As they were obliged to pass Muiceron to reach the wood, you may

well imagine that more than one of the hurried crowd lagged behind

to talk to the Ragauds, and thus they, in their turn, heard of the

terrible affair. The consternation was unparalleled, for there, as at

the château, no one would believe the wicked rumors afloat concerning

Isidore. Jeannette, who cared but little for her intended husband, and

had desired to be freed from her engagement, was indignant as soon as

she thought he was in trouble, and defended him warmly, which made

people believe she loved him devotedly. The truth was, this little

creature's soul was generous and high-strung, and, like all such

natures, she defended him, whom she willingly would have sent off the

night before, only because she thought he was unfortunate.

But days passed, and each one brought new and overwhelming proofs of

the truth. The police searched the neighborhood in vain, and soon

all hope of seeing Isidore reappear (which would have pleaded in his

justification) faded from the eyes of those who wished to defend him.

M. le Marquis, after having conversed with M. Aubry, Michou, and the

judicial authorities, was overcome with grief, and acknowledged that he

could not conscientiously mix himself up with the affair. As for old

Perdreau, he never recovered his consciousness, and died shortly after.

They placed the seals on his house, where, later, they discovered

the documents and correspondence which revealed his wicked life; and

now you can judge if there was anything to gossip about in a commune

as peaceable and tranquil as ours. In the memory of man there had

never been such a terrible event, and nothing will ever happen again

approaching to it, I devoutly wish.

Mademoiselle, who was not very well, was seriously injured by all this

trouble; and as M. le Marquis loved her dearly, and, besides, heard the

rumbling of the revolution in the capital which he had so long ardently

desired, packed up, and was soon off, bag and baggage, for Paris,

where he hoped to distract poor mademoiselle, and drive off mournful

recollections.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE LITTLE CHAPEL.

It stands within a narrow, quiet street,

And well-worn steps ascend at either side,

Where, all day long till twilight, pious feet

Softly and silently forsake the tide

Of feverish life, to rest a little space

Within its calm, and gaze upon his face.

The dead Christ, lying on his Mother's breast,

May not uplift those lifeless, closed eyes:

O helplessness divine! O sweet behest!

Rigid and white beneath the cross he lies,

That here, before this holy altar-stone,

Our miserable pride be overthrown.

The dull, gray walls with simple Stations hung,

The stainèd windows, blending liquid rays

Of red and gold in lucent amber, flung

Across the chancel like a hymn of praise

From spirit-voices flowing--all of these

Make endless peace and wondrous harmonies.

And when at evening hour the solemn strain

Of some quaint _Tantum Ergo_, strange and sweet,

Tunes the full soul to perfect chords again,

And from the beaten pathway weary feet

Turn heavenward once more, unchained and free,

It is a dear and blessed place to be.

Slowly the heavy waves of incense rise,

Parting amid the arches overhead.

Start, fervent tears of peace from burning eyes!

Mount, happy prayers! Despair, lie prone and dead!

Open, ye perfumed clouds, and give them room,

While _Benedicite_ pierces the gloom.

It is a quiet spot--the busy feet

Of toil and turmoil pause before its gates,

And turn aside, with reverent steps, to greet

The Holy One of Ages--him who waits,

With patient hands outstretched, to love and bless

The lowliest soul that craves his tenderness.

PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.

III.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD:

In my last letter, while criticising an incorrect definition of the

word _act_, I made the remark that "the gravity of bodies is not

a _power_, as some unphilosophical scientists imagine."[268] When

writing these words, I had to confine myself to a mere statement of

the scientific error; but it occurs to me that in an age in which

most of the so-called men of science are so little acquainted with

philosophy as to mistake effects for causes, and yet so proud of

their achievements as to aspire to the leadership of the public mind,

some precautions must be taken, lest our philosophical terminology be

infected with such improprieties as are now too leniently tolerated

in the language of science. It is the abuse of one word that does the

greatest mischief in the department of physics. This word is _force_.

Its frequent misapplication tends to confound and falsify the whole

doctrine of physical causation. It is therefore of great importance,

even in a scientific point of view, to determine within what limits the

use of such a word should be restricted in accordance with the laws

of philosophical terminology. Such is the main object of my present

communication.

The theory of physical causation deals with natural causes, powers,

actions, forces, movements, and the results of movements. When these

terms are properly defined, all relations between agents and patients,

between causes and effects, and consequent phenomena, can be easily

expressed with philosophical precision; but when the causes, the

powers, the actions, and the movements themselves are all confounded

under one common name of _force_, as it is now the fashion in the

scientific world to do, no one need be surprised if such a course

ends in philosophical inconsistencies. To show what great proportions

this evil has taken, innumerable passages of modern writers might be

adduced. But, not to perplex the reader with conflicting quotations

from different sources, I will give only a few extracts from one of

the best representatives of modern science. I have before me the

_Correlation of Physical Forces_, by Mr. Grove. It is a well-known

little work, much esteemed by physicists, and one which certainly

transcends the average merit of many modern productions of the same

kind. Now, what is Mr. Grove's notion of cause, of force, of power,

as compared with one another and with the phenomena of nature? The

following passages will show. He says:

"In each particular case, where we speak of cause, we habitually refer

to some antecedent power or force; we never see motion or any change in

matter take effect, without regarding it as produced by some previous

change" (p. 13).

Here _force_, _power_, and _cause_ are taken as equivalent; moreover,

_motion_, or a change in matter, is considered as "produced" by a

previous change; which implies that a previous change or movement

is the efficient cause of a subsequent change or movement. Hence,

according to such a terminology, movement, force, power, and cause

should be accepted as synonymous. But philosophy cannot admit of such a

wholesale confusion.

"A force," says he, "cannot originate otherwise than by devolution from

some pre-existing force or forces.... The term 'force,' although used

in very different senses by different authors, in its limited sense may

be defined as that which produces or resists motion.... I use the term

'force' as meaning that active principle inseparable from matter, which

is supposed to induce its various changes" (p. 16).

Here _force_ is again confounded with _power_ and with _cause_,

inasmuch as "active principles" are _powers_, and "that which produces

or resists motion" is a _cause_. We are told at the same time that

the active principle is not a primordial and essential constituent of

material substances, but an accidental result of devolution from other

active principles residing in other substances. Philosophy cannot admit

of such a phraseology; for, as the active principle of a substance is

a constituent of its nature, if the active principle of any substance

were thus communicated to it by accidental devolution, such a substance

would have no definite nature of its own, and would be nothing; and, in

spite of this, it would also be capable of becoming anything, according

as its active principle might originate from different pre-existing

forces. Now, we know that the first elements of any given substance

have a definite nature, and a definite active principle independently

of devolution from other substances; and that, according to the results

of a constant and universal experience, they are not liable to exchange

their nature for anything else, but keep it permanently and unalterably

amidst all the vicissitudes brought about by the interference of

surrounding bodies. It is, therefore, plain that the "active principle

inseparable from matter" cannot originate in devolution from other

pre-existing forces. But let us proceed.

"The position which I seek to establish in this essay," says Mr.

Grove, "is, that the various affections of matter which constitute the

main object of experimental physics--viz., heat, light, electricity,

magnetism, chemical affinity, and motion--are all correlative, or have

a reciprocal dependence; that neither, taken abstractedly, can be said

to be the essential cause of the others, but that either may produce,

or be convertible into, any of the others" (p. 15).

Every one, of course, will admit that heat, light, electricity,

etc., are "correlative." I also admit that they are not "essential

causes" of one another; but the fact is that they are no causes at

all; since heat, light, electricity, etc., are only modes of motion

and "affections of matter," as the author acknowledges, and are

therefore to be considered as mere phenomena or effects, of which the

one can be the condition, but not the cause, of the other. I know

that the popular language admits of such expressions as "heat causes

dilatation," "light causes an impression on the retina," "chemical

affinity causes combination," "movement causes a change of place."

But these and other similar expressions, though used by scientific

writers, and even by philosophers, are by no means philosophically

correct. We shall see presently that substances alone have efficient

powers, and therefore no mode of being and no affection of matter can

display efficient causality. Hence light, heat, electricity, and the

rest, are neither efficient causes nor efficient powers; and, inasmuch

as they are affections of matter, they cannot even be called _forces_

in a philosophical, but only in a technical, sense, as we shall explain

hereafter.

As to the mutual "convertibility" of these various affections of

matter into one another, I would observe that, although the expression

may be correctly understood, yet, as interpreted by Mr. Grove and

by other physicists, it cannot be admitted. What do we mean when we

say that progressive motion, for instance, is converted into heat?

We mean that in proportion as the progressive movement of a body is

resisted and _extinguished_, a correspondent amount of heat, or of

molecular calorific vibrations, is _produced_ by mutual actions and

reactions. In this sense the conversion of one mode of being into

another is perfectly admissible, no less indeed than the passage from

a state of rest to one of movement. But Mr. Grove does not understand

it so. He thinks that the progressive movement of a body is never

extinguished, but only transformed by subdivision into molecular

calorific vibrations; and, therefore, that the same accidental entity

which was to be found in the progressive movement is still to be found

_identically_, though subdivided, in the calorific motion. Let us hear

him:

"It is very generally believed that, if the visible and palpable

motion of one body be arrested by impact on another body, the motion

ceases, and the force which produced it is annihilated. Now, the

view which I venture to submit is that force cannot be annihilated,

but is merely subdivided or altered in direction or character" (p.

24). "_Motion_ will directly produce _heat_ and _electricity_, and

electricity, being produced by it, will produce magnetism" (p. 34).

"Lastly, _motion_ may be again reproduced by the forces which have

emanated from motion" (p. 36).

Such is Mr. Grove's theory of the "convertibility of forces." It

is nothing but a wrong interpretation of the old theory of the

"conservation of _vis viva_" by the modern conception of "potential

energy," which admits "forces stored up" in bodies, and ready to show

themselves in the form of velocity, heat, light, or any other kind of

movement. This notion and others of a like tendency constitute the

marrow of the new physical theories, and are the pride of our men of

science. Let us hope that a time will come when these able men will see

the vanity of such fashionable doctrines, and blush for their adoption

of them in their scientific generalizations.

The conservation of _vis viva_ is, within certain limits, that is

with regard to ponderable bodies impinging on one another,[269]

an established fact; but its interpretation as given by advanced

physicists is a huge blunder. "It is very generally believed," says Mr.

Grove, "that if the visible motion of one body be arrested by impact

on another body, the motion ceases." Of course, it is believed; and,

what is more, it is demonstrably true, whatever Mr. Grove may say to

the contrary. Yet it is not true, nor is it very generally believed,

that "the force which produces it (the motion) is annihilated." When

the movement of a body is arrested, its velocity is _extinguished_;

but that velocity was not the force which _produced_ the movement.

When a stone falls to the ground, its movement is produced, not by

its velocity, but by the action of the earth on it. Velocity is only

the formal principle of movement, and is itself included in movement

as a constituent, not as an efficient power. To say that velocity

produces movement is, therefore, to confound formal with efficient

causation, and to admit that movement produces itself. This is one of

the conclusions for which I hope, as I said, physicists will blush

hereafter.

But the force, we are told, "is not annihilated, but merely subdivided

or altered in direction or character." This cannot be. The word

_force_ here means a quantity of movement, which is nothing but

the product of the velocity into the mass of the body. Now, the

velocity of a body is not subdivided when the movement is arrested,

but is really extinguished. I say _extinguished_, not _annihilated_;

because annihilation, as well as creation, regards substances, not

accidents. Velocity is an accident; it is therefore neither created nor

annihilated, but originates in a determination produced by an agent,

and ends by exhaustion or neutralization under the influence of an

antagonistic agency. I say, then, that the movement of the body, though

not annihilated, is extinguished and not subdivided. It is impossible

to conceive of divisions where there is nothing divisible. On the other

hand, nothing is divisible which has no extension and no material

parts. Now, where are the material parts or the extension of velocity?

