeminamque

Hecaten tria Virginis ora Dianæ," easily lent itself. Dr. Döllinger

says: "Hecate was represented with three bodies or with three heads,

as the goddess of the star of night, energizing in three spheres of

action--in heaven, and earth, and sea--and at the same time in allusion

to the three phases of the moon."[111] As Ben Jonson's witch sings:

"And thou three-formed star that on these nights

Art only powerful, to whose triple name

Thus we incline once, twice, and thrice the same."[112]

The extraordinary way in which polytheism has sought by an amalgamation

of rites, and so of properties and personalities, to regain that unity

of worship of which it is the formal negation, is a great distraction

to antiquarians, who would fain distinguish precisely the various cults

of paganism. Almost all the female deities occasionally interchange

offices. Diana is especially a central figure, in which they all meet.

Venus, Juno, Minerva, ordinarily representative of such opposite

functions, are, under certain aspects, identified with Diana. Of Isis

Dr. Döllinger says: "She often stepped into the place of Demeter,

Persephone, Artemis, and Hecate, and became dispensatrix of food,

mistress of the lower world and of the sea, and goddess of navigation.

In some inscriptions she is pantheistically called 'the one who is

all.'"[113]

"Fables," Sir Francis Palgrave says, truly enough, "have radiated from

a common centre, and their universal consent does not prove their

subsequent reaction upon each other, but their common derivation from a

common origin."[114] None the less, however, the "subsequent reaction"

is in many cases most real and important; itself testifying, doubtless,

to a common origin, but at the same time productive of results of

a distinctly conglomerate character. Often, too, properties which

belonged to the original parent cultus, and which have been lost, or

have fallen into abeyance in a derivative, have been restored to this

last by amalgamation with another cult. For instance, the Ephesian

Artemis, the parent, as is generally supposed, of the Latian Diana,

was always associated with the practice of magic. Her garments were

covered with mystic sentences, which obtained the name of "Ephesian

Letters," and which were supposed to be potent charms. The deciphering

and application of these sentences was a regular art in Ephesus; hence

the magic books which the Ephesians burned in such numbers under the

influence of S. Paul's preaching. On the other hand, the Latian Diana

seems to have derived the most part of her magic properties from her

amalgamation with Hecate.

Evidence is not wanting to show that the mediæval magical cultus owes

its conglomerate character to something more than the accidental

mingling of races, or the spontaneous action of polytheism which I have

noticed.

The Gnostic heretics, and especially the disciples of Basilides, have

left numerous records of their teaching and practice in the shape of

engraved gems called _abraxi_, which have been discovered in great

numbers throughout North Italy, Gaul, and Spain. If we look through

the pages devoted to the illustration of these extraordinary relics in

Montfaucon, we shall find almost all the peculiar emblems of mediæval

magic, such as cocks and serpents, abracadabra, the triple Hecate, etc.

But beyond this there is conspicuous the medley, so characteristic of

mediæval magic, of sacred and profane, Christian and pagan, divine and

diabolical; the names of God and of our Lord mixed with those of Latin

and Egyptian deities, Old Testament prophets and local genii, piety and

lewdness, grace and brutishness--loathsomely incongruous, one should

fancy, even to unchristian eyes, as some royal banquet which harpies

have defiled with blood and ordure.

Basilides himself (A.D. 125) seems hardly to have been responsible

for these indecencies. He was an eclectic of the Hebrew-Alexandrian

school, and, if we are to believe Neander, meant to teach a not

unrefined monotheism by means of a vocabulary of symbols gathered from

all quarters. But he had prepared a powerful machinery for evil, of

which his unscrupulous disciples were not slow to avail themselves. The

diabolical guild spread with extraordinary rapidity, and struck deep

root on all sides. S. Irenæus writes against it and the kindred sect of

the Valentinians in the IId century, and S. Jerome in the Vth century

testifies to its influence in Gaul and Spain.

These Gnostics seem to have gradually identified themselves with

another and even darker sect of the same family--the Ophites, or

worshippers of the serpent; witness the vast number of serpent gems

amongst the _abraxi_. With these Ophites, as with the Cainites,

who closely resemble them, the demiurge, creator, or world-god,

is not merely subordinate, but imperfect and evil, and hostile to

the everlasting wisdom symbolized by the serpent. The malignant

creator, jealous of his creature, throws about him the net of the

law, restraining him from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil;

and from out of this net, the eternal wisdom, by the serpent as its

intermediary and symbol, delivers him. And so it is that, in this

perverse system, man's fall becomes his triumph, and the devil his

redeemer. This principle was only carried out by the Cainites when

they upheld Cain and Judas as the representatives of the higher wisdom

and examples of heroic resistance to the tyranny of the demiurge. It

must be admitted that it would be quite in keeping with their usual

manner if they are responsible for the deification of Herodias. Of the

Ophites, Origen reports that they admitted none to their assemblies

who did not curse Christ.[115] This systematic, detailed perversion

of Christianity is so perfectly in accord with what we are told of

the mediæval Sabbath, where Christ was renounced and the Blessed

Trinity reviled as a three-headed Cerberus, that, loath as are such

historians as Neander and Gieseler to entertain anything so _bizarre_

as devil-worship, they hardly know what else to call it. Amongst many

special indications of a connection between Gnosticism and mediæval

_diablerie_, I would remark the following: Alvernus speaks of the

magic book in use in his day, entitled _Circulus Major_, wherein are

instructions how to form the greater circle for the evocation of

demons; also of a "greater" and "lesser" circle, and of other figures

called "Mandal" and "Aliandet," wherein convene the four kings of the

East, West, North, and South, with other demons beside.[116] Now,

Origen speaks of the "greater and lesser circles" as rites of the

Ophites. It is true that in Origen's description we do not hear of four

kings, but of seven, who are styled the "seven princes," "lords of the

seven gates"[117] "of the seven heavens"; but the number does not seem

to be marked with any great precision; for Origen (cap. 31) reduced

them to six, and it is the worship of the six angels that S. Boniface

is said to have abolished in Germany in the VIIIth century.[118] Again,

Alvernus admitted that his circles contained other demons besides the

four kings.

