It was not to be expected that Mr. Mivart, in his criticism on

Darwinism, would meet with no opponents. He must have expected to be

attacked from two quarters, and by two different classes of men: by

those committed to the Darwinian hypothesis, in the first place; and,

again, by those who value that hypothesis less for its scientific merit

than for—as they suppose—its incompatibility with Christian doctrine,

and the service they think it might render in the disintegration of the

Christian societies. Among the latter we are compelled to class Mr.

Huxley, who, if a very good scientist, is, notwithstanding, one of the

most arrogant of men.

He replied to Mr. Mivart, and in his reply does neither more nor less

than constitute himself the infallible teacher of all mankind, the

supreme pontiff of science, empowered to speak with authority on all

matters pertaining to religion and philosophy, as well as to anatomy.

He has the commendable modesty, even, to tell Catholics what they

may believe, and what they must reject. He interprets the Bible for

them, expounds the teachings of the Fathers of the church, comments

on the schoolmen, all for their benefit; in fact, entirely forgets

the good old maxim, “Let the cobbler stick to his last,” and imagines

that, because he has learned a considerable amount about brains and

stomachs—dead brains and stomachs, for the most part—he can legislate

for the Christian world; that anything in heaven or on earth which

he cannot weigh or measure, upon which he cannot bring the knife, or

the blowpipe, or the spectroscope to bear, does not exist, or exist

otherwise than as it takes form in his own by no means humble mind.

In his reply to Mr. Mivart, he virtually passes over all of the latter

gentleman’s scientific objections, and fastens on his assertion that

evolution is at all _compatible_ with Catholic doctrine.

Mr. Mivart had, as we have seen, referred to Suarez, and that, Mr.

Mivart assures us, because, in Mr. Huxley’s words, “the popular repute

of that learned theologian and subtle casuist was not such as to make

his works a likely place of refuge for liberality of thought.”

Of course Mr. Mivart did not intend to represent Suarez or the other

writers we have mentioned above as advocating the very modern doctrine

of evolution, but only abstract principles harmonizing with it; and,

if anything, broader than it, inasmuch as they are broad enough not

only to take in the recent theory of evolution, but any other theory

of development which may be yet advocated; yet Mr. Huxley assumed

that Mr. Mivart meant to convey the impression that F. Suarez was a

Darwinian or a disciple of Herbert Spencer, which he could not well be,

having lived some centuries too early to enjoy any such good-fortune.

Having erected this theory, Mr. Huxley went, in his “More Criticisms on

Darwin,” deliberately to work to demolish it, in doing which he left

his way considerably, raising questions on which Mr. Mivart had said

nothing whatever, and which in the discussion are wholly irrelevant;

as, for instance, the meaning of the word “day” in the first chapter of

Genesis, as advocated by some authorities.

Mr. Mivart retorted through the pages of the _Contemporary Review_, and

demonstrated that Suarez was “an opponent of the theory of a perpetual

direct creation of organisms,” and “that the principles of scholastic

theology are such as _not to exclude_ the theory of development, but

rather to favor it.” He quoted again from Suarez, to show that that

writer, treating of the opinion that individuals of kinds like the

mule, leopard, lynx, etc., must have been created from the beginning,

expressed the view that the contrary seemed to him more probable,

thus asserting _the principle_ that those kinds of animals which are

_potentially_ contained in nature need not be supposed to be directly

and immediately created. More than this, Mr. Mivart shows that the same

authority recognizes the possibility that certain organisms may be

originated directly from the inorganic world by cosmical influences.

Our readers already know what were the views of S. Augustine on this

matter. Mr. Mivart shows that other theologians besides S. Thomas, such

as S. Bonaventure, Albertus Magnus, Denis the Carthusian, Cardinal

Cajetan, Melchior Canus, Bannes, Vincentius Contenson, Macedo and

Cardinal Noris, Tosti, Serri, “and others down to the present day,”

agree with S. Augustine in his views on the question we are considering.

The great result—the only result in which we feel especially

interested—of this controversy was the bringing into clearer light the

fact that the kernel of truth contained in Darwinism or in evolution is

not at variance with revelation, as indeed it cannot be and be true.

This is what Mr. Huxley has done for the church.

Of Mr. Huxley’s treatment of his opponent’s objections on the score of

morality we have nothing to say which would be of the least service to

our readers.

Remains the question: How far may a Catholic accept the special

Darwinian theory or the doctrine of evolution? Mr. Mivart asserts

that a miraculous origin of the body of man is not necessary; that it

might have been evolved from that of some lower being by natural law.

Darwinians and evolutionists generally maintain an analogous origin for

the human soul. Is there anything in this contrary to revelation?

We have not space, if we had the ability, to go into a lengthy

examination of this question. Nor is there any reason that we should.

It has already received the attention of able Catholic writers, and we

can do no better than give the results of their investigation. They

have shown[48] that, with respect to all organisms lower than man, the

doctrine of the fathers is that Catholic faith “does not prevent any

one from holding the opinion that life, both vegetable and animal,

was in the world in germ at its creation, and afterwards developed

by regular process into all the various species now on the earth”;

therefore, that “all living things up to man exclusively were evolved

by natural law out of minute life-germs primarily created, or even out

of inorganic matter,” is an opinion which a Catholic may consistently

hold if he thinks fit so to do.