Velocity in each primitive particle of a body is a simple actuality,

which can increase or decrease by degrees of intensity, but cannot be

taken to pieces in order to be apportioned among the other particles of

the body, and therefore the pretended subdivision of velocities is a

mere absurdity.

Nor does it matter that force can be "altered in direction or

character." We must not forget that _force_ is here a sum of

velocities, and accordingly cannot change direction or character

unless such velocities are intrinsically changed. But they cannot be

changed with regard to either character or direction without some new

degree of velocity being produced or extinguished by some efficient

cause. For the character of velocity is to actuate the extension

of the movement in proportion to its own intensity. This, and no

other, is its character; and, therefore, velocity cannot be altered

in character without its intensity being increased or diminished by

action. And the same is to be said of the change of direction, which

cannot be conceived without action. Now, if action can modify motion,

and diminish to any extent its velocity, it remains for our scientists

to explain how a certain action cannot stifle movement and velocity

altogether.

They will say that the "indestructibility of force" is the only

hypothesis consistent with the theory of the conservation of _vis

viva_, and consequently that the two must stand or fall together.

But the truth is that the conservation of _vis viva_ needs no such

hypothesis, since it depends on a quite different principle, viz., on

the equality of action and reaction.

When two billiard-balls impinge on one another, they act and react.

Their molecules urge one another (by their mutual actions of course,

not by their velocity), and become compressed. All the work they do up

to the _maximum_ of compression is styled _action_. But reaction soon

follows; for, as compression brings the neighboring molecules into an

unnatural position where they cannot settle in relative equilibrium,

the molecular exertions tend now to restore within the bodies the

original molecular distances; which work of restoration is properly

called _reaction_.[270] And since reaction must undo what the preceding

action had done, hence the amount of the reaction must equal the amount

of the action, and thus no energy is lost; for the same quantity of

movement is produced in one ball as is extinguished in the other.

I do not wish to enlarge on this topic, which is of a physical rather

than metaphysical nature. I only repeat that the mistake of our

physicists lies in supposing that the quantity of movement which is

lost by one body still exists in nature, and passes _identically_ into

another body; whilst the fact is that the quantity of movement lost by

the first body is altogether extinguished, and the quantity acquired by

the second body is a new production altogether. To send an accidental

mode, such as velocity, travelling about from one substance to another

without support, as an independent and self-sufficient being, may be a

bright device of modern progress; but when the time comes for repenting

of other scientific blunders, this bright delusion will, I am sure, be

reckoned among the most grievous philosophical sins that science will

have to regret and to atone for in sackcloth and ashes.

These remarks go far to show that the terminology of our modern

scientists concerning physical causation is philosophically incorrect.

I have more to say on this same subject; but to make things plainer

I wish to give beforehand what I consider to be the true distinction

between cause, power, action, and force, as implied in the causation

of natural phenomena. To do this in the most simple and intelligible

manner, I lay down the following propositions:

I. It is a principle philosophically certain that the substance of all

natural things has been created by God for his extrinsic glory--that

is, for the manifestation of his power and other perfections.

Accordingly, every created substance has received a natural aptitude

and fitness to manifest in some manner and in some degree the power and

perfection of its Creator.

II. Therefore, every creature naturally, _per se_, not accidentally,

but by the very fact of its creation, is destined to act; for

manifestation is action, and consequently possesses permanently and

intrinsically such an _active power_ as is proportionate to the kind

and degree of the intended manifestation. In other terms, every created

substance is destined to be the _efficient cause_ of determined effects.

III. The power of created substances is finite, and its exertion is

subject to definite laws. All finite power, according as it is exerted

under more or less favorable conditions, gives rise to effects of

greater or less intensity. Hence different effects may proceed from one

and the same cause, and equal effects from different causes, acting

under different conditions.

IV. The exertion of power is called _action_, and its intensity, in the

material world, depends on the distance of the agent from the patient.

V. The amount of the exertion, or the quantity of the action, is

measured by its true effect, which is the only true exponent or

representative of the degree of the exertion; for, all matter being

equally indifferent to receive motion, the amount of its passion must

always agree with the amount of the action received; and thus the one

is the natural and necessary measure of the other.

VI. The amount of the exertion, as measured by the effect it is able

to produce, is what in the scientific language can be styled _force_

properly.

VII. The amount of the effect, as measuring the amount of the exertion

from which it arises, or by which it is neutralized, is again called

_force_, but improperly, and only in a technical sense, as it is in

fact a mere measure of force.

These propositions are so logically connected with one another that,

the first of them being admitted, all the others must follow. I might,

therefore, dispense with all discussion with regard to them; yet, to

help the scientific reader to form a philosophical notion of forces, I

will endeavor to throw some additional light on my sixth and seventh

propositions.

And, first, I observe that since forces can only be measured by their

effects, the mathematical expression of a force always exhibits the

quantity of the effect which such a force is competent to cause; and

as such an effect is a certain quantity of movement, hence forces are

mathematically expressed in terms of movement. So long as physicists

preserved their old philosophical traditions, a distinction was kept up

between force and movement. A quantity of movement was indeed called _a

force_, inasmuch as it was the true measure of the action from which it

had originated, or by which it could be destroyed; but such a _force_

was not confounded with the action itself. The action was called _vis

motrix_, a motive force, whilst the quantity of movement was called

_vis_ simply, and was not considered as having any efficient causality.

Thus before Dr. Mayer's invention of "potential energies," the word

_force_ was used with proper discrimination: 1st, as a quantity of

action actually producing movement; 2d, as a quantity of action

actually opposed by a resistance sufficient to prevent the production

of movement; 3d, as a quantity of movement and a measure of action.

A quantity of action followed by movement was called a _dynamical_

force, and was measured by the quantity of movement imparted in the

unit of time. Its mathematical expression in rational mechanics

was, and is still, a differential coefficient of the _second order_

representing the product of the mass acted on into the velocity which

the action, if continued for a unit of time, would communicate to it.

As instances of _dynamical_ force, we may mention the action of the sun

on the planets, of the planets on their satellites, of the earth on a

pendulum, on a drop of rain, etc.

A quantity of action not followed by movement was called a _statical_

force, and was measured by the quantity of movement into which it

would develop, if no obstacle existed. Its mathematical expression in

rational mechanics is a differential coefficient of the _first order_

representing the product of the mass, whose movement is neutralized

into its virtual velocity. By _virtual_ velocity we mean the velocity

which the mass would acquire in a unit of time, if all resistance to

the movement were suddenly suppressed. As instances of _statical_

force, we may mention the action of a weight on the string from which

it hangs, or on the table on which it lies.

A quantity of movement, or the dynamical effect of all the actions to

which a body has been subjected for any length of time, was called

a _kinetic_ force. As kinetic forces cannot be destroyed except by

actions producing equal and opposite quantities of movement, hence

every kinetic force can be taken as a measure, not only of the amount

of action from which it has resulted, but also of the amount of

action by which it can be checked. The mathematical expression of a

_kinetic_ force is the product of the moving mass into its actual

velocity. As instances of this force, we may mention _the momentum_ of

a cannon-ball, of a hammer, of wind, falling water, etc.

To obviate the many abuses which this notion of kinetic force has

engendered, and to cut the ground from under the feet of those

blundering theorists who reduce all forces to movement, it is important

to remark that kinetic force could be defined as "that quantity of

action which a moving body can exercise against an obstacle until its

velocity is exhausted." This definition would change nothing in the

mathematical expression of kinetic forces; for the quantity of the

action which a moving body can exercise against the obstacle is exactly

equal to the quantity of movement, or momentum, by which the body is

animated. The only change would be in the terminology, which, instead

of technical, would become philosophical. As instances of kinetic

force thus defined, we might mention _the quantity of action_ of a

cannon-ball, of the hammer on the anvil, of the wind on the sails, etc.

The division of forces into dynamical, statical, and kinetic has been

long recognized by all competent judges as very good and satisfactory.

But our men of progress, in the innocent belief that, before they

appeared on the scene, everything in this world was darkness, have

changed all that. All forces are now stated to consist in nothing

but "mass animated by velocity." Dynamical forces are rejected, it

would seem, because they imply what modern science cannot, or will

not, understand--_i.e._ real production (they call it _creation_) of

movement. On the other hand, statical forces are not masses animated

by velocity, and thus are set aside because they originate no real

movement. Such is the consistency of our progressional friends.

Yet so long as all effect will need a cause, there can be no doubt that

statical forces must be real forces. Two weights balancing one another

at the ends of a lever certainly act on one another, as every one must

admit who observes the change produced by taking away one of the two.

A weight which actually prevents another weight from falling surely

exerts a positive influence on it, and therefore displays power and

brings forth an amount of action. So also, when a weight is at rest on

a table, gravity does not remain dormant with regard to it, but urges

it toward the table with unyielding tenacity. Hence the table must

continually react in order to keep the body at rest. It is evident,

therefore, that the weight, while at rest on the table, exerts its

powers and is engaged in real action; for nothing but real action can

awaken real reaction. Again, when we try to raise a weight, we feel

that we must overcome a real resistance; and when we support a weight,

we feel its action upon our limbs. Hence pressure is a real force,

though it be not mass animated by velocity; and the same is evidently

to be said of traction, torsion, flexion, etc. It is, therefore,

impossible to ignore statical forces.

That dynamical forces are likewise indispensable in science I think

it would be quite superfluous to prove. Rational mechanics is wholly

based upon them, and no phenomenon in nature can be explained without

them. If modern science finds it difficult to understand the production

of local movement, let her consider that, after all, it would be less

damaging to her reputation to confess her philosophical ignorance than

to deny what all mankind hold and know to be a fact.

From this short discussion we may safely conclude, with the old

physicists, that there are in nature dynamical and statical as well as

kinetic forces, and that the word _force_ should be uniformly used in

philosophy as expressing a quantity of action measured by the quantity

of its effect, or by something equivalent. But we have not yet done

with our advanced theorists.

It is curious that, after having reduced all forces to "mass animated

by velocity," they have not hesitated to introduce into science a

force which is neither mass animated by velocity nor a common statical

force, but something quite different, to which they gave the name of

"potential energy." The first to imagine this spurious force was, if

I am not mistaken, the German Dr. Mayer, one of the great leaders of

modern thought, who, considering that a body raised from the floor

would, if abandoned to itself, fall down and acquire a momentum

calculated to do an amount of work, conceived the raising of the body

as equivalent to a communication of latent energy destined to become

visible at any time in the shape of movement as soon as the body

is left to itself. Such an energy, as still unevolved, was called

"potential energy."

"If we define 'energy' to mean the power of doing work," says a

well-known English professor, "a stone shot upwards with great velocity

may be said to have in it a great deal of actual energy, because it has

the power of overcoming up to a great height the obstacle interposed by

gravity to its ascent, just as a man of great energy has the power of

overcoming obstacles. But this stone, as it continues to mount upwards,

will do so with a gradually decreasing velocity, until at the summit

of its flight all the actual energy with which it started will have

been spent in raising it against the force of gravity to this elevated

position. It is now moving with no velocity--just, in fact, beginning

to turn--and we may suppose it to be caught and lodged upon the top

of a house. Here, then, it remains at rest, without the slightest

tendency to motion of any kind, and we are led to ask, What has

become of the energy with which it began its flight? Has this energy

disappeared from the universe without leaving behind it any equivalent?