The four kings are identified as a Gnostic subdivision of the seven

spirits by Feuerardentius,[119] who says that, according to the

Rabbins, Zamael was one of the four kings of evil spirits, and reigned

in the East, and also one of the seven planetary spirits, and presided

over Mars. He was the accuser of the Jews, as Michael was the defender.

The Jews are said to pray in their synagogues, "Remember not, O Lord,

the accusation of Zamael, but remember the defence of Michael." Michael

is another of the seven planetary spirits, ruling, according to some,

in Mercury, according to others, in the sun, and wielding the east

wind. The Ophites, with their instinct for desecration, blended Michael

and Zamael into one, calling them the "_Serpens projectibilis_," with

two names.[120] Of Adalbert, the heretical worshipper of the six

angels, who was discomfited by S. Boniface, we are told that "he

pretended to hold intercourse with S. Michael."

It would seem that something very much like the ancient rites for

evoking the four kings is still in use in Africa. Alvernus' account

is: "The master smites the ground in front of him, toward the eastern

quarter, with outstretched sword, and saith these words: 'Let the

great king of the East come forth'"; and so on with the others. In the

description of a modern incantation in Algiers, related in _Experiences

with Home_, p. 158, we are told, "Loud thrusts and blows were heard on

the ground, and several forms became visible, apparently issuing from

the earth."

We can hardly avoid the conclusion that mediæval magic is a Gnostic

tradition, and so additional light is thrown upon the vehement

language in which the "chapter" denounces as heretical, and more

than heretical--as something worse than paganism--every feature of

a system which apparently aimed at nothing less than a pantheistic

identification of good and evil through the deification of the devil.

I shall now proceed to show that antecedently to, and contemporaneously

with, the legislation of the "chapter," there existed in the church

a belief in the power of Satan and in the reality of magic differing

not at all from that which prevailed in the middle ages. It is easy to

make, as Maffei has done, a _catena_ of fathers who speak in contempt

of magic, some going so far as to call it a "nullity." The great fact

that impressed the early Christians with regard to magic was that

everywhere it was shrinking back before Christianity; that simple

children, armed with the cross, were more than a match for the masters

of devilish lore. They were full of that triumphant disenchantment

and purification of nature so gloriously expressed in the concluding

stanzas of Milton's "Nativity" ode. But men do not celebrate a triumph

over nothing, neither can nothing be brought to naught. The question

is, Did the fathers think it "heretical to attribute superhuman effects

to the aid of demons"? It will be to the purpose to collect a few

examples of the way in which they talked of two of the earliest and

most generally accepted relations of magic--the account of Simon Magus'

magic powers and Peter-stinted flight, and the legend of Cyprian and

Jovita. It is altogether beside the point to insist that one or both

of these relations are mere legends; the question is, what the fathers

thought it consistent with the Christian faith to believe. I shall

confine myself to passages which unmistakably exclude the hypothesis of

mere jugglery.

Of Simon Magus, Justin Martyr (A.D. 133, _Apol._, i. 26) says that "he

did mighty acts of magic by virtue of the art of the devils acting in

him."

S. Hippolytus (A.D. 220, _Refut._, bk. vi.) says that he did his

sorceries partly according to the art of Thrasymedes, in the manner

we have described above, and partly also by the assistance of

demons perpetrating his villany, "attempted to deify himself." This

testimony as to the reality of the diabolical intervention is the

more remarkable, as Hippolytus was a most keen exploder of the tricks

of pagan magicians, amongst whom was Thrasymedes, and gives, in the

work from which I quote, detailed accounts of how they produced their

effects by powders and reflectors, so that people saw Diana and her

hounds, and all manner of things, in the magic cauldron. Arnobius

(A.D. 303, _Advers. Gentes_, lib. ii.) says, "The Romans had seen the

chariot of Simon Magus and his fiery horses blown abroad by the mouth

of Peter, and utterly to vanish at the name of Christ."

S. Cyril of Jerusalem (A.D. 350, _Cat. vi. Illum._): "After Simon had

promised that he would rise up aloft into the heavens, and was borne up

in a demon chariot and carried through the air, the servants of God,

throwing themselves on their knees, and manifesting that agreement of

which Jesus spake--'If two of you be of accord concerning whatsoever

thing you shall ask, it shall be granted'--by the javelin of their

concord let fly at the magician brought him headlong to the ground."

S. Maximus of Turin (_Serm. in Fest. S. Petri_): "When that Simon said

he was Christ, and declared that as a son he would fly up on high to

his father, and straightway, lifted up by his magic arts, began to fly,

then Peter on his knees besought the Lord, and by his holy prayers

overcame the magic levity." The story of Cyprian and Jovita records

the repeated but fruitless attempts of the heathen magician, Cyprian,

to overcome the chastity of the Christian virgin, Jovita, by means of

a lascivious demon, whom he employs as his agent, and how Cyprian is

finally converted.

S. Gregory Nazianzen (_Orat._ 24) does not hesitate to speak thus: "He

(Cyprian) tried all the more, and employed as his procurer no ancient

hag of the sort fit for such things, but one of the body-loving,

pleasure-loving demons; since the envious and apostate spirits are keen

for such service, seeking many partners in their fall. And the wage of

such procuration was offerings and libations, and the appropriation of

the fumes of blood; for such reward must be bestowed upon those that

are thus gracious."

As to S. Augustine, even Janus admits that this father does furnish an

awkward passage (_De Civ. Dei_, xv. 23) about the commerce of demons

with women, which "the Dominican theologians seized on"; "but the

saint used it in mere blind credulity," and, though he never exactly

retracted it, did retract "a similar statement (_Retract._, ii.

30)."[121] Unfortunately for Janus, no two statements could be more

dissimilar. The statement which S. Augustine retracts is one limiting

the devil's power; the statement which he does not retract is one in

which it is precisely Janus' complaint that he exaggerates it. In

matter of fact, S. Augustine is the great storehouse from which the

scholastics have obtained almost all they have to say on _diablerie_.