As to the question of the _body_ of man, the same writers have shown,

and we take it to be the safer opinion—in which, perhaps, we differ

from Mr. Mivart—“that to question the immediate and instantaneous

(or quasi-instantaneous) formation by God of the bodies of Adam and

Eve—the former out of inorganic matter, the latter out of the rib of

Adam—is at least rash, and probably proximate to heresy.”

That the human soul was specially and separately created is an article

of Catholic faith.

There is not a fact in science at variance with these views of the

origin of the body of man and of the human soul. Even Mr. Wallace—to

whom the credit of pointing out the influence of “natural selection”

in modifying organic beings belongs by right of a title not less valid

than that of Mr. Darwin—believes, and he has reason to believe, in the

action of an overruling Intelligence in the production of “the human

form divine”; and that, in view of man’s special attributes, “he is,

indeed, a being apart”—not, therefore, evolved, either as to his body

or his soul, from any inferior organism. When a man like Mr. Wallace

holds such a view, we may rest assured that the facts in the case do

not require any one to hold the contrary. Let us now endeavor to sum up

the results in relation to the Darwinian theory and the bearings thus

far obtained:

1. The tendency of every kind of animal and plant to increase in

geometrical progression, and to transmit a general likeness with

individual differences, as well as to present minute variations

of any kind in any direction, the great length of past time, the

struggle of animals and plants for existence, and the preservation and

intensification of favorable variations, are facts on which the theory

is based.

We accept these facts.

2. We do not accept the theory, because, although it throws light on

some facts, there are others with which it is not compatible; and

because those even on which it does throw light do not require us to

accept it.

3. There is nothing in the Darwinian theory, or in the more general

theory of evolution countenanced by facts bearing on the development of

life, which a Catholic may not accept, if he wishes so to do.

4. The teaching of Darwinism as to the origin of man’s body is probably

next to heretical. At all events, the only safe opinion is that it

was not evolved from the body of a lower being, but was directly and

quasi-instantaneously created by God.

5. Its teaching concerning the origin of the human soul is in direct

and irreconcilable contradiction with an article of Catholic faith.

6. There is—apart from revealed doctrine—an absolute scientific

certainty of the truth of that same doctrine respecting the creation of

the human soul, and the highest probability of the immediate creation

of the human body.

So much for the facts, so much for the theory, so much for its bearings

on revelation.

In all we have said, we do not wish to be understood as advocating

the Darwinian theory, even in so far as it does not conflict with

Catholic faith, nor as committing ourselves to the general doctrine of

evolution. The fact is, we do not care as Catholics to pledge ourselves

hastily to any hypothesis whatever. We know some little of the history

of hypotheses, and we know that it has been a history of failures.

When the Darwinian hypothesis or the theory of evolution shall

have stood the test of years and facts, and the most searching

investigations, let the Catholics who will be then alive accept them.

There is no special reason why we should profess our faith in them. We

do not need them to account for the phenomena about us.

On the other hand, we can readily understand why a certain class of

minds should subscribe to it.

The human mind naturally seeks for an explanation of the origin of

things. Intelligent men know the human race has not always been on

the earth, that the phenomena about us are not eternal, that animal

and vegetable life must have had a beginning here. Catholics know the

same, and knew it before science had demonstrated it or discovered its

minutiæ.

Men who wish to get rid of God welcome any hypothesis which seems to

remove him to a greater distance from them, even before that hypothesis

has more in its favor than against a it. Catholics, who believe in God,

have no such anxiety. They are willing to wait, since they have already

an explanation of the origin of things in their belief in God, and in

the teachings of his revelation that he in the beginning created the

heavens and the earth, and all that they contain. The minutiæ, the How

of that creation, they leave it to science to discover. When discovered

and proved, they will accept it. But science can never give them

anything not contained in the first article of the Creed: “I believe

in God the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth.” All it can do

is to explicate and confirm this.

If it be objected that scientists accept the theory, and that we

therefore should, we reply, _mere_ scientists do; and of all men, the

least safe of guides is the mere scientist. No other man is more apt to

become a blind worshipper of the idols of the Cave. He confines himself

within the narrow limits of his laboratory, among instruments of death,

and then would excogitate a solution to the problems of life and of the

universe; as if with bolts and screws he could wring from nature the

secret it will not yield.

Goethe well knew that from such men we need not expect the answer to

the riddle of the universe; that one glance at the world as a whole as

it lies bathed in the sun on a summer’s day tells us more than all the

tomes of philosophers.

“Ah me! this dungeon still I see,

This drear, accursed masonry,

Where even the welcome daylight strains

But darkly through the painted panes,

Hemmed in by many a toppling heap

Of books worm-eaten, gray with dust,

Which to the vaulted ceiling creep,

Against the smoky paper thrust,

With glasses, boxes, round me stocked,

And instruments together hurled,

Ancestral lumber stuffed and packed:

Such is my world: and what a world!

And do I ask wherefore my heart

Falters, oppressed with unknown needs?

With some inexplicable smart

All movement of my life impedes?

Alas! in living nature’s stead,

Where God his human creature set

In smoke and mould, the fleshless dead

And bones and beasts surround me yet!”