Is it lost for ever, and utterly wasted?... Doubtless the stone is

at rest on the top of the house, and hence possesses no _energy of

motion_; but it nevertheless possesses _energy_ of another kind _in

virtue of its position_; for we can at any time cause it to drop down

upon a pile, and thus drive it into the ground, or make use of its

downward momentum to grind corn, or to turn a wheel, or in a variety of

useful ways. It thus appears that when a stone which has been projected

upwards has been caught at the summit of its flight and lodged on the

top of a house, the energy of actual motion with which it started has

been changed into another form of energy, which we denominate energy

of position, or potential energy, and that, by allowing the stone

again to fall, we may change this energy of position once more into

actual energy, so that the stone will reach the ground with a velocity,

and hence with an energy, equal precisely to that with which it was

originally projected upwards."[271]

Such is the theory. It is scarcely necessary to say that the whole

of it is a delusion. First, the velocity imparted to the stone is

not a working power, but only a condition for doing work, as I shall

presently show; and, therefore, it cannot be styled "energy."

Secondly, when the stone is caught at the summit of its ascent, and

(according to the strange phrase of the author) _is moving with no

velocity_, it possesses nothing more than it possessed when lying on

the ground. Its elevated position is only a new local relation, which

confers no power, either actual or potential. It is indeed possible to

let the stone drop down; but then its fall will be due to the action

of the earth, and consequently to extrinsic causation, not to anything

possessed by the stone on account of its elevated position.

Thirdly, the words "potential energy" cannot be coupled with one

another without absurdity; for "energy," according to all, means _power

to act_, whilst "potential" means _liability to be acted on_. Hence

"potential energy" would mean either a power to act which is ready to

be acted on, or a power which is to be acquired by the body through

its being acted on. The first alternative confounds act with passive

potency, and action with passion; the second assumes that the velocity

to be acquired by the body is a real working power, which it is not.

Fourthly, it is against reason to admit that "the energy of actual

motion is changed into another form of energy." For where is the

causality of the change? The only causality concerned with the

modification of the upward movement of the stone is the action of

gravity; and this, being directly antagonistic to the ascensional

velocity, tends to destroy, not to transform, it.

Fifthly, a stone created originally on the brink of a precipice would

be ready to fall into it, although it has never been thrown up; on

the contrary, a stone thrown up to such a height as to reach the

limits of the moon's effectual attraction would never come down again,

notwithstanding the enormous amount of pretended "actual energy"

expended in the mighty ascent. Hence the upward flight has nothing

whatever to do with any so-called "potential energy." It is, therefore,

a gross delusion to hold that by allowing the stone again to fall, "we

may change the potential energy into actual energy," it being evident

that the actual velocity of the falling stone is not a result of

transformation, but the product of continuous action.

We cannot, then, adopt the phrase "potential energy" in metaphysics.

The phrase means nothing; for there is nothing in nature which can be

designated by such a name. _Energy_ is synonymous with _power_; and

power cannot be in a potential state. To be in potency to receive any

amount of velocity is not energy, but passivity. On the other hand,

the power of doing work is not a mere _force_, as assumed by the

modern theory, but is something much higher and better. Forces are

only variable quantities of action; the power, on the contrary, in one

and the same body is always the same, and yet is competent to do more

or less work, according as it is exerted under more or less favorable

conditions. The stone that is hurled against a pane of glass exerts, in

breaking it, the very same power which it exerted before being hurled;

only the conditions of the exertion are quite different, inasmuch as

its velocity brings it against the glass at such a rate that, before

its movement can be checked by the action of the glass, the stone has

time to outrun it, dashing it to pieces. Yet it is _by its action,

not by its velocity_, that it does such a work. Of course, its action

is proportional to its velocity, and its work is proportional to the

square of its velocity; and thus the velocity serves to measure both

the work and the action, but it does not follow that the velocity is

the active power. Velocity is an accidental mode of being; and _nothing

accidental is active_. This important philosophical truth can be easily

established as follows:

In all things the principle of being is the principle of operation, as

philosophers agree; whence the axioms, "By what a thing is, by that

it acts," and "Everything has active power inasmuch as it has being."

Now, all substance has its being independently of accidents; therefore,

all substance has its active power independently of accidents. On the

other hand, accidents give to the substance a _mode_ of being, and

nothing more; therefore, they also determine its _mode_ of acting, and

nothing more. But as to be in this or that state presupposes _being_,

so also to have a power ready to act in this or that manner presupposes

_power_. Hence no accident gives active power to the substance of which

it is the accident; or, in other terms, accidents are nothing more than

conditions determining the mode of application of the active powers

that pre-exist in the substance.

Again, all natural accidents[272] are reducible to three classes;

as some of them are _accidental acts_ produced by some agent and

passively received in some subject, others are _intrinsic modes of

being_ resulting from the reception of such accidental acts, and,

lastly, a great many are _mere relativities_ or relative modes. Now,

that relativities can act no one has ever pretended to assert. That

intrinsic modes of being can act, is implicitly assumed by all who

consider velocity as an active power; for velocity is an intrinsic

mode of being. Yet if we ask them whether the _existence_ of things is

competent to act, they will certainly answer _no_; and they will be

right. But, I say, if existence cannot act, still less can a mere mode

of existing act. For a mode of existing is a reality incomparably less

than existence itself. Accordingly, since they concede that not the

existence, but the thing existing, is a principle of action, they must

also _à fortiori_ concede that the thing modified, and not its mode, is

a principle of action. Finally, with regard to the accidental act, it

is evident that its reception in the substance cannot impart to it any

new activity, since its formal effect simply consists in a new mode of

being, which, as we have just seen, is not active. It is clear, then,

that no natural accident has active power.

Omitting other reasons drawn from theoretical considerations, and

which might be usefully developed in special metaphysics, I will only

add an _à posteriori_ proof, which physicists will probably find

more congenial to their habit of thought. It consists in the fact

that bodies act on one another without being animated by velocity,

or without their velocity having any share in the production of the

effect. Thus a book at rest on a table acts on the table; and a liquid,

or a gas, at rest in a jar acts on the jar. On the other hand, the

earth, though not at rest, attracts bodies, not by its diurnal rotation

or by its annual revolution, but by a power dependent only on its mass;

and the same is to be said of the sun and the planets. This shows that

the power from which the motive action of bodies proceeds is not

their velocity; whence it follows that velocity is only an affection

of bodies, and has no bearing upon the active powers of the same, but

only on the mode of their application. Now, since all the accidents

which have been supposed to involve active power can be resolved into

kinds of movement, it must be owned that such accidents have no real

activity; for all kinds of movements consist of velocity, and velocity

does not act.

Hence, whatever scientists may say to the contrary, heat, light,

electricity, etc., are not efficient powers, but modes of movement, on

which the mode of acting of bodies depends. When heat was thought to

be a subtle imponderable substance, philosophers could consistently

call it an efficient power; but since it is now decided that heat is

only "a mode of motion," how can we still attribute to it what is the

exclusive property of substances? If heat is only a mode of motion, a

bar of iron, when hot, has no greater powers than when cold; it has

only a greater movement. So also, if light is only a mode of motion,

luminiferous æther has no greater power when undulating in the open

air than when at rest in a dark room. In the same manner air, when

perfectly still, has the same powers as when actually propagating any

variety of sounds. When, therefore, physicists speak to us of such

movements as powers, let us not be imposed upon by their phraseology,

if we wish to be consistent in our reasonings, and avoid useless and

troublesome disputes.

Yet it was to be expected that our physicists in their technical

language would confound heat, light, and other modes of movement

with forces and powers. The correlation between such movements and

the actions of the bodies subjected to them is, in fact, such as to

allow of the former being taken for measure of the latter. Thus a

given amount of mechanical action may give rise to a definite amount

of heat, and _vice versa_; hence the one can be technically considered

as the equivalent of the other, inasmuch as the one is the measure

of the other. But does it follow that action and heat belong to the

same category? Certainly not. It is not the action itself, but its

mechanical effect, that should be taken as the true equivalent of

the heat generated. And when we are told that "heat is expended in

generating mechanical movement," we must not fancy that calorific

movement _causes_ another kind of movement, as the phrase seems to

imply, but only that, while the calorific movement is diminished by

a given cause, the same cause generates the mechanical movement. We

should always bear in mind that the language of modern science, though

correctly expressing the correspondence of effects to effects, is very

far from expressing as correctly the relation of effects to causes.

Physicists should learn to distinguish between efficient causes and

conditions determining the mode of their causation. Heat is one of such

conditions, and to call it a _force_ is to endow it with efficient

causality; for the term _force_ always conveys the idea of causation.

They should either cease to describe heat as a force, or, if this

cannot be done, explain more explicitly than they do the technical

restrictions modifying the philosophical meaning of the word. We can

hardly expect that they will follow our advice; but, at any rate, it is

to be hoped that philosophers at least will take care to follow it,

and guard against the corruption of their own terminology.

Besides heat, light, electricity, and magnetism, there are many other

modes of being technically called _forces_. Centrifugal force is one

of them; for, in fact, centrifugal force, in spite of the name, is

nothing more than "that quantity of movement which is extinguished by

centripetal action in the unit of time."

The force of inertia--_vis inertiæ_--is another technical or

conventional force. For it is plain that inertia cannot act; and

thus it is impossible to conceive any true force of inertia. But,

technically, _vis inertiæ_ means "the quantity of the effort by which

a body, when enduring violence from without, resists compression,

traction, or any other alteration of its molecular structure." This

effort proceeds, not from inertia, but from the active powers residing

in the molecules of the body; and yet it has received the name of _vis

inertiæ_, because it develops itself in the lapse of time during which

the body, _inasmuch as inert_--_i.e._ incapable of leaving its place

before the whole mass has acquired a common velocity--is still loth

to start, and thus compelled to struggle against the invading body.

Philosophers, by keeping in sight this definition of _vis inertiæ_,

will be able to solve many sophisms of modern scientific writers.

Again, the weight of a body is called a _force_, and is represented

by the product of the mass of the body into a velocity _which it has

not_, but which it would acquire through the action of gravity in a

second of time, if it were free to fall. If the mass be called _M_,

and the velocity which it would acquire _g_, the product _Mg_ will

represent the weight of the body. Now, when the body is at rest on a

table, the pressure exercised by it on the table is said to be _Mg_.

Does this mean that _the weight_ of the body acts on the table? Not at

all; for the body does not act by its weight, which is not an active

power. The truth is that the table by its resistance prevents the body

from acquiring the momentum _Mg_; and since this resistance of the

table must be equal to the pressure exercised on it by the body, hence

the pressure itself is also equal to _Mg_; and thus a true force--a

quantity of pressure--is technically identified with the weight of

the pressing body. This identification tends to give a false idea of

the nature of the fact, and therefore should be carefully avoided in

philosophy.

Modern physicists have laughed at a philosopher of the old school

(Arriaga), who, as late as 1639, "was troubled to know how, when

several flat weights lie upon one another on a board, any but the

lowest should exert pressure on the board." It would have been more

prudent on their part to ask themselves whether the question was

one which the modern school could answer at all. If we ask how two

equal weights can exert equal pressures on the board from _unequal_

distances, what can they answer? If they wish to be consistent with

their notions, they can only answer that "the actions are transmitted

from one weight to another till they meet the board." Now, this is a

great philosophical blunder; for actions are accidents, and therefore

cannot travel from one subject to another. Neither action nor active

power are ever transmitted; not even movement is properly transmitted,

but only propagated by a series of successive exertions from molecule

to molecule. Were we to admit in philosophy any such transmission, we

would soon be entangled in innumerable contradictions.