S. Augustine, in his treatise, _De Trinitate_ (lib. iii. cap. 8),

having distinguished the creator of the "invisible seeds," the first

elements of things, latent everywhere throughout the frame of nature,

as the _Creator_, whereas all other authors are but _producers_, thus

speaks (cap. 9): "What they (the evil spirits) can do by virtue of

their nature, but cannot do through the prohibition of God, and what

they are not suffered to do by the condition of their nature, is past

man's finding out, except through the gift of God, which the apostle

commemorates, saying, 'To another the discernment of spirits.' We know

that man can walk, though walk he cannot unless he be permitted; so

those angels can do certain things if allowed by more powerful angels

at God's command, and cannot do certain other things, even if these

allow them, because he suffers it not from whom their nature hath its

native bounds, who, through his angels, very often prevents them doing

such things as he allows them to be able to do."

_De Civ. Dei_, lib. xxi. cap. 6: "Demons are allured to dwell with

men by means of creatures which not they, but God, has gifted with

sweetness diverse after their kind; not as brutes are attracted by

food, but as spirits by signs which are congruous to each one's

pleasure--by various kinds of stones, herbs, trees, animals, charms,

and rites. But in order that they should be so allured by men, they

first seduce them with astutest cunning, either by breathing into their

hearts a secret poison, or even by appearing in the deceitful guise of

friendship, and make a few their scholars and the teachers of many.

Neither would it be possible to learn, unless they first taught it,

by what name they are invited, by what compelled; whence magic arts

and their adepts have taken rise.... And their works are exceedingly

numerous, which, the more marvellous we acknowledge them to be, the

more cautiously we must avoid."

S. Isidore (_Etym._, lib. viii. cap. 9) says of magicians: "These

trouble the elements, disturb men's minds, and, without any

poison-draught, by the mere force of their charm, destroy life."

Venerable Bede, in the VIIth century (in _Luc._, lib. iii. cap. 8),

says of the commerce of _incubi_ and _succubi_, which Janus tells us

was an invention of the Dominicans, that "it is a matter as really

true as it looks like a lie, and is notoriously attested by numbers."

He tells us that a priest of a neighboring parish related to him that

he had to exorcise a woman so beset, and to heal the ulcers which the

devil had left upon her. These were all cured by blest salt, except

the largest, which was not healed until the priest was told what to

do by his patient. "If," said she, "you mix the oil consecrated for

the sick with the same medicine (_i.e._ the salt), and so anoint me, I

shall be at once restored to health; for I whilom saw in the spirit, in

a certain far-off city, a girl affected with the same calamity cured

in this way by the priest." He did as she suggested, and at once the

ulcer consented to receive the remedy, which it had before rejected.

Hincmar (_De Divort. Loth. et Tetb._, p. 654) says that certain

women "a Dusiis in specie virorum quorum amore ardebant concubitum

pertulisse inventa sunt"; and the context shows that he is not merely

quoting S. Augustine, but bearing his own testimony; for he speaks

of their exorcism. He proceeds to give an account of various kinds

of witchery, with an unmistakable conviction of their reality, and

clinches them with the wonderful story from the _Life of S. Basil_, by

the pseudo-Amphilochius, in his time newly translated out of the Greek.

It is the same story which Southey has turned to such good account in

his _All for Love_; and certainly few mediæval legends surpass it in

the realism of its _diablerie_. A young man obtains for his wife a

girl, who is on the eve of taking the veil, by means of a charm got at

the price of a compact written in his blood, surrendering his soul to

the evil one. When the young man repents, and the devil insists on his

bargain, S. Basil discomfits the fiend before the whole congregation,

and wrings from him the fatal writing. Now, Hincmar was the leading

prelate in the Gallic Church in the IXth century--that is to say, in

the very church and the very century in which was almost certainly

composed the "chapter" in which Janus supposes that all belief in

witchcraft was condemned as heresy.

Ivo of Chartres, in the XIth century, one of the very authors

whom, because they transcribe the "chapter," Janus appeals to as

representatives of what he regards as the ancient tradition, speaks

thus on the interpretation of Genesis vi. 2: "It is more likely that

just men, under the appellation of angels or sons of God, sinned with

women, than that angels, who are without flesh, could have condescended

to that sin; although of certain demons who maltreat women many persons

relate so many things that a determination one way or the other is not

easy."[122]

When we come to the great scholastics of the XIIIth century, we find

that where they have varied in aught from the teaching of their

predecessors on the subject of magic, it was, on the whole, in the

direction of moderation, or what would be called nowadays rationalism.

For instance, in considering the question of diabolical intercourse

with women, a belief in which, as we have seen, they had inherited from

a line of theologians, they gave an explanation which, whatever may be

said of it, at least repudiated the idea of an actual mixture of carnal

and spiritual natures. Again, they were very careful to guard against

the notion that there is anything that can be called with propriety an

art-magic--_i.e._ that there is any other than an arbitrary connection

between the charms used and the results obtained--which is more than

can be said of some of their predecessors.

Janus (p. 258), with the operose mendacity which is his characteristic,

pretends that the authority "of the popes, Aquinas, and the powerful

Dominican Order" established the reality of the Sabbath rides; that

in the XIVth and XVth centuries you might "be condemned as a heretic

in Spain for affirming, and in Italy for denying, the reality of the

Sabbath rides"; that some Franciscan theologians in the XVth century,

amongst others Alfonso de Spina, in his _Fortalitium Fidei_, maintained

the ancient doctrine asserting "belief in the reality of witchcraft

to be a folly and a heresy"; that Spina "thought that the inquisitors

had witches burned simply on account of that belief." "Tot verba tot

mendacia"! The question of the reality or non-reality of the Sabbath

rides has always been an open question. S. Thomas says nothing about

them one way or the other. It is much more probable than not that he

regarded those rides as fantastic, in accordance with the teaching of

his masters, Albertus Magnus[123] and Alexander Hales.[124] That he

never committed himself to the opposite view is pretty well assured

by the fact that the great representative of "the powerful Dominican

Order" in the XVth century, Cardinal Turrecremata, is an advocate of

the view which makes the rides fantastic. We may add that his eminence

got on very comfortably during his long residence in Italy, without

being molested for his Spanish heresy.