And although we can see some force in the general theory of evolution,

we cannot accept it till it settles its account with the principle on

which the whole inductive method is raised—the constancy of the laws

of nature.

The theory of evolution strikes, it seems to us, at the very root of

this principle. It proclaims that there is not and has never been any

constancy in nature. It devours all other law, or rather destroys it.

It means simply change. Permanency, constancy, and their synonymes

are opposed to it; and thus the theory of evolution must invalidate

all the sciences which are founded on the assumption that nature is

constant; in other words, that it does not change, does not evolve. The

definition of evolution given by Mr. Spencer makes it simply a change.

True, he states the method or law of that change. But the method is

discovered by induction. Induction is in turn annihilated by evolution.

The fabric as it rises loses its foundation, and floats in the air, a

baseless vision.

But if we are in no haste to yield assent to Darwinism or evolution in

general; as applied to man’s soul by advocates like Spencer or Chapman,

we reject it _in toto_. It is incompetent to account for the facts,

nay, in glaring contradiction to them.

We take our stand against man’s relation to the ape on facts as

undeniable as any the zoologist or anatomist advances in its favor.

These compare man’s body and the ape, and _find_ no very great

superiority of the one over the other as they lie recently dead on the

anatomist’s table. Let the two lie there only a little longer, and none

at all will be discoverable. A little dust which the winds of heaven

will soon scatter to the four points of the compass is all that will be

left of either. Shall we therefore infer their oneness of kind? By no

means.

We know that man is in some respects not unlike the ape in form; but we

know, too, that there are Godlike faculties in man which are not in the

ape. We know this, and we know, moreover, that the philosopher through

whose brain roll vast choruses of thought; who stands on the heights

of Christian philosophy and human speculation, and discourses on death

and immortality; who, from the eminence to which Christianity has

raised him, looks down, not with indifference and not with contempt,

but with deep serenity, on the little loves and little hates of the

world, because conscious of his eternal destiny—we know, we have an

intuition, which we trust more than we trust Darwin and Huxley, that

this philosopher is more than a developed ape.

And when the anatomist tells us there is little anatomical difference

between man and the ape, therefore between man as man and the ape as

ape there is little difference or a difference only of degree, we

reply: Between man and the ape, between a Newton or even a savage and

a monkey, there is, in the intellectual order, a vast difference,

an infinite difference. _This_ we take as the fact, and draw the

conclusion that the amount of anatomical difference between a monkey

and a man is no criterion or measure of the real difference.

We treat the argument from embryology in the same way. Because

at a certain stage in its development the human embryo cannot be

distinguished from that of certain of the lower animals, we are assured

that man differs from these only in degree. We grant the fact, we

reject the inference; and we reason: notwithstanding you can detect

no difference at certain stages between the two, time develops one

so great that the one may become a Shakespeare, the other becomes

only a Shakespeare’s dog. What follows? Simply this: that there is a

something in the human embryo which is not in the other—a something

which the sense cannot detect, but the existence of which the mind

may infer; that there is more of life than the embryologist can find

out by his methods, as there is more of the rose than is found in its

ashes—more of life than we would be apt to see in a dissecting-room or

a charnel-house.

No; whatever force the special Darwinian theory may have to the student

of animal life, to the student of man as an animal, it can have very

little to him who views man in his higher manifestations. Whatever else

it may account for, it never can throw any light on the facts of man’s

moral nature. It never can explain the origin of a being who believes

in purity or pity.

Let the Darwinian, indeed, explain, if he can, how, if man owes

his existence and his development, physical, moral, and mental, to

success in the struggle for existence—in other words, to natural

selection—and this success, in turn, to the exercise of the selfish or

combative faculties, or to both combined—faculties which, according to

this theory, he must have exercised, his present and previous states

taken together, for ages unnumbered—so long, indeed, that they ought

to have grown into uncontrollable instincts—and which are the only

ones he can have exercised from the beginning, to which, therefore, as

the most imperious, all others should be subordinate—let him, we say,

explain who can how this tendency to battle, inherited through infinite

ages, has not taken complete possession of man, nor caused his life to

be a continual strife with his fellows; let him explain how, instead of

all this, there _are_ men who have learned, not to hate, but to love

their enemies, to compassionate the weak, the poor, and the lowly, to

nurse the sick and the dying, to care even for the dead; nay, how it

comes that there are men who are guided by the sublime command: “Love

them that hate you, bless them that curse you, pray for them that

persecute and calumniate you”; or, further yet, how, in spite of the

exercise of the selfish and combative faculties, in the struggle for

existence, the tendency of which must have been to strengthen by use

the organs of destruction, the same organs should gradually disappear,

and that in man not one of them should be left.

Let him explain, again, how out of mere animality, by “natural

selection,” out of the mere brute, in a “struggle for existence,”

beings should come—men to whom this would be a law: Be pure; for “he

that looketh after a woman to lust after her hath already committed

adultery with her in his heart.” There are such men—men to whom this

is a law, and who obey it. Will a Vogt or a Büchner believe it? Will a

Darwin account for it by “natural selection”?

Finally, let him explain how, if man has always been only growing out

of some lower condition, he has yet learned, in a measure, to go beyond

himself, to harbor an ideal which he has never reached, but towards

which he ever strives, inasmuch as he endeavors to fulfil the command

of the Son of God: “Be ye perfect, as my heavenly Father also is

perfect.”