Mechanical work also is often styled a _force_, though it is nothing

but the process by which a _force_ is exhausted. The notion of _work_

is very simple. A body moving through space against a continuous

resistance is said _to do work_. Work is therefore so much the greater

according as a greater _mass_ measures a greater _space_ under a

greater _resistance_; and thus the work which a given body can perform

may be represented by the product of three factors, viz., the mass,

the mean resistance, and the space measured. This is the philosophical

and analytical expression of _work_; and mathematicians show that this

expression in all cases (viz., whether the resistance be constant or

variable) is equal to half the product of the mass into the square of

its initial velocity. Now the question comes: Is _work_ a force? It

is not difficult to anticipate the answer. Since the adoption of the

so-called "living forces," or _vires vivæ_, of Leibnitz, physicists

have called _vis viva_ the sum of the works of two conflicting bodies;

and consequently the work done by either of the two was said to be

one-half of the _vis viva_. But, with all the respect due to the memory

of Leibnitz, I would say that neither the work nor the so-called _vis

viva_ is a force in the philosophical sense of the word. When a mass,

_M_, animated by a velocity, _V_, encounters a resistance and begins

its work, its momentum is _MV_. This momentum, while the work is

being done, is gradually reduced till it is finally destroyed by the

resistance. The resistance is, therefore, equal to the momentum _MV_.

But the resistance, according to the law of impact, is always equal to

the exertion of the impinging body. And therefore the amount of the

exertion of the impinging body is also equal to _MV_; that is to say,

the force by which the work is done is an ordinary dynamical force

represented by the usual dynamical momentum, and not by the amount of

the work done.[273]

And here I must close this rather long excursion into the field of

mechanics. But I cannot conclude without calling the reader's attention

to the reckless tendency of the phraseology which I have above

criticised. It seems as if the object of a class of scientific writers

in these late years has been to banish from science all secondary

causes, no doubt as a preliminary step (in the intention of the most

advanced among them) for the banishment of the First Cause itself. The

words _cause_, _power_, _force_, and others of the same kind, have

indeed been maintained, as they could not be easily dispensed with;

but they receive a new interpretation: they have become "kinds of

motion," and have been identified with the phenomena--that is, with

the effects themselves. Thus "movement" is now everything; its boasted

"indestructibility" makes it independent of all secondary causes; and

we are told that the existence of "essential causes" can no longer be

proved by the phenomena, and that "science" has the right to reject

them as metaphysical dreams. Let us hear Mr. Grove again:

"Though the term (force) has a potential meaning, to depart from which

would render language unintelligible, we must guard against supposing

that we know essentially more of the phenomena by saying that they are

produced by something, which something _is only a word_ derived from

the constancy and similarity of the phenomena we seek to explain by it"

(p. 18).

And again: "The most generally received view of causation--that of

Hume--refers to invariable antecedence--_i.e._ we call that a cause

which invariably precedes, that an effect which invariably succeeds"

(p. 10).

And again: "It seems questionable not only whether cause and effect

are convertible terms with antecedence and sequence, but whether, in

fact, cause does precede effect.... The attraction which causes iron

to approach the magnet is simultaneous with, and ever accompanies,

the movement of the iron" (p. 13). Yet he adds: "Habit and the

identification of thoughts with phenomena so compel the use of

recognized terms that we cannot avoid the use of the word 'cause,' even

in the sense to which objection is taken; and if we struck it out of

our vocabulary, our language, in speaking of successive changes, would

be unintelligible to the present generation" (_ib._)

And lastly: "In all phenomena, the more closely they are investigated,

the more are we convinced that, humanly speaking, neither matter nor

force can be created or annihilated, and that _an essential cause is

unattainable_. Causation is the will, creation the act, of God" (p.

218).

It is not Mr. Grove alone that entertains such views; I might quote

other English authors, and many German, Italian, French, and American

writers whose opinions are even more extravagant. But a theory

which pretends to ignore efficient causality, no matter how loudly

trumpeted by scientific periodicals, no matter how pompously dressed in

scientific books, no matter how constantly inculcated from professorial

chairs, in the long run is sure to fail. It bears in itself and in its

very phraseology its own condemnation. It is vain to pretend to explain

away its inconsistencies by alleging that "the habits of the present

generation compel the use of recognized terms;" the simple truth is

that the abettors of modern thought reap in their inconsistencies the

reward of their vanity. Mankind will never consign created causality to

the region of dreams, and we would remind our scientific friends who

have not received a thorough philosophical training of the old adage,

"Let the cobbler stick to his last."

A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.

FOOTNOTES:

[268] CATHOLIC WORLD, November, 1873, page 187.

[269] This limitation is necessity. A stone thrown up vertically soon

loses its _vis viva_ without compensation. The case is one in which

there is no impact. An imponderable body, as luminiferous æther, if it

forms, as it is most probable, an unresisting medium, acquires _vis

viva_ without interfering with the _vis viva_ of the celestial bodies.

[270] Physicists sometimes give the name of action and reaction to the

opposite efforts of two conflicting bodies. But, properly speaking, the

two efforts are two actions; the reaction only begins at the end of

compression, and takes place mostly within each body separately.

[271] Balfour Stewart, _Lessons in Elementary Physics_, P. 101.

[272] I say _natural_ accidents. The species of bread and of wine in

the Holy Eucharist are _supernatural_ accidents, and have no less

active power than the substances themselves. The reason is that

they imply in their constitution "the act and the activity of the

substance"--_actum et vim substantiæ_--as S. Thomas teaches, and "all

that which belongs to matter"--_omne illud quod ad materiam pertinet_.

See the _Summa Theol._, p. 3, q. 77, a. 5.

[273] In the _New American Cyclopædia_, edited in 1863 (_v.

Mechanics_), after the statement that "to overcome all the inertia of a

body moving with a certain velocity, or to impress on it at rest such

a velocity, the same whole quantity of action must in either case be

exerted and expended upon the body," we are given to understand that

this quantity is equal to half the product of the mass of the body into

the square of the given velocity. From what we have just shown, it is

evident that this conclusion is false.

LATE HOME.

Mother, I come! Long have thine arms, outspread

In mercy and maternal majesty,

Been waiting to receive me. Long have I

Heard thy low, summoning voice in wistful dread:

A truant child, who yearned, yet feared, to tread

The threshold of its home, while still on high

Blazed the broad sun within the noonday sky;

But, when the shadows of the evening came,

And darkness fell, was fain to seek the flame

Of its own hearthstone and its mother dear,

And meet her greeting, loving, if severe,

Her frown, which could not hide the secret tear,

Her gaze compassionate, though sad and stern,

Her fond forgiveness of that late return.

GRAPES AND THORNS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."

CHAPTER IX.

THE VERDICT.

The arrest was made in September; in November the trial came on. It

would have been earlier, but that witnesses were to be summoned from

England. It was understood in Crichton that everything was very soon

to be in readiness, and that the trial would be a short one; one side

announcing confidently a speedy acquittal, the other intimating,

by a grave but equally confident silence, their belief in a speedy

conviction.

"Dear Mother Chevreuse!" sighed Honora Pembroke, who trembled with

terror and apprehension as the day drew near, "how far from your heart

is all this bitterness! How far from your wish it would have been to

see a man hunted like a beast of prey, even if he had done you a wrong!

How far from your peace is all this excitement!"

Far, indeed, would such an inquisition, however necessary to the ends

of justice and the good of society, have been from that sweet and

overflowing heart, where love, when it could not make the wandering

steps seem to be searching for the right path, uprose like a flood,

and washed out those traces of error from remembrance. Far enough,

too, was all this trouble from the changing form that had once held

so much goodness. One might guess how Nature had taken back to her

motherly bosom the clay she had lent for mortal uses, and was slowly

fitting it, by her wondrous alchemy, for immortality; purifying the

dross from it, brightening the fine gold. While this tumult went on

overhead, the crumbling dust of that temple whose ruin had brought

such sorrow and disaster was slowly and sweetly going on its several

paths to perfection; stealing into violets, into roses, into humble

grass-blades, into mists that gathered again in drops to refresh its

own blossoms and foliage!

Who can say what countless shapes of constantly aspiring loveliness

the dust of the saint may assume before uniting once more and for ever

to form that glorified body which is to hold, without imprisoning, the

beatified spirit, and transmit without stain the sunshine of the Divine

Presence?

Yes; far enough from such a progress was the feverish trouble resulting

from this sudden and violent dissolution. Friends went to cover anew

with flowers and green that grave over which the snows of coming

winter had let fall a pure and shining mantle; but the tears they

shed were bitter, and their flowers withered in the frost. Voices of

those she loved recalled her virtues, and repeated her wise and tender

sayings; but they, like all the world, found it easier to admire than

to imitate. At humble firesides, where families gathered at night,

shivering half with cold and half with fear, they blessed and mourned

the hand that had helped them and the voice that had sympathized

with and encouraged; but their blessing was so encumbered with human

selfishness that it cast the shadow of a malediction. Pure indeed must

be that love in whose footprints hatred never lurks!

On the day the trial began F. Chevreuse lost courage. More fatigued by

constant physical labor than he would own, he was still more exhausted

in mind. A devouring anxiety had taken possession of him. If he was

less sure of Mr. Schöninger's innocence than he had been, no one knew

it. Probably he entertained no doubt on that subject. But he was

certainly less confident that the accused would be able to free himself

entirely from suspicion. He could no longer be ignorant of the fact

that there was a very damaging array of testimony against him.

"I must be allowed to be childish for once, if it is childishness,"

he said. "I cannot perform my duties till this is over. If a priest

is needed, go to F. O'Donovan. Don't let any one come near me but Mr.

Macon. Above all things, don't let any woman in."

We pardon this last request of F. Chevreuse, for he was not in the

habit of speaking slightingly of women; and it must be owned that few

of them have the gift of silence or of ceasing to speak when they have

no more to say.

Mr. Macon was precisely the friend he needed in these

circumstances--quick-sighted, clear-headed, prompt, and taciturn. He

was, moreover, a man of influence, and could obtain information in

advance of most persons.

"Make yourself quite easy, F. Chevreuse," he said. "You shall know

everything of consequence within ten minutes after it has happened in

the court-room."

The gentleman had in his pocket a package of small envelopes, all

directed plainly to F. Chevreuse, and each one containing a slip of

paper. When he seated himself in the court-room, a boy stood beside him

ready to run with his messages.

In the priest's house, F. Chevreuse had shut himself into his mother's

room. A bright fire burned on the hearth, the sun shone in through

the eastern window, and at the other side could be seen a window

of the church with the cipher of the Immaculate Mother, white and

gold-colored, in the arch of it, sparkling as if it had just been

traced there by Our Lady herself. All was still, the length of the

house being between him and the street, so that only a faint hum of

life reached his ears.

"It is hard to believe that misfortune is to come again," he muttered,

glancing at the quiet brightness of the scene. "And I will not believe

it. I will not think of it. In the name of God, all vain and evil

thoughts begone!"

He drew a table near the fire, placed several books on it, and, seating

himself, began in earnest to translate a book which he had been

fitfully at work upon in the brief pauses of nearer duties. It was

a relief to him to look thus into the mind of another, and escape a

while from his own. "I am fortunate in having this to do," he thought,

looking at the bright side of the situation.

The habit of concentrating his thoughts on the subject in hand did

much for him; and when Mr. Macon's first message arrived, it found him

bending with interest over the written page whereon he had rendered

well a happy thought.

"That is better than the original," he said to himself. "The English

is a large, loose-jointed language, sprawling slightly, but it is a

sprawling Titan. It is rich and strong. For such a work as this, the

French is a trifle too natty and crisp. Come in!"

The door opened, and his messenger stood there. Instantly all rushed

across the priest's mind again. He stretched his hand for the note the

boy offered him, and tore it hastily open. It was short:

"Nothing but preliminaries so far. The court sits again at two o'clock."

F. Chevreuse glanced at the clock, and saw that it was already

noon. Two hours had passed like ten minutes while his mind was thus

abstracted.

"Were there many people about the court-house?" he asked.