As to Alfonso Spina, he, indeed, asserts the fantastic character of the

Sabbath flights; but so little is he a disbeliever in _diablerie_ that,

not contented with maintaining its reality (_Fortal._, f. 146, p. 1,

col. 1),[125] he contributes a rather grotesque instance of it from his

own experience (f. 151, p. 1, col. 2).

He nowhere says that inquisitors had witches burned "simply on

account" of their belief in the reality of the Sabbath. He recounts

the burning of certain witches in Dauphiny and Gascony, who did hold

their Sabbath meetings to be real, which view, as attributing a certain

divine power to the devil, Spina thought could not be persisted in

without heresy. (See fol. 152, p. 2, col. 1.) But they were burned

because they were witches who had done real homage to the devil,

although sundry of its circumstances might be imaginary.

The following passages may be accepted as examples of the doctrine on

spiritualism of the principal scholastics of the XIIIth century.

S. Thomas, _Sum._ i. qu. 110, lays down that God only can work a

miracle properly so called--_i.e._ a work beyond the order of the

whole of created nature; "but since not every virtue of created

nature is known to us, therefore, when anything takes place by a

created virtue unknown to us, it is a miracle in respect to us; and

so, when the devils do something by their natural power, it is called

a miracle, _quoad nos_; and in this way magicians work miracles by

means of devils." (In 4 _Dist._ vii. qu. 3.) "The devils, by their

own power, cannot induce upon matter any form, whether accidental or

substantial, nor reduce it to act, without the instrumentality of its

proper natural agent.... The devils can bring to bear activities upon

particular passivities, so that the effect shall follow from natural

causes indeed, but beside the accustomed course of nature, on account

of the variety and vehemence of the active virtue of the active forces

combined, and the aptitude of the subjects;[126] and so effects which

are outside the sphere of all natural active virtues they cannot

really produce--as raise the dead or the like--but only in appearance."

_De Malo_, qu. xvi. art. 9: "The devils can do what they do, 1st,

Because they know better than men the virtue of natural agents. 2d.

Because they can combine them with greater rapidity. 3d. Because the

natural agents which they use as instruments can attain to greater

effects by the power and craft of the devils than by the power and

craft of men."

Alexander Hales, _Sum._, pars 2, qu. 42, art. 3, says that nothing,

however wonderful, "is a miracle which takes place in accordance with

the natural or seminal order, but every miracle holds of the causal

ratio (creative cause) only," (L.C. qu. 43). He admits that these

marvels of the seminal order are miracles _secundum modum faciendi_--a

term equivalent to S. Thomas' _quoad nos_.

Albertus Magnus, _Op._, tom. xviii. tract viii. qu. 3, art. 1, points

out that the miracles of Pharao's magicians are called lies, "not

because they are unreal (_falsa in se_), but because the devils have

always the intention of deceiving in those works which they are allowed

to do."

To sum up, the doctrine of the scholastics on the subject of the

devil's power comes to this: The devil is a great artist, who can

present incomparable shows to the senses and the imagination, and a

supreme chemist, who can combine natural agents indefinitely, and can

elicit in a twinkling the virtual contents of each combination; but

he can create, and, strictly speaking, originate, nothing external to

himself. They knew that, in mercy to mankind, Almighty God was ever

restraining the devil in the exercise of this power; but they conceived

that the power itself continued unaltered. It was generally admitted

that the devil could not raise a dead man to life, or restore a sense,

as the sight, when really destroyed. But such acts were regarded by

the scholastics as precisely instances of the creation or origination

of such a mode as could not be the outcome of any mere combination of

natural agents, and which, therefore, must require the fiat of the

Creator. At the same time, it must be admitted that they often found it

difficult to distinguish in fact between the operation of the limits of

the devil's finite nature and the result of the habitual reservation of

Almighty God.

And here it may not unnaturally be objected that the large allowance I

have made to natural powers, and to the devil's power of manipulating

them, tends to lessen the effect of the argument from miracles. No

doubt it tends to reduce a considerable number of miracles from the

category of logical proof to that of rhetorical argument. Where the

miracle is supposed wholly above nature, it is a proof that God is

with those who work it; but where it is not beyond the sphere of

universal nature, it can, for the most part, only offer a greater or

less persuasion dependent upon circumstances. However, such natural

miracles, so to call them, approximate more or less closely to logical

cogency in proportion as they manifest themselves as the victors in

a war of miracles; for it cannot be supposed that in such a war God

should allow himself to be worsted, or that Satan should be divided

against himself. When God first presented himself as a wonder-worker

before human witnesses, it was as developing and modifying in a

supernatural manner the powers of nature--nay, of local, Egyptian

nature--and outdoing and discomfiting the magicians "who did in like

manner." A recent Catholic commentator, Dr. Smith, in his very learned

work, _The Book of Moses_, points out in detail "the analogy which most

of the plagues present with the annual phenomena of the country."[127]

Of the prelude to the plagues, the conversion of the rod of Moses into

a serpent, he says: "Even at the present day, the descendants, or at

least representatives, of the Psylli ... can change the asp into a rod

stiff and rigid, and at pleasure restore it to flexibility and life by

seizing the tail and rolling it between their hands."

In his treatment of the first plague, he gives the following account of

the annual phenomenon: "For some time before the rise, the Nile assumes

a green color; it then becomes putrid and unfit to drink. Gradually,

about the 25th June, a change comes on; the green color and putrid odor

disappear; the water becomes clear again, then takes a yellow tinge,

which passes into an ochreous red; until for ninety days before the

inundation gains its greatest height, it is popularly called the _red

water_. 'On the first appearance of the change,' says an eye-witness,

'the broad, turbid tide certainly has a striking resemblance to a river

of blood.'[128] ... At the moment foretold by Moses, the miraculous rod

is lifted up and waved over the stream; instantaneously the red attains

all its intensity of color; the fish, which in ordinary years live on

through the gradual habituation to a different state, now perish in

numbers from the very suddenness of the change; and the putrid odor,

which usually exhales from it before the rise, comes back again in

consequence of this mortality. The blood-red hue is not confined to

the spot where Pharao and his magicians stood. It spreads at once

into the various channels into which the river divides itself, into

the canals which are carried through the land for irrigation, into the

lakes and ponds which served as reservoirs, into all the collections of

Nile-water, and the very vessels of stone and wood which were commonly

used both in town and country for private cisterns. The consequence is

that at the very time the water begins to sweeten, it becomes again

undrinkable; the Egyptians loathe the water, a draught of which is

esteemed one of the greatest luxuries they can enjoy; and, as the

inhabitants still do when anything prevents them from drinking of the

river, 'they digged round about the river for water, for they could not

drink of the water of the river.'"