PEACE.

THIS supplication of the Suffering was that also of the Militant

Church, which daily offered it as now with sighs and tears, and, by the

light which this reflection casts on history, we can catch a glimpse

for an instant at the immense multitude of the pacific men who in the

middle ages were existing upon earth; for as many as were joined in

spirit to the church, were united with her in this ardent, insatiable

desire of peace. How do we know that the Catholic Church, which the

holy Fathers call the house of peace, was so profoundly attached to

peace? From a simple review of her liturgy: for in the first place, her

great daily sacrifice itself was nothing else but the mystery of peace,

the pledge of future and eternal, the diffusion of present peace to

man. At this holy and tremendous celebration in which God hath given

peace reconciling the lowest with the highest in himself, the good of

temporal peace was also formally invoked, at the _Gloria_, at the _Te

igitur_, at the spreading of the hands before the consecration, at the

_Libera nos_ at the salutation of the people, at the _Agnus Dei_, at

the three prayers which follow it, and in the prayer for the king; for

as the apostle assigns the reason for the latter, _that we may lead

a secure and peaceable life_, so with that intention the holy church

prays for all rulers, even for such as are transgressors of the divine

law;[49] which intention is formally expressed in her solemn litany,

where she prays that kings and Christian princes may have peace and

true concord, and all the people peace and unity. The innumerable

priests, who celebrated throughout the earth, knew that the inestimable

price of the world, and the great Victim for the salvation of men,

could only be immolated in a spirit of peace, and with a contrite

heart; and that, as Peter of Blois says, it is never lawful to offer it

without that preparation.[50]—DIGBY, _Mores Catholici_.

DANTE’S PURGATORIO.

CANTO EIGHTH.

In this Canto, Dante introduces the souls of Nino Visconti, judge of

Gallura in Sardinia; and of Conrad Malaspina, who predicts to the poet

his banishment.

‘Twas now the hour that brings to men at sea,

Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell,

Fond thoughts and longing back with them to be;

And thrills the pilgrim with a tender spell

Of love, if haply, new upon his way,

He faintly hear a chime from some far bell,

That seems to mourn the dying of the day;

When I forbore my listening faculty

To mark one spirit uprisen amid the band

Who joined both palms and lifted them on high

(First having claimed attention with his hand)

And towards the Orient bent so fixed an eye

As ‘twere he said, “My God! on thee alone

My longing rests.” Then from his lips there came

_Te lucis ante_, so devout of tone,

So sweet, my mind was ravished by the same

The others next, full sweetly and devout,

Fixing their gaze on the supernal wheels,

Followed him chanting the whole Psalm throughout.

Now, reader, to the truth my verse conceals

Make sharp thy vision; subtle is the veil

So fine ‘twere easily passed through unseen.

I saw that gentle army, meek and pale,

Silently gazing upward with a mien

As of expectancy, and from on high

Beheld two angels with two swords descend

Which flamed with fire, but, as I could descry,

They bare no points, being broken at the end.

Green robes, in hue more delicate than spring’s

Tender new leaves, they trailed behind and fanned

With gentle beating of their verdant wings.

One, coming near, just over us took stand,

Down to th’ opponent bank the other sped,

So that the spirits were between them grouped

Full well could I discern each flaxen head;

But in their faces mine eyes’ virtue drooped,

As ‘twere confounded by excess and dead.

“From Mary’s bosom they have both come here,”

Sordello said—“this valley to protect

Against the serpent that will soon appear:”

Whence I, unknowing which way to expect

This object, turned me, almost froze with fear,

And to those trusty shoulders closely clung.

Again Sordello: “Go we down and see

These mighty shades, and let them hear our tongue:

Thy presence will to them right gracious be.”

Only three steps I think brought me below

Where one I noticed solely eyeing me

As if who I might be he fain would know.

‘Twas dusk, yet not so but the dusky air,

Between his eyes and mine, within the dell,

Showed what before it did not quite declare.

Towards me he moved, and I towards him as well:

Gentle Judge Nino, when I saw thee there

What joy was mine to find thee not in hell!

We left unsaid no form of fair salute:

Then he inquired: “How long since thou didst come

O’er the far waters to the mountain’s foot?”

“O but this morn,” said I, “the realms of gloom

I passed: in the first life I am, but fain

Would find the next by following on this track.”

Like to men suddenly amazed, the twain,

He and Sordello, hearing this, drew back.

One looked at Virgil, one into the face

Of a companion sitting there, and cried,

“Up, Conrad! see what God hath of his grace

Bestowed,” then turning unto me replied:

NINO VISCONTI.

“By that especial reverence, I beseech,

Which thou ow’st him whose primal way is hid

So that none sound it, if soe’er thou reach

The shore beyond the vasty waters, bid

My child Giovanna for my peace implore

There where the cry of innocents heaven heeds.

Her mother I am sure loves me no more

Since she put off her widow’s paly weeds,

But in her misery fain would wear this day.

From her full readily may one be taught

How soon love’s flame in woman dies away

If sight or touch full oft relume it not.