The boy had been instructed to give his notes without saying anything,

and to speak only when spoken to; but he had not been told how much to

say when he was spoken to. The temptation to relate what he had seen

was irresistible.

"Oh! yes, father," he said, his eyes glistening with excitement. "There

was such a crowd that I could hardly get out. I had to hold up the

letter, and say it was for you. Then they made way."

F. Chevreuse dropped his eyes, and his face grew more troubled. "Mr.

Schöninger was not in court?" he asked.

"No, sir!" The boy hesitated, and had evidently something more to say.

"Well?" said the priest.

"Somebody threw a crucifix in at his cell-window to-day, and he broke

it up and threw it out again," the messenger said eagerly.

The priest's face blushed an angry red. "Have they no more reverence

for the crucifix than to use it as a means of insult, and expose it in

turn to be insulted?" he exclaimed. "Was it done by a Catholic? Do you

know who did it?"

F. Chevreuse was putting on his overcoat and searching for his hat, to

the great terror of the indiscreet tale-bearer.

"I don't know who did it," he stammered. "I guess it was some boys. But

that was this morning; and now the police drive everybody away from

that side of the jail. I am sure they won't do such a thing again,

father."

The priest perceived the boy's distress in spite of his own

preoccupation. "Never mind, Johnny," he said kindly, and tried to smile

as he laid his hand on that young head. "You did no harm in telling me;

I ought to know if such things happen. Come, I am going out, and our

roads are the same for a little way. You are going to dinner? Well,

thank your father for me, and say that I shall go only to the jail, and

directly home again."

"And what has he gone to the jail for?" Mr. Macon inquired in surprise

when he received this message from his son.

The boy answered truthfully enough, but with a somewhat guilty

conscience, that he did not know, and sat down to his dinner, which he

was unable to eat. His round cheeks were burning like live coals with

excitement, and his heart was trembling with the thought that it was he

who had sent the priest on that errand.

"You must learn to bear excitement better, my son," the mother said.

"It will never do for you to be in court every day, if it is going to

make you lose your appetite."

Thus admonished, Johnny called back his courage. "Oh! I'm not excited

at all, mother," he said, with a fine air of carelessness. "It is only

that I am not hungry. Why, all the men in the court-house, except the

judge, were more excited than I was; weren't they, father?"

The father and mother exchanged a glance and smile. They were rather

pleased with the self-confidence of this doughty young lad of theirs.

Meantime, F. Chevreuse had reached the jail, and learned that the story

he had heard was quite true. Some boys, encouraged, it was thought, by

their elders, had flung a crucifix into the Jew's cell-window, which

was not far from the ground, and it had been tossed out to them, broken

in two. The prisoner had complained that missiles were being thrown in,

when the police had received instructions to keep the place clear.

"I have not allowed any visitors in the corridor for several days," the

jailer said. "People crowded here by scores. But you, of course, can

always go in. They are just carrying in the dinner."

"I am not sure that I wish to speak to him," the priest said with

hesitation, but after a moment followed into the corridor. The waiter

set the tin dishes containing food into the different cells, through a

hole in the door, and retired. The jailer stood near the outer door.

F. Chevreuse approached Mr. Schöninger's cell, not with the eager

confidence of his first visit, but with an apprehension which he could

not overcome. Other footsteps prevented his own from being heard, and

he stood at the grating, unseen and unsuspected by the inmate of the

cell.

Mr. Schöninger sat on the side of his bed, his face partly turned from

the door, looking steadfastly out through the window. A silent snow had

begun to fall, tossed hither and thither by the wind. The jail was near

the Immaculate Conception, F. Chevreuse's new church, and the stone

Christ that crowned the summit of the church was directly opposite the

window of the cell. It stood there above the roof of the building, with

the sky for a background, its arms outstretched, and now, in the storm,

seemed to be the centre toward which all the anger of the elements

was directed. The myriad flakes, tumbling grayly down, like flocks

of rebel angels being cast out of heaven, buffeted the compassionate

face as they passed, and, after falling, seemed to rise again for one

more blow. They rushed from east, west, north, and south, to cast

their trivial insult at that sublime and immortal patience. A small

bird, weary-winged, nestled into the outstretched hand, and the wind,

twirling the snow into a lash, whipped it out, and sent it fluttering

to the ground. Nothing was visible through the window but that solitary

form in mid-air stretching out its arms through the storm.

On that Mr. Schöninger's gaze was immovably set, and his face seemed

more pale and cold than the stone itself. His hands were folded on his

knees, the rising of the chest as he breathed was scarcely perceptible,

and not a muscle of the closely-shut mouth stirred. His large, clear

eyes, and the eyelids that trembled now and then, alone relieved the

almost painful fixedness of his position.

Whether, absorbed in his own affairs, the direction his eyes took was

merely accidental, or whether the statue itself had drawn and held that

earnest regard, was not easy to decide. But a Catholic, ever ready

to believe that images, whose sole purpose is, for him, to recall the

mind to heavenly contemplations, will suggest holy thoughts even to

unbelievers, must also necessarily hope that no eyes will for a moment

rest on them in entire unconsciousness.

F. Chevreuse, after one glance, drew noiselessly back. Mr. Schöninger's

strong and resolute calmness, which hid, he knew not what, of inner

tumult or repose, disconcerted him. Besides, he had not forgotten that

those white hands, so gently folded now, had within a few hours broken

in pieces the symbol of man's salvation, and flung them from him in

scorn. He would offer no explanations nor assurances to one who seemed

so little in need of them. Sighing heavily, he turned away, and sought

refuge again in his own home.

Yet a faint gleam of light had penetrated his sombre mood from this

visit, and, when he had closed the door of his room, he stepped hastily

to the window looking toward the church, and glanced up at the statue

above him. It had been wrought in Italy, and brought to America in

the good ship _Cometa_, and had on the voyage come near being thrown

overboard to lighten the ship during a storm. Bales and barrels of

merchandise had gone by the board, costly oils had floated on the

waves, costly wines had perfumed them, but the heaviest thing in all

the freight, the stone Christ, had been left undisturbed in spite of

the sailors. The captain was a rough man, and cared little for any form

of religion; but somewhere within his large, rude nature was hidden,

like a chapel in a rock, a little nook still bright and fresh with his

youth and his mother's teachings.

"If Jesus Christ did really walk on the sea without sinking, then he

can keep this image of himself from sinking, and us with it," he said.

"I'll put it to the test. If the ship goes down, I'll never believe in

any of those old stories again."

And he held to his resolution through a terrific storm, in spite of

a crew on the brink of mutiny, and finally sailed into port with the

sacred image, which had, he believed, miraculously preserved them. And

ever after, as they sailed, a little image of Christ sailed with them,

fixed in the bows; and at night, during storms at sea, the sailors,

albeit no Catholics, would bow their heads in passing it, and mutter a

word of prayer for aid; and one old sailor, to whom for thirty years

the land had been strange and the sea a home, used to tell how, on one

terrible night of that long storm when the stone Christ had been their

sole freight left, the crew, lashed to mast and spar, and looking every

moment for destruction, had seen a white form glide forth from the

hold, and, standing in the bows, stretch out its hands over the waves,

which, with the gale, sank away to silence before them, leaving only

the gentle breeze that had wafted them on their way home.

"I leave him to you, O shadow of my Lord!" the priest said. "Speak to

him! call him so that he cannot resist you!"

He then returned to his work, somewhat relieved. "No trial is

insupportable to him who has faith," he thought. "And may be all this

trouble has come upon him in order that he might lift his eyes and

behold that Christ whom he has denied standing with arms outstretched

to receive him."

But notwithstanding this faint comfort, the second message did not find

F. Chevreuse so absorbed as the first had. He could with difficulty

command his thoughts, and was constantly lifting his head to listen for

an approaching step, or starting at a fancied knock at the door.

Near the close of the afternoon the boy came, when the light was so dim

that the note could be read only by taking it to the window.

"They have opened the case a long way off," Mr. Macon wrote. "They have

proved that Mr. Schöninger has a lawsuit in England which involves a

large fortune. It costs him every dollar he can raise, his opponents

being an established family of wealth and influence, who have for years

been in possession of the property he claims. They have proved that

during the year ending last April his lawyers received from him fifteen

hundred dollars in quarterly payments, and that in April they wrote

that, without larger advances of money, it would be impossible for them

to carry on the claim. In May, then, he sent them five hundred dollars,

in June five hundred more, and on the first of September a thousand

dollars. That closes the business for this afternoon."

"And what is the impression made?" F. Chevreuse asked Mr. Macon, when

that gentleman called on him in the evening.

"The impression, or rather the conviction, is that Mr. Schöninger

was in a condition to make a man desperate in his wish for money. An

immense fortune might be secured by expending a few thousands then, and

would certainly be lost if he had not the few thousands. They brought

in a crowd of small tattlers to show that about the time he received

this letter, and after, he was in great distress and agitation of

mind; that he lost his appetite, and was heard walking to and fro in

his chamber at night. Furthermore, it is evident that the money was

obtained in some way after the first of May, though it was not all sent

at that time. People naturally ask where the money came from, since he

was not known to have any in bank, and was supposed to have sent before

all he earned above what was necessary for him to live on."

"Poor fellow!" said F. Chevreuse pityingly. "What a trouble there was

all the time under that calm exterior! For I never saw him otherwise

than calm. Why, people might comment on my walking my room at night. I

frequently walk so when I am thinking, and always when I say my beads."

"I do not imagine that Mr. Schöninger was saying his beads," Mr.

Macon said rather dryly. "He was undoubtedly in trouble. He certainly

had always an air of calmness, but to my mind it was not an air of

contentment. He gave me the impression of a person who has some secret

locked up in his mind. This affair of the contested inheritance

explains it."

"Poor fellow!" F. Chevreuse said again, and leaned back in his chair.

"He has got to have all his private affairs dragged up for discussion,

and his looks and actions commented on by the curious. That is the

worst of such a trial. A man fancies that he has been living a quiet,

private life, and he finds that he has all the time been in a glass

case with everybody watching him. The simplest things are distorted,

and a mountain is built up out of nothing, and that without any wrong

intention either, but simply by the curiosity and misconceptions of

people."

Mr. Macon said nothing. He respected the priest's charity, but,

for himself, he reserved his decision till the judge should have

pronounced. He was not enthusiastic for Mr. Schöninger, nor prejudiced

against him; he simply waited to see what would be proved, and had no

doubt that the truth would triumph.

On the second day the trial progressed rapidly, approaching a vital

point. Mr. Schöninger had not slept the night before the death of

Mother Chevreuse, but had been heard walking and moving about his room

till morning. Miss Carthusen, whose chamber was next his, gave this

piece of information, and added that the next morning the prisoner

looked very pale, and scarcely tasted his breakfast. She spoke with

evident reluctance, and subjoined an explanation which had not been

asked. "I noticed and remembered it, because I had heard of his suit in

England, and was afraid it might be going against him."

She glanced nervously at the prisoner, and met a look wherein a softer

ray seemed to penetrate the searching coldness. Perhaps he was touched

to learn that one for whom he had cared so little had, without his

suspecting it, sympathized with him, and been kindly observant of his

ways.

On being questioned, she said that Mr. Schöninger had not come home the

next night. They had expected him, because he usually told them when he

was to be absent; but did not think very strange of it, as he was due

early the next day at the town of Madison, where he went every week to

give lessons, and where he sometimes went overnight. The last she saw

of him that night was at Mrs. Ferrier's. They had a rehearsal there,

and he had excused himself early, saying that he had an engagement, and

left alone before any of the company.

Being further questioned, she admitted having seen that he took with

him from his boarding-house the shawl that he habitually wore on chilly

evenings.

A shawl was shown her, and she was asked if she recognized it.

"It was not easy to recognize any one among all the gray shawls

there were in the world," she replied rather flippantly, "but Mr.