Of the plague of frogs, the same author remarks: "Such a nuisance

was not unknown in some other countries, and there are instances of

the inhabitants being in consequence driven from their settlements,

as Athenæus remarks of the Pœonians and Dardanians, Diodorus of the

Antariats of Illyria, and Pliny of some Gaulish nation. But in Egypt

they are not unfrequently equivalent to a plague. Indeed, Hasselquist

believes that every year that would be the result, were it not for the

species of stork, called _ardea ibis_, which in the month of September

comes down in large flocks to feed upon the small frogs then beginning

to swarm over the country."

As regards the third plague, that of the _ciniphs_, or Egyptian

mosquito, Dr. Smith thinks that the magicians could not produce them,

because at that time of the year they were not yet out of the egg.

This, as we have seen, is not the doctrine of the scholastics, and is

hardly consistent with the idea that the magicians were anything more

than conjurers. I would suggest that the mosquitoes had to do something

more than show themselves and crawl in order to vindicate their reality

as plagues. Doubtless the magicians and their familiars hatched the

eggs; and there the effete creatures were, with knock-knees, and

flaccid trunks, and languid appetites; but they were as though they

were not when the orthodox mosquitoes sounded their horns for the

banquet, and put in their stings with all and more than all their

native vigor. Well might the magicians exclaim in anguish, "This is

the finger of God."[129] Abbot Rupert, a writer of the XIIth century,

gives precisely the same _rationale_ of the magicians' failure, whilst

maintaining that their successes were of the nature of phantasmagoria.

Of the remaining plagues, the fourth, that of flies, was too like the

third for the magicians to hope for success; and when at the sixth

plague they seem again to take heart, behold, they cannot "stand before

Moses for the boils that are upon them." The dreadful sequel, closing

in darkness and death, would seem to have simply swept them away in its

tide of horror.

So far, then, from there being any reason for shrinking from the idea

of a miraculous competition, in which the spirit of man, the demon, and

Almighty God enter the lists together, we ought rather to rejoice at

the recurrence of the very conditions which God is wont to choose for

the scene of his most triumphant manifestations.

I have thus drawn out the Catholic idea of _diablerie_, because I

believe that one of the causes most active in spiritualism--a cause

necessary to the evolution of a great number of its phenomena--is the

devil. In matter of fact, to this cause these phenomena have been for

ages universally attributed. It may, then, fairly claim to be the

hypothesis in possession. In the concluding chapter, I hope to consider

the amendment which spiritualists, as a rule, suggest--viz., that the

spirits whom they admit with us to be the causes of the phenomena are

not devils, enemies of God and man, but the souls of the departed in

varying stages of perfection.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[94] Cotelerius in lib. iv. _Recogn. S. Clementis_, p. 452.

[95] Eng. trans., p. 250.

[96] P. 250, note.

[97] Preface to Edit. Benedict. S. Augustin.

[98] _De Antiq. Collect. Can_, pars iv. cap. 12.

[99] _Vita Cardinal de Cusa._ By Hartzheim, S.J. Pars ii. cap. 8.

[100] Note to canto iii.

[101] See Döllinger's _Gentile and Jew_ (Darnell's translation), vol.

ii. p. 49.

[102] _Act. Sanct._ Aug., 27.

[103] _L'Antiq. Expliq._, lib. iii.

[104] _Vita_, Hartzheim, l. i.

[105] _Polycrat._, l. ii. p. 13.

[106] _De Univ._, p. 948.

[107] Ovid, _Fasti_, lib. v. line 141.

[108] _Metam._ v. fab. 7.

[109] _Ducange_, sup. (Diana).

[110] _Storia Univ._, lib. xv. cap. 15.

[111] Vol. i. p. 101.

[112] _Masque of Queens._

[113] Vol. ii. p. 177.

[114] _Quart. Rev._, vol. xxii. p. 370.

[115] _Cont. Cels._, lib. vi. c. 28.

[116] _De Univ._, tom. i. p. 1037.

[117] _Cont. Cels._, lib. vi. c. 38.

[118] _Life_, by Mrs. Hope, p. 186.

[119] _Iren._, Ed. Ben. Var. Annot., p. 230.

[120] _Iren._, cap. xxx. p. 111.

[121] P. 252.

[122] _Decret._, pars xi. cap. 105.

[123] Tom. xviii. tract. viii. qu. 30, art. 2, memb. 2.

[124] Pars ii. qu. 166, memb. 6.

[125] Edit. Nuremberg, 1485.

[126] Cf. _Scotus Oxon_, lib. ii. dist. 18.

[127] Vol. i. p. 320 et seq.

[128] Osburn, _Israel in Egypt_.

[129] In Exod. viii.

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

V.

Those who are fond of singular events in this world had here a chance

to be satisfied; for, certainly, this affair surpassed anything in the

ordinary run. Pierrette quickly recovered, and nursed her little one

without fatigue. Far from becoming even the least pale or thin, it was

remarked, even by the envious--and there are always some of the tribe

around the happy--that she was rejuvenated, fresh as a cherry, and the

baby in her arms made her resemble the good S. Anne, mother of our

Blessed Lady, whose chapel was near our parish church.