The chanticleer upon Gallura’s shield

Had graced her sepulchre with fairer show

Than will that viper, which to battle-field

Marshals the men of Milan.” With such glow

He uttered this as in his face revealed

The heart’s just passion smouldering yet below.

Still that sole part of heaven I fondly eyed

Where the stars move, even as a wheel doth move

More slowly next the axle. Said my Guide:

“Son, what dost thou so gaze at there above?”

“Up there! at yon three torches,” I replied,

“Whose splendor makes this pole here all ablaze.”

And he to me: “The four clear stars that rose

This morn before thee have abased their rays,

And these have mounted in the place of those.”

While thus he spake, Sordello to his side

Drew Virgil, and exclaimed: “Behold our Foe!”

And pointed to the thing which he descried.

And where that small vale’s barrier sinks most low

A serpent suddenly was seen to glide,

Such as gave Eve, perchance, the fruit of woe.

Through flowers and herbage came that evil streak,

To lick its back oft turning round its head,

As with his tongue a beast his fur doth sleek.

I was not looking, so must leave unsaid

When first they fluttered, but full well I saw

Both heavenly falcons had their plumage spread.

Soon as the serpent felt the withering flaw

Of those green wings, it vanished, and they sped

Up to their posts again with even flight.

The shade who had approached the judge when he

Accosted him, had never moved his sight

Through this encounter, looking fixed on me.

CONRAD MALASPINA.

“So may that light,” the spirit began to say,

“Which leads thee up, find in thine own free will

Sufficient wax to last thee all the way,

Even to th’ enamelled summit of the Hill.

If thou true news of Val di Magra know’st,

Or of those parts, inform me of the same,

For I was mighty once upon that coast,

And Conrad Malaspina was my name.

Not the old lord, but his descendant, I:

The love which once I to my kindred bore

Is here refined.” “O,” thus I made reply,

“That realm of yours I never travelled o’er;

But where throughout all Europe is the place

That knows it not? The honor Fame accords

Your house illustrates not alone the race,

But makes the land renowned as are its lords;

He knows that country who was never there:

Still the free purse they bear, and still bright swords

So mount my soul as this to thee I swear!

Custom and nature privilege them so,

That, if through guilt the world’s guide lead astray,

They in the path of right straightforward go

Sole of all men, and scorn the evil way.”

To these my words, “Now go,” the spirit said,

For the sun shall not enter seven times more

That part of heaven where Aries o’er his bed

Stretches and spreads his forked feet all four,

Ere this thy courtesy’s belief shall be

Nailed in the middle of thy head with nails

Of greater force than men’s reports to thee

If, unimpeded, Judgment’s course prevails.

THE RUSSIAN IDEA.

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

CONCLUDED.

III.

RUSSIAN VICTIMS.

THE following morning, Rasumowski sat with his guests at a sumptuous

breakfast in his elegant summer-house, the roof of which rested upon

beautifully ornamented pillars. Adolph von Sempach appeared very sad;

for he had again received evidences of Alexandra’s indomitable pride

and want of feeling. Beck remarked the disposition of his friend, and

he thought with satisfaction of the deeply afflicted mother in her

lonely palace at Posen.

“Some years ago, the emperor emancipated the serfs—did he act

prudently?” asked the high official of Berlin.

“Whatever the czar does, is well done,” answered the governor; “and

if the future czar again introduces the former system of servitude,

that also will be right. But you must not understand the abolition of

servitude in a literal sense. The serfs; were freed only from servitude

to the nobility; the Russian nobility have lost by it. But both peasant

and noble will always remain slaves of the emperor. Consequently

servitude still exists in Russia, the same kind that you desire to

establish in the new German Empire. Ah! there comes the Roman Catholic

pastor!” exclaimed the governor, his features assuming at once their

accustomed look of ferocity. “Now, gentlemen, see how I shall deal with

this hero of liberty, who preaches rebellion to the people!”

The pastor timidly approached the Russian dignitary, and allowed

himself to be treated in a manner unworthy of his priestly dignity.

But the priest had seen many thousands of his Catholic brethren put

to death and transported to Siberia. He knew that, by a stroke of the

pen, Rasumowski could doom him to the same fate; and to this must

also be added the fact that in Poland Catholic clergyman are educated

by professors appointed by the Russian government. These professors

very naturally train and discipline the seminarians according to the

commands of a government hostile to the Roman Catholic religion. Solid

theological learning and a proper appreciation of the dignity of the

priesthood are not sufficiently esteemed, for which reason we must make

allowances for the cringing deportment of the village pastor.

After having made a low reverence before the governor, the latter

rudely accosted him by saying, “Have you your sermon with you?”

“It is at your service, your honor,” replied the priest, taking with

trembling hands from his pocket a written sheet of paper, which he

handed to the governor.

Rasumowski began to read, while now and then a sign of contempt or a

shade of anger would spread itself over his face.

“By the heavens above me! pastor, this is incredible; in your sermon

there is not one word said about his most high majesty the emperor!

What is the meaning of this? Do you wish to go to Siberia?”

The priest shook like an aspen-leaf.

“Pardon me, your honor, pardon me!” stammered the priest. “I preached,

as your honor may condescend to see, not about the most high emperor,

but concerning Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the world, who has redeemed

men through his death upon the cross, and has freed them from the

servitude of Satan.”