Schöninger's was like that; she should think it might be his."

As she went out, the witness passed quite near the prisoner, and

looked at him imploringly; but he took no notice of her. She paused

an instant, then, bursting into tears, hurried out through the crowd,

clinging to the arm of her adopted father. Lily Carthusen found herself

far more deeply involved than she had intended. In a moment of pique

and jealousy she had entertained and encouraged this accusation, and

even insinuated that she could tell some things if she would; but it

was one thing to suspect privately, and make peevish boasts which

attracted to her the attention she so dearly loved, and quite another

to face the terrible reality where a man was being tried for his life

and she swearing against him.

Yet even while grieving over her haste, and repenting it after a

fashion, her anger rose again at the remembrance of that cold glance

which had averted itself from her when all in the court-room could have

seen that she mutely begged his pardon for what she had been obliged to

say.

"I hope this will teach you to guard your tongue a little," her father

said in deep vexation, as he extricated her from the throng. "It's

about the last place for a lady to come to. And, moreover, I hope it

will cure you of concerning yourself about the pale looks and bad

appetite of young men who do not trouble themselves about you."

"Oh! yes, papa," says Miss Lily; "since I've had a bad time, be sure

you add a scolding to it. It's the way with you men."

Mr. Carthusen wisely kept silence. He had learned before this that the

young woman who called him father had a remarkable talent for retort.

Where, then, did Mr. Schöninger spend the night the priest's house was

entered? Not in Madison; for he had driven himself there early in the

morning. He had waked a stable-keeper at four o'clock in the morning to

give him a horse and buggy to drive to Madison. The man had wondered

at the prisoner taking so early a start, even if he had to begin his

lessons at eight o'clock, and had thought that something was the matter

with him. He looked pale; and several times, while harnessing the

horse, the witness had glanced up and seen him shivering, as if with

cold, though it was a beautiful May morning. Mr. Schöninger had seated

himself on a bench near the stable-door while waiting, and leaned his

arms on his knees, looking down, and had not uttered a word before

driving away, except to say that he would be back at seven o'clock in

the evening. He looked like a man who had been up all night.

Being questioned, the witness testified that the prisoner wore at the

time he saw him in the morning a large gray shawl, such as gentlemen

wear; and, on still further questioning, he said that he had observed

there was a little piece torn out of one corner. He had noticed and

remembered this, because the shawl hung over the wheel when Mr.

Schöninger started, and he had stopped him to tuck it up. His first

passing thought had been that it was a pity to injure a new shawl;

his second, on seeing the torn corner, that, after all, the shawl was

not a new one. He would not, perhaps, have remembered such trivial

circumstances but for what he heard immediately after. Some one came

in and told him of Mother Chevreuse's death. It occurred to him that

Mr. Schöninger must have heard of it already, and that it was that news

which had made him so sober and silent. He recollected, too, having

heard that F. Chevreuse and the Jew were quite great friends, but that

the priest's mother did not like they should have any intercourse. He

had observed, too, that Mr. Schöninger's boots were muddy, and wondered

at it a little, as the roads were not bad, and as the prisoner had

always been nice in his dress.

When Mr. Macon visited F. Chevreuse the evening of the second day, he

found the priest looking quite haggard.

"You have written me the bad, and the worst of the bad," he exclaimed

the moment the door was shut on them. "There must be something to

counterbalance all this nonsense!"

"On the contrary, there is something to add," Mr. Macon replied.

"Johnny couldn't get through the crowd at the last. They would not make

way for him."

"Well?" the priest asked sharply.

They had seated themselves before the fire, and the red light of it

shone up into one face turned sideways, and full of shrinking inquiry

as it looked into the other face, whose downcast eyes seemed to shun

being so read.

"Mr. Schöninger was somewhere wandering about the city all that night,"

Mr. Macon said. "He was seen and recognized by two or three persons,

all of whom noticed something odd in his manner. He was seen in the

lane back of the house here as late as eleven o'clock, and appeared

to be going toward the river, but came back to the street on finding

himself observed. He was not at his boarding-house nor at any of the

hotels that night. Moreover, the measure taken of the tracks near your

house corresponds with the size of the boots he wore."

"I don't want to hear any more!" exclaimed F. Chevreuse passionately,

and hid his face in his hands.

His companion glanced quickly at him, then looked into the fire, and

remained silent.

After a moment, the priest lifted his face.

"You don't mean to say that the case is going against him?" he asked in

a low voice that expressed both fear and incredulity.

"It looks a little like that now," was the quiet reply. "But we do not

know what to-morrow may bring forth."

"I believe Jane was called to-day?" F. Chevreuse remarked after a

moment.

The other nodded his head.

"I hope she behaved well?" he added painfully.

Another nod. "Yes; as well as one could expect her to."

"The Ferriers, too, and Lawrence?"

"Yes; but their testimony was not of any great consequence."

The testimony of the Ferrier family was, however, entirely favorable

to the prisoner, and they had mentioned him with such respect and

kindness as to visibly affect him, and to create a sort of diversion in

his favor. The wealth and style of the party, the manner in which they

took possession, as it were, of the court-room, with several gentlemen

clearing the path before them, made an impression. When they went

out, the prisoner looked at them with a faint smile as they passed.

Annette smiled in return, and Lawrence bowed with scrupulous respect

and friendliness; but Mrs. Ferrier, rustling in voluminous silks, down

which her rich sables slipped loosely, leaned over the bar, and, in the

face of the whole court and crowd of spectators, shook hands with Mr.

Schöninger, and, in a voice audible to the whole company, made with him

an appointment which hovered strangely between the tragical and the

absurd.

"Come to my house the minute you are out of this terrible place," she

said. "Don't go anywhere else." Then she flounced out, wiping her eyes,

and tossing her head disdainfully at the judge, the lawyers, and the

crowd, whom she held to be, severally and collectively, to blame for

these unjust and impertinent proceedings.

"You know, mamma," Annette said, "the judge has to listen to everybody,

and it isn't his fault if people are accused. And Mr. Wilson is obliged

to make out his case, if he can, and to ask a great many questions.

Some things that seem to us trivial may have a good deal of importance

in a case like this. You must remember that a law-court is quite

different from a drawing-room, where people cannot be too inquisitive

without being checked."

"I shall take care that none of them come to my drawing-room again,"

retorted the mother with spirit. "To think of that Mr. Wilson, who has

been at my house to dinner, telling me to try to remember something

that he knew I had forgotten or didn't want to tell! You may depend

upon it, Annette, that man has a spite against poor Mr. Schöninger.

It is as plain as day that he is raking up all he can against him. I

shouldn't be surprised if the scamp were to hire men to tell lies about

him. He looks capable of it. And then, to question me about what Mr.

Schöninger had over his shoulder when he came to my house, and what

time it was when he went away, and to show me that trumpery old gray

shawl--if that is the majesty of the law, I don't want to see any more

majesty. The object--and a most ridiculous and slanderous object it

is, too--is to find out if Mr. Schöninger, as fine a gentleman as ever

lived, broke into a priest's house, and murdered a lady and a saint,

and stole a little package of dirty one-dollar bills. That's what they

pretend to want to find out; and why don't they find it out in the

proper way? It needn't take 'em long, I should think. But no! they must

poke their noses into people's private affairs, asking every kind of

impudent question, and making you say things twice, and then asking

if you are sure, and then telling you that it's no matter what your

opinion is about things; as if I hadn't a right to an opinion! They

want to make money, and dawdle out a case as long as they can--that's

what they want. And as for the curiosity of women, it's nothing! It

takes a man to cross-question."

"O mamma, mamma!" sighed Annette, with smiling indulgence.

"Oh! yes; it's always 'O mama!'" exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier excitedly.

"But I have common sense, for all that. And if I'd had the slightest

idea how they were going to act, I would have thought out a good story

before I came, and stuck to it through thick and thin."

"Why, mamma!" cried the daughter in dismay, "you were sworn to tell

the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you had said

anything else, you would have committed perjury."

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daughter in astonishment not unmingled with

alarm. "I didn't swear any such thing," she said, the tide of her

eloquence somewhat checked.

"Why, yes, mamma, we all took the oath. When we held up our hands and

kissed the book, that was the time."

"I never uttered a word," averred the mother with decision.

"But the clerk said the words for us, mamma, and we held up our hands

to denote, I suppose, that we acceded to all he said."

"I heard him mumble over something, I didn't know what it was," said

the lady slightingly. "And so somebody else swears for you, like

sponsors at a baby's baptism! Well, if he does the swearing, then the

perjury is his."

"Good gracious, mamma!" cried Annette, "I hope you haven't been telling

any lies!"

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daughter in dignified reproof. "No, Annette;

I'm not in the habit of telling lies, and I haven't told any to-day.

And I hope I haven't told any truths about that poor struggling

creature, who is, for all the world, like a sheep among wolves. I could

never bear to see even a wolf hunted, much less a man."

The three were driving home, Lawrence seated opposite the ladies. While

Mrs. Ferrier was talking, he leaned forward, with his arms on his

knees, and softly smoothed the fur border of her velvet mantle. He had

those little caressing ways when any one pleased him. A faint smile now

and then touched his lips at some simple or energetic expression of

hers, but his face was so averted that she did not see it, and it would

appear that her simplicity did not displease, though it might amuse him

a little.

Presently he relinquished the mantle border, and began, with delicate

approach, to touch the wrist lets, stroking the dark fur softly, and

pushing his finger-tips into it; and at length, when her attention,

fluttering abstractedly toward him now and then, had become fixed on

him, and she held herself still, and looked, with a half-surprised

smile of pleasure, to see what sweet and childish thing he was doing,

he took her two plump and well-gloved hands in his, and looked up at

his wife. "There's no danger of her telling anything but the truth,

Annette," he said. "She is too good and honest for anything else." And

he actually bent his handsome head, and kissed Mrs. Ferrier's hands,

first one then the other!

There was a momentary silence. Annette, startled by this unexpected

delight, could only look at her husband with tearful, shining eyes.

"I tell you, Annette, she doesn't make half as many mistakes as--as I

do, for instance."

He dropped his face, relinquished the hands he had kissed, and began

again to play with the border of Mrs. Ferrier's cloak, leaving the two

women to their talk.

But we have left F. Chevreuse and Mr. Macon.

"That hateful shawl, who raked that out?" the priest asked after a

while, questioning in spite of himself.

"The whole turns upon that," Mr. Macon said, rousing himself from the

brown-study into which he had fallen. "It seems that Miss Carthusen

went up to the convent to make the acquaintance of the Sisters, and,

while there, saw a shawl thrown over a lounge in the parlor. She

examined it while waiting for the Sisters to come in, and found the

corner torn. She mentioned the fact to that Renford, who is an amateur

detective. The fellow's great ambition is to become a second Vidocq;

he immediately offered to undertake the case, with the provision that,

if he should succeed in finding the criminal, he should be regularly

employed as a detective."

"Where did the Sisters get the shawl?" demanded F. Chevreuse. "Have

they got to be dragged in?"

"It would seem that everybody is to be dragged in," Mr. Macon said. "My

wife got the shawl, she doesn't know where, when she was collecting for

the convent. That is, they say that she brought it; though she cannot

recollect any person giving her such an article, nor recollect even

having seen it among the packages. But her carriage was piled full that

day, and she had called, perhaps, at twenty houses; so it would not be

strange if she should forget."

"So those poor nuns have had to go into court!" said F. Chevreuse, much

distressed by the news. "Which one went?"

"Oh! it wasn't a Sister; it was Anita," said Mr. Macon. "My wife went

with the child, and stood by her all the time. It was Anita who took

all the things from the carriage while my wife was talking with Sister

Cecilia in the garden; and the girl counted and examined every package."