Besides, the great esteem felt for the Ragauds, their charity, honesty,

and well-known piety, caused it to be acknowledged--and it was

true--that this new blessing, the choicest and most unexpected they

could have desired, was the recompense of the Lord God on account of

little Jean-Louis. M. le Curé said it to whoever would listen to him;

and, as we have seen he was fond of repeating proverbs, he did not fail

to add: "If there is one truth that each and every one of us can prove

if he wishes, it is '_that a good action is never lost_.' Now, if this

is always true in regard to men, judge if we should believe it when the

good God, all-powerful, is our creditor!"

M. le Marquis de Val-Saint was the first and most sincere in rejoicing

at the happiness of his good farmers. Mademoiselle, his daughter,

asked to be godmother, and had made under her own eyes, by her maids,

a complete outfit of fine Holland linen, of which all the little

garments were scalloped, embroidered, and trimmed with lace; such as

are only displayed in the shop-windows of the city.

M. le Marquis naturally stood godfather with mademoiselle, and, not to

be behind her in presents, ordered that, on the day of the baptism,

there should be feasting and village-dances on the lawn before the

château.

It was a day to be remembered in the neighborhood. As for the eating,

singing, and laughter, you can well think nothing was wanting; they

spoke of it for months afterwards. Only one person wore a rather long

face, and that was our _curé_; not that he was ever the enemy of

pleasure and enjoyment, but that, contrary to his advice, M. le Marquis

had three casks of old wine, reserved for his own table, tapped; and

the consequence was that, out of two hundred persons present, men,

women, and children, not one, towards twilight, was able to walk

straight on his legs.

Apart from that, everything passed off splendidly; and, to conclude,

I will tell you that they had awaited the complete recovery of Mother

Pierrette, so that she might be present at the celebration with her

little girl in her arms; which, to my mind, was the prettiest part of

the show.

The little Ragaudine had three beautiful names--Nicole-Eveline, after

M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, her god-parents; and Jeanne, in honor

of our great S. John the Baptist, on whose feast she had the good

fortune to be born. One fact, which would have touched devout hearts

if they had known it, was that little Jean-Louis had also come into

the world on S. John's day, four years before. M. le Curé, who had

it from poor Catharine, but who could not breathe a word of it, was

nevertheless so inspired by the thought that he made at the baptism a

speech which drew all the handkerchiefs out of the pockets; and if I

have one regret, it is that I cannot give a full report of his touching

words. But I was not born at that time, and my father, from his great

age, had forgotten them when he related this story to me.

If you fancy that this event affected in the least degree the condition

of Jean-Louis, you are vastly mistaken. True, there was no longer

thought of his inheriting Muiceron; but the tenderness and care of his

good parents were the same afterwards as before. Pierrette would have

thought it a sin to have acted otherwise; for she was always the first

to say: "It was the boy's guardian angel that obtained for me my little

girl from the good God." Ragaud thought the same as his wife, but was a

little more anxious than she about the temporal prospects of the boy.

It was evident that, between the fear of injuring his daughter, and the

dread of leaving Jeannet in want, his good heart did not know which

side to turn. Finally, in his embarrassment, he determined to consult

M. le Curé; and the good pastor, who had always an answer ready,

solved the difficulty in fifteen minutes' conversation. According to

his advice, it would suffice to place aside every year a small sum,

drawn from the harvest of such and such a field, and never to touch

either capital or interest. In that way, before twenty years, Master

Jean-Louis would find himself, without any injury to the little girl,

master of a nice little treasure, and capable, in his turn, of being

a land-owner. This affair settled, Ragaud returned home perfectly

satisfied, and told the whole story to Pierrette, who highly approved

of the step.

Thus, instead of one child at Muiceron, there were two, and that was

all the difference. The little things grew up calling themselves

brother and sister, there being nothing to make them doubt but that it

was really so. Never were quarrelling or bad words heard between them.

Ragaud often repeated to Jeannet that, as he was the eldest, he should

live patiently and amicably with his young sister; and Jeannet, from

his gentle heart and natural sweetness of disposition, easily put the

counsel in practice.

It is commonly said that girls are more forward than boys, as much

in body as in mind; and another proof of the truth of this remark

was evident as the Ragaud children grew up. At six years old, the

little girl was so bright, so cunning, so bold, and had such a strong

constitution, you would have thought her the twin-sister of Jean-Louis;

but with all that, there was no resemblance, either in face or

disposition, even though they say that, by living together, people

often grow to look alike. Jeanne Ragaud had very light hair, was joyous

and petulant, a little quick-tempered and rough in her actions, like

her father; Jean had a thoughtful look, and although he was always

ready to play, his tastes were rather quiet. They both loved to lead

the sheep to pasture in the field near La Range; but when it was the

turn of the little boy, you would have said the sheep took care of

themselves, so quiet was it around them; and the reason of this was,

that the shepherd was stretched in the wood, in the shade of an old

willow-tree, face to the sky, watching the clouds pass over his head.

Very different was it when Jeannette, armed with a switch, left the

farm, driving the flock before her in the noisiest style; she drove off

the dog, ran faster than he after the sheep which tried to get away

from her; and if she ever sat down, it was only because she was forced

to do so from want of breath. As for the clouds, little did she care

for all that Jean pretended to see in them--the beautiful and moving

things that kept him lying on the grass for entire hours, silently

gazing with fixed eyes on the blue sky above him. She obstinately

declared that a cloudy sky pleased her more than one entirely blue,

because generally clouds brought rain; and nothing, according to her

taste, was more delightful than a good soaking, which obliged the

shepherdess and sheep to return together at full gallop to the house,

running and paddling through the pools of muddy water.

This divergence of character grew more and more perceptible every day,

and led Pierrette to exclaim:

"Come next S. Martin's day, and if this continues, my little chickens,

I will have you change clothes; for, in truth, I begin to see that I

was mistaken, and that Jeannette is the boy, and _Louisieau_ the little

girl."

These words did not fall on the ear of a deaf person; for, after

that, _La Ragaudine_ became bolder and more resolute than ever. She

domineered over father and mother, who were weak enough to be amused by

it; and as for Jean-Louis, when he ventured to offer a little friendly

advice, she replied proudly, with her chin in the air:

"Hold your tongue; mother said I was the boy."

Thereupon good Jeannet was terribly confused, and could not find words

to reply.