“Bah!—Saviour of the world—nonsense!” interrupted the governor. “You

must always preach about the most high the emperor. Your remarks about

the Saviour of the world are altogether superfluous. And then,” he

continued, with a threatening frown, “in your sermon you repeatedly

use words not approved of by the government; that is, _freedom_ and

_servitude_. You must never again use such expressions, for, if you

do—remember Siberia!”

“Pardon, your honor! My intention was to show the people that we must

obey God from motives of gratitude.”

“That, again, is nonsense!” exclaimed the governor. “If God wishes the

people to obey him, let him march his soldiers against the disobedient.

Our first duty is to the emperor; this you must preach to your

parishioners!”

He rang the bell, which was immediately answered by a Cossack.

“Bring me a sheet of official paper, and the pen and ink!” said

Rasumowski to the servant. “Now, listen, pastor, to what I say! If

you again preach upon _liberty_ or _servitude_, you will be sent to

Siberia; for in the holy Russian Empire there is neither _freedom_ nor

_servitude_; and, in order that you may become a practical preacher,

you must preach for a whole year on nothing else but on the _kindness_,

_mildness_, _glory_, _wisdom_, _power_, and _benevolence_ of the

emperor, but, above all, on the strict obligation of unconditional

obedience due to him. Will you do this?”

“At your honor’s command,” replied the intimidated priest.

Rasumowski wrote upon a sheet of paper which bore the printed

superscription: “Police Notice.” He then read aloud what he had

written: “In this church the only topic to be preached upon for a whole

year is on the high qualities of the emperor, and on the obligations of

his subjects to him.”

He then folded the paper, and gave it to the priest.

“That your congregation may be informed of my command,” said he, “you

must nail this police notice upon the church door. Now go!”

Before the priest had left the garden, the Berlin official burst into

a loud laugh.

“Oh! this is sublime!” he exclaimed. “I must confess that you have

these priests under splendid subjection. The Russian method is

admirable, and must be introduced into the new German Empire.”

“My opinion,” said the professor, in a tone of indescribable sarcasm,

“is that this Russian method is even excelled by the Prussian. The

governor has not forbidden the pastor to preach, he has simply given

him matter for his sermons; but upon the doors of several churches in

certain cities of Prussia _police notices_ are placed, which forbid

preaching altogether; and not only preaching, but even the hearing of

confessions and the celebration of Mass. I think, therefore, that we

have surpassed the Russians.”

“That is so,” replied Herr Schulze; “but the order of which you speak

is unfortunately directed only against the Jesuits.”

“It is all the same,” answered Beck. “Catholic preaching, the holy

Mass, and confession were forbidden. The war of destruction is not made

solely against the Jesuits, but against the church.”

“You are correct, professor!” answered Schulze. “Do you know Dr.

Friedberg, of Leipzig?”

“Not personally,” replied Beck; “but I am familiar with some of his

writings.”

“Well,” continued Schulze, “Dr. Friedberg is Bismarck’s most faithful

adviser and assistant in the combat against the ultramontanes, who

are so hostile to the empire. Friedberg has lately published a work

in which he expressly says that war is to be made not on the Jesuits

alone, but on the whole Catholic Church, and that this war must be

energetically carried out.”

“Without reference to Dr. Friedberg’s pamphlet,” said Beck, “it is

clearly evident to every man of judgment, that the destruction of

the Catholic Church is the one thing aimed at. It is really amusing

to see how opinions change. Some years ago, the liberal press spoke

of the Catholic religion with the greatest disrespect and contempt.

The Pope was a feeble old man, and Catholicity tottering to its fall;

it was, in fact, not only lifeless, but even unfit to live. To-day,

however, this same liberal press proclaims the very reverse. The Pope

is now so dangerous that Bismarck is already using every effort to

secure at the next election of a pope a man who has what is popularly

called _extended views_, and who will make very little use of the

extraordinary powers of his office. It has become evident to the

liberals that Catholicity is by no means a worn-out, dead thing, but

that it is to be feared and is strong enough even to overthrow the new

German Empire.”

“You make the newspapers of too much consequence,” replied Schulze.

“Our journalists write under great restrictions, of course; but they

are well paid for their work, and cost us a great deal of money.

Bismarck’s organ, _The North-German General Gazette_, alone costs the

empire every year over twenty thousand dollars. Bismarck, nevertheless,

has a very low opinion of newspaper-writers; he calls them, as is

well known, _his swine-herds_. You cannot, however, deny the fact,

professor, that the Catholic Church is hostile to the empire.”

“If you ask me as an historian, Herr Schulze, I must contradict some

of your assertions,” said Beck. “The Catholic Church is a spiritual

power, but is not hostile to the empire, as far as the new empire

aspires after the liberal development of noble ideas. Culture,

freedom, civilization, true humanity, are children of the Catholic

Church. As you know, Herder, our great writer, has said: ‘Without the

Catholic Church, Europe would have become in all probability the prey

of despots, the theatre of perpetual discord and strife, or else a

vast desert.’ If, however, the new German Empire intends to introduce

a Russian form of government, and with it servitude and the knout,

then, of course, the Catholic Church will fearlessly manifest her

displeasure.”

The governor and Herr Schulze opened their eyes, and gazed with

astonishment and suspicion upon the daring speaker.