"She must have been terrified to death, that poor little lamb!"

exclaimed F. Chevreuse, rising to walk about the room. "I think I

should have been there with her. I would have gone if I had known.

You keep too much from me, Mr. Macon. I known that you and others do

this from kindness; but you must remember that it isn't for me to be

cowardly and shrink like a baby. I'm not sure but I should feel better

to be in the midst of it all than to be shut up here suffering the

torments of suspense."

"You had a great deal better have nothing to do with it," his friend

said decidedly. "You are not needed. F. O'Donovan was in court with

Anita and my wife, and there was a body-guard of Catholics all about to

make room for them going and coming. It was hard for the poor child;

but what she felt most was not being in a crowd, and obliged to speak

in public; she did not appear to think of that; but the thought that

what she must say might bring trouble on any one almost overpowered

her. She excited a great deal of sympathy. While she spoke, you could

have heard a pin drop in the room."

"After all," F. Chevreuse said, catching at a consolation, "it won't

hurt any of them to see one of God's snow-drops; and she is no more

tender than many a martyr of the church has been."

Mr. Macon's brief story did not give any idea of the sensation

produced in court by the appearance of this child, who was as strange

to such a scene as if she had been, indeed, a wild flower brought from

some profound forest solitude. Her beauty, the dazzling paleness of

her face, from which the large eyes looked full of anguish and fear,

the flower-like drooping of her form as she leaned on Mrs. Macon's

supporting arm--all startled the most hardened spectator into sympathy.

Careless and callous as they might have been, feeding on excitement as

a drunkard takes his draught, ever stronger and stronger as his taste

becomes deadened, each one seemed to realize for a moment how terrible

a thing it is to see a human life at stake, and to have influence to

destroy or to save it. If she had been a relative or personal friend

to the accused, the impression would have been less deep; but the

fact that she would have shown the same painful solicitude for any

one of them may have stirred in their consciences some sense of their

own heartlessness. They made way for her, and listened in breathless

silence to hear what she would say. Her very distress lent a silvery

clearness to her voice, usually so low and soft, and every word was

heard as plainly as the notes of a small bird chirping when its nest is

attacked.

"All I know, your honor, is this: Mrs. Macon drove about Crichton to

ask for things for the convent; and Mother Ignatia let me go out to

bring in the parcels she brought, because it pleased me. I always

set down on a slip of paper a list of the articles, and the day of

the month she brought them, and some of the Sisters helped me, and

looked on. But this time no one but me did anything, for it was the

day after Mother Chevreuse was killed, and everybody was in great

trouble. Mrs. Macon said, when she came, that she had spent the night

before at Madison with her sister there, and started early in her

phaeton to beg for us, and had heard nothing of the news till she

reached Crichton late in the afternoon. Then she drove straight to us;

and, when she got out of the phaeton, she ran to Sister Cecilia, and

they threw themselves into each other's arms, and began to cry. We

were all crying, but I went to take the parcels out of the phaeton,

because I wanted to do something. And I made a list of them, because

I always had, and I carried them up-stairs. And I knew just how

everything looked, because I tried to think of my work and not of

Mother Chevreuse. And I do know surely that the gray shawl which was

laid over our lounge was brought that day. I saw the piece torn out of

the corner, and, when they arranged it for a cover, they turned the

torn corner behind. That is all, your honor, except that Miss Carthusen

came to the convent one day, and, when I went into the parlor, she was

examining the shawl, and she said she did it because there was one like

it missing out of their house. And I hope," said this simple creature,

rising, in her earnestness, from Mrs. Macon's arm, and leaning

imploringly toward the judge--"I hope that what I have said will not

hurt anybody nor be used against anybody. And I ask Mr. Schöninger to

forgive me if what I have said displeases him; for, if it should do him

harm, I shall be unhappy about it as long as I live."

No one said a word as the girl was led, trembling and half fainting,

out of the court-room. The prisoner regarded her with astonishment

while she spoke, and when she turned toward him her pitiful face, and

made her appeal for forgiveness, he bowed, and a slight involuntary

motion of his hands looked as if he would fain have supported her

drooping form. Never had he seen so simple and so impassioned

a creature. An angel taking its first flight out of the white

peacefulness of heaven, and looking for the first time on the miseries

of earth, could scarcely have shown a more shrinking and terrified pity

than had been displayed by this young girl, drawn from her peaceful

convent home to the arena where crime and justice struggle for the

mastery. And yet that pure and tender child had given him a terrible

blow. Perhaps he felt that her testimony was important, simple as the

story she told seemed to be; for his face grew deathly pale, and for

the first time during the trial he lost that air of scornful security

which he had sustained so far. Averting his face slightly, he seemed

to be studying out some problem, and, as he thought, the faint lines

between his brows grew deeper, and those sitting near him could see the

veins in his temples swelling and throbbing with the stress of some

sudden emotion.

The next morning F. Chevreuse went out to make sick-calls after his

Mass was over, and returned quite convinced that his friends had been

right in advising him to remain in-doors. Everybody he met gazed at

him, as if trying to read in his face what thought or feeling he might

be striving to hide; people turned to look after him; and groups

of excited talkers became silent as he approached, only to resume

their conversation with increased vehemence when he had passed. He

had been obliged to check the wordy sympathy of some and the angry

denunciations of others, who thought to please him by wishing ill to

Mr. Schöninger; and more than once his heart had been wrung by some

loud lament over his lost mother.

"You were right," he said to F. O'Donovan when he went in. "I will not

go out again unless there is need of it."

"Then I give you as a task this forenoon to translate ten pages of that

book," his brother priest replied. "It is needed, and should be ready

for the early spring sales."

F. Chevreuse laid aside his wrappings with alacrity, glad to have a

task assigned him. "But I would like to go into the church a minute,"

he said, making this request with the humility of a child. "Not to

pray," he added quickly, as if afraid of receiving too much credit for

piety; "I want to go into the gable, and look down to the court-house."

He stopped for permission, and his face was so worn and troubled

that his friend checked the slight smile that unconscious display of

obedience had provoked.

"Go, by all means, but do not stay long," he said. "The day is very

cold. And, besides, it will do no good to watch there."

What he called the gable was a long, low attic running the whole length

of the church, and lighted by a small gable window at each end. A steep

stairway led up to a chamber over the altar; but from that the ascent

was made by long ladders, very seldom used. The window over the altar

gave a fine view of all the eastern and northern part of the city, and

looked directly into the square in front of the court-house.

F. Chevreuse toiled wearily up, feeling himself grown old, and stood

in the long, dusky room. The floor was covered with wood-shavings left

by the builders, and spiders had hung their webs in thick festoons from

beam to beam. One side of the southern window, at the further end of

the church, was gleaming brightly, where the sun had begun to come in,

and the rafters near it glowed as if kindling with fire; but the north

window, that felt scarce a touch of sunshine in the winter-time, was

covered deeply with frost, piled layer on layer through the cold night.

He put his face to the frame, and breathed on it till the glittering

coldness melted, and a drop of water ran down, then another, and

presently there was a clear spot in the glass. He wiped this dry with

his handkerchief; then, covering his mouth and nose, that his breath

might not freeze over the improvised loophole into the outer world,

he leaned closer and looked out. For the large panorama of the city,

spread out under a clear winter sky, and shot through by the two

sparkling rivers, he cared not. Only one spot attracted his attention,

and that was the court-house and the square in front of it. Looking

there, he drew back, winked to clear his eyes, which had, perhaps,

been dazzled by the sharp and tangled lights and shadows of the place;

then looked again. The square should have been white with half-trodden

snow, and dotted by passers here and there; instead of that, it was

entirely black. But the blackness was not of the soil nor pavement;

it was the swaying blackness of a crowd. They thronged the streets,

pressing toward the square, and stood on the steps of the court-house,

struggling to enter. Even at that distance he could see that policemen

were forcing them back.

F. Chevreuse turned hastily away from the window, and descended to the

church, heartsick at the sight. He threw himself one moment before

the altar, then went into the house. As he entered, Jane, who was on

the lookout, hid herself in her room till he had passed through the

kitchen. Since the trial began, they had not met. She felt sure that

he did not approve entirely of her conduct, and he allowed her to be

invisible without asking any questions.

F. O'Donovan looked at him anxiously as he re-entered the sitting-room;

and, when he went and leaned on the mantel-piece, hiding his face in

his hands, approached and touched him kindly on the shoulder.

"It isn't your way, Raphael, to break down so," he said in that sweet

voice of his, still sweeter with pity and tenderness.

That name, the name of his boyhood, when he and O'Donovan were at

school together; when he was so overflowing with happiness that he

could never be still, but had to be for ever at work or at play; when

he knew no more of care than what the getting of his lessons involved,

no more of sin than the little faults he recounted at his confessor's

knees and forgot the next moment, and no more of sorrow than the

changing of one beloved professor for another who speedily became as

dear. O'Donovan, the beautiful boy, the youngest at school, had been

his pride and idol in those days. He turned to him now, and, in the old

way the English boys used to mock at him for, kissed his friend and

school-fellow on both cheeks; at which the Irishman laughed a little

and blushed a good deal.

"You're not much changed from the boy you were," said F. Chevreuse.

"You had always a way of seeming to coax, while you were really

commanding. Well, you're almost always right. How the wind whistles!"

It was a cutting north wind that broke multitudinously against the

church, and seemed to splinter there into separate sharp voices. They

went up from the narrow passage between the church and the house, they

rang from the chimneys, and sighed and whimpered about the feet of

the stone Christ, as if some wounded creature, invisible to man, had

crawled there to seek for pity.

"What a day!" repeated F. Chevreuse, looking out. "December is

certainly an ugly month, and January is a worse one. February would be

worst of all, but that it is so near spring you can snap your fingers

in its face."

He seated himself at the table, drew the books towards him, and glanced

round at the fire, as if to assure himself that there was something

shining in his vicinity, then took up a pen, and laid it down again,

shivering, not because he was cold, but because he knew there was so

much cold about.

F. O'Donovan, seated near the window, with his finger between the

leaves of his Breviary, to keep the place, had observed his every

movement. He dropped the book on his knee, and spoke in a gentle,

dreamy way that was the very essence of soothing.

"Yes, this is now for a while one of the cold spots on the earth;

but we have only to climb a little, in spirit or in memory, to have

a different idea of December and everything else. How many years

ago to-day is it that you and I saw oranges ripening in the sun in

December, and roses blooming, and people pushing back their cloaks

for the heat? It is an anniversary, for I have some little reason to

remember the date. We were in Rome. I had been shivering in a bare,

sunless room at the Propaganda, when I looked up and caught a glimpse

through the window of a bit of miraculous blue sky over the roof of San

Andrea's. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and time for a walk.