Soon the time came when they must think of school. In those days, there

were no parish schools taught by the Sisters and Christian Brothers,

as now. Our good _curé_, through pure zeal, had taken charge of the

boys' education, and Germaine did the same for the girls. Thus the

Ragaud children did not have to accustom themselves to new faces in

this little change of their everyday life. But old Germaine could not

say as much; for until then, having only taught the village girls, who

were very obedient, even though a little stupid, she thought the devil

himself possessed the school the day that Jeannette put foot in it.

What tricks and drolleries this little witch of eight years invented to

distract the others would be difficult to enumerate. Threats, scolding,

shameful punishments, had no effect. At the end of a fortnight, she had

received all the bad marks of the class, and the fool's cap appeared to

be her ordinary head-dress, so that the greatest wonder was if she by

chance was seen without it.

Jean-Louis, in the adjoining room, accomplished wonders. In less than

four months, he learned to read and write; as for his catechism, he

knew it so well he could explain it like a priest. Never did he go to

sleep without knowing his lessons for the next day; so that M. le Curé

held him in high favor, and taught him many things that are found in

books, but which are not generally known in the country.

Thus it turned out that all the praises and dainties fell to the lot of

Jeannet as a reward for his good conduct. Every Thursday he returned to

the farm, holding up with both hands the front of his blouse, filled

with fruit and candies of Germaine's manufacture. Jeannette kept close

to his side, not at all displeased at having nothing--you can well

imagine why. The cunning monkey knew that hardly would they have turned

on their heels, before Jean-Louis would open his blouse, and say,

"Here, little pet, choose."

So that, without giving herself the least trouble, that imp of a

Jeannette feasted at will on the choicest morsels. Our _curé_ was not

long duped; without scolding Jean-Louis, who by acting in that manner

only proved his good heart, he warned Germaine that she must try some

other means of correcting the headstrong Jeannette, who could not be

allowed to grow up with such perverse habits. Germaine, very much hurt,

replied that she had used every punishment unsuccessfully, except

whipping, which she had never dared.

"Well," said the _curé_, "the next time she misbehaves, whip her,

Germaine. I authorize you to do it."

They had not to wait long. One very rainy day, Jeannette managed to

arrive the last at school, and seeing all the children's wooden shoes

and leather leggings ranged outside of the door, she gathered up the

greater part of them in her skirt, and ran off to the well, that she

might throw them to the bottom, running the risk of tumbling in herself

at the same time. Germaine, who was still light-footed, and feared

something wrong was contemplated, spied her through the window, rushed

after her, and caught her just in time to prevent the act.

"This is the way," cried she, holding the young one tightly by the

arm--"this is the way you, wicked good-for-nothing child, employ your

time, instead of learning your lessons!"

For the first time, Jeannette, in spite of her daring spirit, was so

overcome she could not say a word in defence. She saw quickly that she

would be well punished, and returned to the class very downcast.

Germaine commenced by making her pupil kneel in the middle of the room,

and then, seating herself in her straw arm-chair, with a severe and

troubled look, related the whole affair, taking care to make it appear

in its worst light.

"Now," added she, looking around at her little audience, who showed a

just indignation, "if I ask you, my children, what punishment Jeanne

Ragaud deserves for having attempted to enjoy herself in such a

malicious and shameful manner, you will doubtless answer that I should

expel her from the class; but do you think that would be a great sorrow

for a girl so careless of her duties? No, no, I say that would only

please her; and therefore, Jeanne Ragaud, you will immediately receive

a severe chastisement, but which, nevertheless, is not equal to your

great fault."

Thereupon Germaine readjusted her spectacles, drew from the bottom of

her big work-bag a leather whip with several thongs, and Jeannette,

more dead than alive with anger and shame, received in full view the

well-deserved punishment.

She neither cried, nor wept, nor made any protestation, not even an

attempt to defend herself; but she did not ask pardon either, and sat

straight up on her bench, whiter than Mother Germaine's cap. It was the

only day they had ever seen her quiet and good.

Towards evening, Jeannet, as usual, took his post where he could meet

her, that they might return home together; but great was his surprise

to see the little thing advance with measured steps, instead of running

and bounding according to her custom. What astonished him still further

was that she neither spoke nor laughed. Her little face was all

changed; but whether from grief or anger he could not discover. It

ended by making him feel very anxious, as he feared she was ill.

"What is the matter?" he asked gently. "Surely, Jeannette, something

troubles you; for this is the first time in my life I have ever seen

you sad."

The child turned away her head, and pretended to look at the trees.

"You will not answer me," continued Jean-Louis; "and yet I only

question you from pure love, not from curiosity. When one is troubled,

it is a relief to speak to a friend. Am I not strong enough to defend

you by tongue and arm, in case you _need_ it?"

"Nothing is the matter," replied Jeannette. "What do you fancy ails me?

Let us hurry, it is growing late; the crows are beginning to flutter

around the steeple."

"I am not thinking now about the crows, nor you either, Jeannette,"

said he, taking in his own her little, trembling hand; "and as for

going faster, that is not possible; we are already walking at such a

rate we can scarcely breathe."

Jeanne stopped short, and quickly drew away her hand.

"Then, don't go any further," cried she in a rebellious tone.

"Come, now, be good; we can't think of stopping here. Why do you

speak to me so roughly? Don't you know that I am your friend and your

brother?"

"When you will know what has happened," replied she impatiently,

"well--then--then--"

"Then I will console you as well as I can, my Jeannette."

"Oh! yes, but you can't do it, Jean-Louis; in my trouble nobody can

console me."

"Let us see," said he.

"There is nothing to see," she cried. "I won't tell you anything."

"Then it will be difficult," he replied sadly. "Jeannette, if I were

unhappy, I would not make such a fuss about telling you."

They continued on in silence. When they reached the top of the hill

in the meadow of Fauché, from which could be seen the buildings of

Muiceron, Jeannette suddenly stopped, and all the anger heaped up in

her little heart melted into sobs.

"What will mother say when she sees you return with red eyes?" said

good Jeannet, terribly distressed. "I beg of you, my darling, speak to

me; you would never cry like this for nothing."