“Do not forget,” remarked Von Sempach, “that my friend speaks only from

a historical standpoint.”

“On the whole you are right, Herr Beck!” exclaimed the governor. “The

Catholic Church confuses the minds of the people by preaching about

_liberty_, _about being the children of God_, about _the dignity of

man_, and all such absurdities. The Pope and his priests make their

people proud, obstinate, and rebellious, and difficult to manage. Mark

my prediction, Herr Schulze: you cannot introduce the Russian form of

government into Germany until Catholicity is exterminated.”

“We will rid ourselves of it,” said Schulze confidently. “The Jesuits

are already expelled, and now we are using stringent measures to

suppress their kith and kin—that is, all the orders and convents—so

that we shall gradually have the Catholic Church under the same

subjection as it is in Russia. And have you noticed, gentlemen, how

quietly all has been effected? The Jesuits were sent away without the

least opposition on the part of the Catholics; the riot at Essen was

only the demonstration of a few workmen.”

“There was, however, great excitement among the liberals,” replied Von

Sempach; “for, when the German religious were innocently proscribed and

forcibly driven from their homes, the national liberals applauded and

cried out ‘Bravo!’”

“If you imagine, Herr Schulze,” said Beck, “that the patient endurance

of Catholics in witnessing the expulsion of their priests is not

dangerous, you deceive yourself. Their manner of combat, however, is a

very singular one. Recourse to arms, or rebellion against authority, is

forbidden them by their religion; but history teaches that the weapons

employed by the Catholic Church have proved most disastrous to all

her enemies. And it is to me as clear as the sun at noon-day that, in

consequence of this persecution of the church, the German Empire will

succumb.”

“You speak in riddles, Herr Beck!” said Schulze. “What do you mean when

you speak of the Catholic manner of combat?”

“That which is, in fact, the very essence of Catholicity,” answered

the professor. “Catholics believe that Jesus Christ, the Son of God,

is the founder of their church; they know that God will never abandon

his church, because he has promised to abide always with her. Since

they are forbidden to conspire and rebel, they have recourse to prayer,

and they pray to Almighty God to keep his word—in my opinion, a very

dangerous mode of combat; for no power, not even that of the new German

Empire, can stand against the Lord. And it is a remarkable truth

that the Catholics, for over 1,800 years, have conquered all their

oppressors. If Bismarck should commence to boil and roast Catholics, as

did Nero and other cruel tyrants who persecuted them for three hundred

years, he would meet with the same fate that befell the pagan emperors

of Rome.”

“What you say, professor, is no doubt incontrovertible, for the facts

are historical,” replied Schulze. “We do not, however, intend, for

the present, to either boil or roast Catholics, and it is not even

necessary to adopt such severe measures. If the liberal government

once gets undisputed control of all the academies and public schools,

Catholicity must naturally die out.”

“Another deception, Herr Schulze,” replied Beck. “The apostate

Emperor Julian, fifteen hundred years ago, adopted this very plan of

exterminating Catholics. He established infidel instead of Christian

schools; but the Emperor Julian perished, together with his empire,

while the Catholic Church still exists, and is the terror of her

enemies.”

“We have heard enough!” exclaimed the governor. “We will not deny the

assertion of our learned friend. The Catholics in the new German Empire

can suffer and pray, and look for assistance from above, until they say

their dying prayer, as they do in Poland.”

From the eyes of the professor there shone a brilliant ray of light.

“You are mistaken, Governor Rasumowski,” said he; “not Catholic Poland,

but the Russian Empire, is saying its dying prayer.”

If lightning had come down from heaven, it would not have made a

greater impression upon the Russian when he heard Beck’s remark.

“You seem astonished, governor,” said the professor. “Are you really

ignorant of what a volcano the Russian Empire is standing upon? I

have made diligent inquiries upon the subject, and know something of

the interior dissensions that prevail in Russia. The present emperor

is also aware of it; for his father, when dying, admonished him,

saying: ‘Soucha (that is, Alexander), take care, lest thou become the

Louis XVI. of Russia!’ Excuse my candor, and permit me to wish you

good-morning, as I intend to accompany my friend to the city.”

The two young men walked through the garden, followed by the angry

looks of the Prussian and the Russian.

Severe weather prevailed for some days. Excursions into the country

were out of the question. Schulze visited the public institutions of

the city, which were managed according to the Russian system.

One day, Von Sempach found the professor busily writing in his room.

“Are you taking notes, Edward?”

“I am collecting important Russian items to send to Bolanden, that he

may use them for the good of the German people, and for the benefit

of other nations, who do not desire to be governed according to the

Russian mode.”

“I protest against it,” replied Von Sempach. “I have no desire to

figure in a novel.”

“Do not excite yourself, my dear Adolph! Bolanden will change our

names, and perhaps call the gentleman from Berlin _Schulze_. How is

Alexandra?”

The young man sighed heavily, and seemed greatly distressed.

“I wish that I had never known her!” said he; “for I can tell you, in

confidence, that a deformed soul dwells in her beautiful body. Her

pride is insufferable, her want of feeling repulsive; in fact, she is

utterly devoid of those amiable qualities of heart and mind which a

woman must possess in order to make a happy home.”