I called you, and we started on a little exploring expedition; for we

had neither of us seen much of Rome at that time. We muffled ourselves

well, and went out into the Piazza di Spagna. I recollect you saying,

as we came to those great stairs, that they must have been modelled by

some one who had Jacob's dream-ladder in his mind. You said, too, that

one reason why Rome is so much more beautiful than any other city is

not because it is more artistic, but more natural. Each part grew for

itself, instead of being cramped by some dominating idea that spoilt

all in trying to direct all. You were delighted with the perfectly cool

way in which a whole street would go up-stairs or down-stairs. Well,

there was the whole side of a piazza going up-stairs. We went up, past

the group of models, you know, who stand there to be stared at; the

bearded old man who stands for S. Peter or Moses, the brigand and the

brigand's wife, and the little brown gypsies. The calendar said it was

December; yet in the piazza below the air said it was April. When we

paused at the first landing, and began to wish we had left our cloaks

at home, it was May, and up in front of the Trinita de' Monti it was

mid-June. The fruit-sellers left their large baskets of oranges in

the sun while they sat in the shade and waited for customers; there

were baskets of flowers, with heaps of half-open roses on the stone

rail of the balustrade, and streams of rich verdure flowed wide or

trickled brightly between the gray sweeps of stone. In the east was

that unimaginable blue that can only be compared to a gem; in the west,

a dazzle of unclouded sunshine; and between the two, Rome floated in

a silvery mist. You leaned on the balustrade, and--wretch that you

were!--your first thought was a pagan one. You said that the goddess

of beauty had sunk into the midst of the city, and left her drapery

of cloud clinging all about it, and that, when she should withdraw,

there would be a vision in the sky, but Rome would be nothing but

ashes. That was the best image that Raphael Chevreuse could find,

with the city before him all a-bubble with the domes of Christian

churches. You may recollect that I gave you a very pretty lecture on

the subject. Then you pointed out to me a pillar of smoke wreathing

slowly up into the sky, showing between the bold front of the Pincian

Hill and the twin cupolas in the Piazza del Popolo, with the distant

forest and mountain for a background, and you said that we were nothing

but cloud-people living in a cloud, and that the only realities were

Moses and the Israelites out there offering up sacrifice in the wilds

between Egypt and Chanaan. Well, December being too hot for us then,

we walked off toward Santa Maria Maggiore. Do you remember the great

orange-tree, as large as an apple-tree, that showed over the convent

walls, and how thickly the golden oranges were set among its green

foliage; and the symbol over the convent door of two lions trying to

get at a bird that was safe in the top of a palm-tree;[274] and the

vane that you said could have been thought of nowhere but in Italy--a

rod with a cross at the top and a bird's wing swinging round as the

wind changed? And when we walked on among the ruins, what superstitious

young man gathered dandelions, because gold-colored flowers always

brought him some happy chance, he said; and then, in the next breath,

looking at those mountains before us, swimming, it seemed, in a sea of

rosy-purple vapors, broke out with a psalm, "Montes exultaverunt ut

arietes; et colles, sicut agni ovium"? You declared vehemently that

the mountains were dancing, and I had to hold you to keep you from

dancing too. A pretty sight it would have been to see a young Christian

priest twirling _pirouettes_ among the ruins of the temple of Minerva!

Doubtless, while we are in the midst of the snows and frost of a

northern morning, the sun is just going down over that same warm and

glowing scene. And, doubtless, too," said F. O'Donovan slowly, coming

to the point he had started to reach, "outside this pain and confusion

there is peace and happiness waiting to come in and give us our soul's

summer in this world even. The storms are short, but the peace is long,

and for ever waiting overhead."

"But life is not long," concluded F. Chevreuse, "and it behooves me to

be about my work."

He drew the books toward him, and began to work in earnest. He had been

comforted in one regard that morning: he would not himself be called

into court, the only points on which he could give evidence being

better known to others. Jane and Andrew had both seen the condition of

his little study, with its bolted window and locked-up desk, after he

left the house that fatal night, and both F. O'Donovan and Mr. Macon

saw it in the morning before he came home. The other point, relating

to the sort of bank-bills he had lost, was of no consequence, as the

bankers could not say what sort of money Mr. Schöninger had paid them.

Every disposition was shown to spare him unnecessary pain, and they

even strained a point for that purpose.

He was not needed, indeed, and the case was being brought rapidly to a

conclusion, as his first despatch showed him.

"Old Mr. Grey, from the pond farm, with his granddaughter, have been

brought in," Mr. Macon wrote, "and by their help the story has been

made to assume form. Mr. Schöninger returned to Crichton that day past

their place. He got into a rough road and broke his harness somewhere,

and went to their house to borrow a rope to mend it. He had a shawl

on his arm when he went up to the door. While the young girl was gone

for the rope, he folded the shawl, and put it into my wife's phaeton

among the other packages. My wife was then with old Mrs. Grey in the

house. Mr. Grey was at work in the garden, and saw what was done. The

girl also saw the shawl on his arm when he came, but did not notice it

afterward. It is likely to go hard with him."

F. Chevreuse had a very red face when he looked over this note. But

he handed it to F. O'Donovan without a word, and resumed his writing

again. If he knew well what he was writing is doubtful. That color

did not leave his face, and now and then he pressed his hand to his

forehead, as if confused.

"Mr. Schöninger has roused himself at last," the next note said. "He

seems for the first time to comprehend that he is in danger. He looks

like a lion. I hope he may prove to have some of a lion's strength, for

his chances are small."

F. Chevreuse handed the paper to his brother priest, who had been out

and come in again, and watched his face while he read it.

"Will you tell me frankly your opinion of this?" he said then.

F. O'Donovan dropped his eyes, having, evidently, no mind to be frank

on the subject. "I cannot have a settled opinion on a question of

which I have heard but one side," he said. "I have been in court this

morning, and talked with some people there, and the chances at present

seem for a conviction. But we cannot tell the strength of the defence

as yet."

In spite of his reserve, there was no mistaking his belief in the

prisoner's guilt.

F. Chevreuse shut his book decisively.

"Since I am not needed here, I may as well go and see the bishop," he

said. "I was to have gone this week to settle important business with

him, but he excused me on the supposition that I would not be allowed

to leave Crichton. Can you take care of my people a few days longer?"

"A week longer, if you wish."

"Four days will be enough--two to go and come, two there. You will know

where to telegraph for me, if I should be wanted. I will go straight to

the bishop's house, and stay there."

"How glad I am that you did not say 'episcopal residence'!" remarked

his companion.

F. Chevreuse was already making his preparations for the journey. He

glanced up rather imperiously from the valise he was packing.

"Why should I say it?" he demanded. "Never used such an expression in

my life. And this reminds me that you have been criticising me before

to-day, calling me superstitious, and I don't know what else. In one

little corner of my mind I have been thinking the matter over ever

since, and have arrived at these conclusions: superstition, being

nothing but erratic faith, should be treated with great tenderness;

and, besides, you will recollect that I was at that time reading the

pagan classics; furthermore, Rome herself was not born in the faith,

but is a converted pagan, and she stands there, a Christian Juno, with

all Olympus kneeling about her feet; and well so, for any form is good

that is capable of holding a Christian soul. Still further, I have

concluded that young O'Donovan, whose hair still looks, across the

room, quite black, should show a becoming reverence for Chevreuse, who

has long since ceased to count his white hairs and begun to count his

black ones. I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better?

Good-by. God bless you!"

And he was off, glad of the noise and speed of the cars, of the

changing faces and scenes, of anything that would help to ease his mind

by a momentary distraction. Yet, in spite of every effort, the thought

haunted him of Mr. Schöninger rousing himself to do battle for his

life. Call up whatever image he would to entertain his mind, that one

intruded. He pictured to himself the first dawn of apprehension in the

prisoner's face rapidly intensifying to a flash of angry terror, the

reddening or the whitening color, the gathering storm of the brows. He

tried to guess what he would do and say, by what grand effort he would

at last fling off in scorn the accusation which he had not believed

could cling to him--if he should be able to fling it off. That doubt

was like a thorn, and he hastily called to mind something to banish it.

He remembered what F. O'Donovan had been saying of Rome, and tried to

recollect something of that old picture-book part of his life, to see

again in fancy its shady streets and sunny piazzas, to enter in spirit

some dim church starred around with lamps, and lined with precious

marbles; but when he had laboriously fashioned the scene, a hand was

outstretched to put it aside like a painted curtain, and again he saw

the Jewish gladiator, alive and alert, fighting desperately for his

life.

"You can see that I have run away to escape disagreeable scenes and

talk," were his first words on reaching his destination. "And now to

business."

It was quite understood, then, that no one was to tell him anything

relating to the trial, nor mention the subject to him; so that when, on

the evening of the third day, he started for home, he knew no more of

the progress or result of it than he had known on leaving Crichton.

There were but few passengers that evening, and F. Chevreuse

established himself in a corner of the car, put his ticket in his

hat-band, that he might not be disturbed by the conductor, leaned back

and shut his eyes, that he might not be talked to by any one else, and

took out his beads to exorcise troublesome thoughts and invoke holy

ones. It was a saying of his that the beads, when rightly used, had

always one end fastened to the girdle of Mary, and were a flowery chain

by which she led the soul directly to the throne of God.

They proved so to him in this case, and one after another the Joyful

Mysteries were budding and blossoming under his touch, when presently

he found himself somewhat disturbed by the voices of two men who were

talking behind him. At first the sound reached him through the long

vista of that heavenly abstraction; but soon the distance lessened, and

then a single word brought him down with a shock.

"He fought hard at last," one said, "but it was of no use. Everything

was against him."

It needed not another word to tell the priest who and what were meant;

but other words were spoken.

"His defence was a mere mass of sentimentality," the speaker went on.

"He owns to having walked the streets the whole night of the murder,

but he says that it was from distress of mind. He had to decide before

the next day whether he would abandon all hope of the fortune for

which he was contending, and lose with it all that he had expended,

or else throw into the chasm the few hundreds he had retained that an

accident might not find him penniless. He declared that the state of

his mind was such that he could not sleep, nor keep still, nor stay

in the house. Now, that part of the story would not have been so bad

if he had not been seen near the priest's house, hanging about there,

and going away when he was observed, and if he had not declared that,

when he went away from Crichton in the morning, he had not heard of

the murder. The tracks were not a strong point, for Newcome makes

everybody's boots just alike, and there are a good many men in Crichton

who have as neat a foot as Schöninger. But the rest of the defence was

nonsense. The shawl was what convicted him. It was his shawl; he owned

it; and the fragment found in Mme. Chevreuse's hand just fitted the

torn corner, thread for thread. I could see that he was confounded when

that came up. He says he left the shawl in Mrs. Ferrier's garden in the

evening, and went for it early in the morning before anybody was up,

and that he found it just where he had left it. He owned, too, that he

put it slyly into Mrs. Macon's carriage. He said he knew her and what

she was collecting for; had heard all about it at Madison. When he left

his broken harness--which, by the way, was not broken, it appears, but

only unclasped somewhere--and went to Mr. Grey's, he took his shawl

over his arm absent-mindedly, and found it a nuisance while he was

going through the woods. Seeing Mrs. Macon's carriage there full of

parcels, some gray blankets among them, it occurred to him to add his

shawl to the pile without putting any one to the trouble of thanking

him. He said that he believed those nuns to be very good women, and

that he felt a respect for them for the sake of F. Chevreuse, who had

been very polite to him. Fancy a Jew taking off his shawl to give it to

a nun, and that to please a priest! The story is too ridiculous, you

see. Oh! it is clear. There never was a clearer case of circumstantial

evidence. No one could have a doubt. But the verdict is too hard."

"You think it should not have been murder in the first degree?"

another voice asked.

"It should not," was the emphatic reply. "It is almost an outrage to

make it so. But people became ferocious the moment it was clear that

he was guilty, and I believe they would gladly have taken him out and

hanged him to the first tree. The fact undoubtedly is that he was

pressed for money, and meant to help himself to the priest's. Mme.

Chevreuse heard him, and started to alarm the house, and I think he

gave her an unlucky push. But nothing of that sort would content the

prosecution nor the people. They must have it that at the very best

he killed her wilfully when he found that she had recognized him. The

female servant testified that there was a candle overturned in the

priest's room, which must have gone out in falling. Madame's first

thought would naturally be to light a candle. Still, that is not sure.

That same servant wished to show that the prisoner had a spite against

the priest's mother, and the Carthusen girl had the same story; but

if people had been calm, their gossip would have made no impression.

Schöninger's lawyer tried to prove that madame's death resulted from

the fall; but there was a bad bruise...."

F. Chevreuse gasped for breath. "For God's sake, stop!" he cried out,

half turning toward the speaker, then sinking instantly into his seat

again.