"O Jean-Louis! I am so unhappy," she cried, throwing herself in his

arms; "and if they make me go back to school, I will certainly die."

"Now, stop; don't cry any more. You shall not go back," said he,

kissing her; "for none of us wish to see you die."

Jeannette this time did not need urging, but frankly related all her

wrongs and the affair of the whip. Jean-Louis for the moment was so

furious he would willingly have beaten Germaine; but after a little

reflection, he thought that after all the correction was not altogether

unjust.

He spoke wisely to the little thing, and succeeded in calming her in a

measure; but he could not make her change her mind about returning to

school. On this point it was as difficult to make an impression as on a

stone wall.

"What will we do?" said he. "For you see, Jeannette, father has

already received so many complaints about you he will most assuredly

not consent to let you remain idle at the farm. To-morrow we will

leave without saying a word. Do what I tell you; say your prayers well

to-night; and as, after all, you were a good deal in fault, the best

thing will be to ask Germaine's pardon, which she will willingly grant."

"I would rather run off into the woods," cried the rebellious child. "I

would rather be eaten up by the wolves."

"No, no, that is foolish," said he, "they would hunt for you, and the

woods around Val-Saint are not so big but what they could find you; and

then everybody would know your fault, and father would be so angry."

"Very well," said she resolutely. "I will go see my godmother."

"That can easily be done," replied Jeannet; "and it is a very good

idea. Dry up your tears now; to-morrow morning we will go together and

see mademoiselle; she will know what to do."

This agreement made, Jeanne's great sorrow was quickly dissipated. She

recovered her good humor, her lively manner, and was as full of fun and

frolic as ever. The grief of children is like the clouds in the sky--a

mere nothing causes them, a nothing scatters them; and the sun appears

more beautiful than ever after a shower. Jean and Jeannette reached

the house, running together hand in hand. Neither Ragaud nor Pierrette

suspected anything; and nevertheless, that night, without any one even

dreaming of it, the whim of a little eight-year-old witch led to many

new events which changed the life of our good friends, as you will see

in the end.

VI.

It is time that I should tell you about the château of our village,

and of its worthy lord, M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. The château was

an imposing edifice, so high and wide, with such thick walls, and so

well surrounded with deep ditches filled with running water, that my

father truly said such a building had nothing to fear from either time

or man. Before the great Revolution, our lords lived in great style.

I have heard it said that one of them, who was a great warrior, could

lead into the field more than a thousand soldiers, all of them his

tenants, armed and equipped at his own expense. What makes me believe

this was not false is the fact that there still remains in front of the

château a great lawn, flanked on each side by buildings of such length

they must surely have been used for barracks. But as to that, he that

chooses may believe; I cannot positively affirm it, and, besides, it

has very little bearing on the story of Jean-Louis.

As was to have been expected, our lords were driven away at the time

when the masters had to fly, that their valets could take their places.

Thank God! this fine condition of things did not last long. At the

end of a few years, the legitimate owner of the château of Val-Saint,

who was a little child at the time the family left France, was put in

possession of his property. He afterwards married, and had an only

daughter, the godmother of Jeannette.

Never was there seen a happier family or better Christians; from

father to son, they were models. M. le Marquis always remembered the

time when he was in poverty and exile, obliged to earn his bread as

a simple workman. It made him kind and compassionate to the poor,

and, consequently, he was adored by all around him; and I have heard

that Madame la Marquise even surpassed him in excellence and charity.

Frequently in the winter she was seen visiting the cottages, followed

by her servants carrying bundles of wood and bowls of soup, which she

loved to distribute herself to the most needy.

Contrary to many great ladies, who flock to the city for amusement and

gaiety in the winter, she made her husband promise that they would

remain at Val-Saint during the entire year; for, said she, "in summer

nearly every one has what is necessary; but in winter there is much

suffering among the poor, and if we are not at home to succor and

relieve the indigent, who will replace us?" You will agree with me that

she spoke as a true Christian; and you will also allow that if all

our fine ladies thought and acted in like manner, they would gain in

the benedictions of the poor what they might lose in pleasure, and it

would certainly be for the best. Between ourselves, M. le Marquis did

not give in very willingly to this proposition; it was not that the

dear man was fond of foolish dissipation; but after passing through so

much trouble, and having the happiness to see his true king once more

on the French throne, he could not resist the temptation of going to

Paris occasionally to salute him, and was very desirous that madame

should appear at court. She always excused herself on account of her

delicate health; and this reason, alas! was only too true. Besides, she

was quick-witted, like all women, and, without saying anything, saw

that a new revolution was not far off. M. le Marquis, on the contrary,

boldly maintained that, as his dear masters had only returned by a

miracle, they would not be off very soon again. 1830 proved that our

good lady was right. After that, there was no further talk about going

to Paris; but it was very sad at the château. M. le Marquis became

gloomy and half sick from grief, and madame, who had not been well

for a long time, felt that the blow would kill her; in fact, she died

shortly afterwards, leaving a little daughter, ten years old, and poor

monsieur, very lonely in his fine château.

As he feared God, he knew that a brave Christian should not sink under

trials. By degrees he appeared resigned to his fate, and resumed his

ordinary occupations. Besides the care of his large estate, he hunted,

fished, and visited his good neighbors. He gave large sums for the

restoration of our church and several chapels in the neighborhood.

All this, and his great watchfulness over the peasants who were

his tenants, made his time pass usefully. The evenings were rather

wearisome. Our _curé_ noticed it, and frequently visited the château

towards dusk, so that he could entertain him with the little news of

the district, and read the public journals to him. They discussed

politics. When I say discussed, it is only a way of speaking, as the

_curé_ and his lord always were of the same opinion; but they could

regret the past together, and build up new hopes for the future; and in

that manner bedtime came before they knew it.

Little mademoiselle was brought up very seriously, without companions

of her own age, or any amusements suitable to her rank. She was under

the care of an old governess, named Dame Berthe, who was tall and

severe in appearance, very well educated, but so soft-hearted in

regard to her pupil she always said _amen_ to all her caprices, only

regretting she could not guess them beforehand.