“She is the child of a Russian governor, who, by means of the pleti and

Siberia, keeps in subjection the serfs of the divine emperor,” replied

Beck. “I told Schulze and the governor my real opinion in regard to

the decayed condition of the empire of the czar, and yet I was very

temperate in my language; I should have added that Almighty God also

is the arbiter of nations, and suffers the continuance of Russian

barbarities only to show how deeply empires can sink, and how wicked

men can become, when an emperor has unlimited command in church and

state. The same result will take place in Germany, if she takes Russia

as her model.”

“I hope you will not use such expressions before Rasumowski,” said

Adolph warningly.

“No; we must not cast the pearls of truth before swine, for they would

perhaps attack us with their Cossacks and the pleti!”

“Why do you jest?” said Adolph. “The discoveries I have made concerning

Alexandra’s real nature have made me very sad. Why must I bind myself

for ever to such a creature?”

“Reason and the desire for true happiness forbid it!” answered the

professor. “You are free, and not a Russian serf. Act like a man;

destroy the magic charm which her fatal beauty has woven around you. My

travelling-bag is ready, let us go back to your dear mother Olga. I am

disgusted with everything in this corrupt, stupid Russian Empire.”

The servant of Von Sempach now announced dinner. As the two friends

entered the dining-room, Schulze, with an air of triumph, held out a

newspaper.

“Herr Beck, you cannot say now that the Germans are unwilling to adopt

the Russian form of government,” he exclaimed. “Here, read _The Cross

Gazette_. You remember what trouble we had with reference to the

village of huts which some miserable and poverty-stricken wretches

had built outside the gates of Berlin. Well, these huts have been all

removed, according to the Russian method.”

“So I understand!” said the professor, who had read the article. “_The

Cross Gazette_ announces that the President of Police, Herr von Madai,

had given orders to several hundred policemen and soldiers to take

down, in the night from Monday to Tuesday, the collection of huts

outside of the Landsberg-gate; the poor settlers, who were roused from

their sleep, were driven away without difficulty, although the men

murmured, and the women and children wept; but there was otherwise no

disturbance or resistance. What a fine contribution to the history of

the new German Empire!” added Beck.

“Is it not also stated,” asked Adolph, whose face was glowing with

indignation, “that the humanity on which they pride themselves held the

torch while the sorrowing women and children were driven from their

wretched homes into the cold, dark night?”

“Why, Von Sempach, do not be so sentimental!” exclaimed the governor.

“Be like a Russian, who wastes very little time or sympathy on such

occasions.”

Dinner was served. Alexandra had never appeared more lovely; her

toilet was exquisite. She had remarked the serious deportment of her

betrothed; for she made use of every species of blandishment in order

to regain possession of his heart.

But something happened which brought matters to a crisis.

The dessert had just been laid, when a servant of the governor handed

him an official paper. He had only read a few lines, when a grim smile

diffused itself over his face.

“I have a surprise for you, gentlemen!” said he. “The nearest Prussian

police-station has had the kindness to deliver up to me the Jesuit F.

Indura, so that I may forward him to his native place, Kosow.”

“A Jesuit? Oh! that’s imperial!” exclaimed Alexandra, filled with

curiosity. “I have heard so much of the Jesuits, and wish to see one.

Papa, will you not have him brought here?”

“If it gives you pleasure, why not? That is, if our honored guests have

no objection.”

“None at all, governor!” replied Adolph von Sempach, with stern

formality. “You alone have to decide.”

“And I think that it is always praiseworthy to be willing to see and

hear a Jesuit,” said Beck.

“Tell the commissioner of police,” commanded Rasumowski, “to bring

before me without delay the Jesuit of Kosow!”

“Oh! that will be interesting!” exclaimed Alexandra. “I am so anxious

to see a man who belongs to that terrible order which has sold itself

to the devil, and labors only in the interest of hell.”

“Do you really believe what you say, mademoiselle?” asked Von Sempach,

in astonishment.

“Certainly! I have often read in the newspapers shocking things about

the Jesuits. They are said to possess in an extraordinary degree the

power of deceiving people, and they owe this spiritual power to Satan,

with whom they are in league.”

“You have derived your information from the Vienna _New Free Press_, is

it not so?”

“It may be, I do not know exactly. The new German Empire, in its fear

of God and love of morality, acts very prudently in expelling these

diabolical Jesuits.”

“But suppose these diabolical Jesuits come to Russia?”

“Oh! we are not afraid of them; we will send them to Siberia!”

“Here comes the Jesuit,” said Rasumowski, when he heard the clattering

sound made by the guards’ sabres.

Deep silence reigned in the dining-room. All sat with their eyes

intently fixed upon the door. In the hall were heard heavy, weary

steps, as though an aged or sick man was moving forward with great

difficulty. Then a hand appeared, grasping the side of the door, and

finally the Jesuit father, a tall, thin man, very much bent, and

leaning on a cane.

“Come in, quick!” cried out Rasumowski roughly.

F. Indura staggered into the room. The door was closed after him.

Those who were present gazed in silence at the suffering priest, who

could hardly stand on his feet, and who leaned exhausted against the

wall. Although still young, the incredible hardships that he had

undergone of fatigue as well as of hunger and thirst seemed to have

entirely destroyed the bodily strength of the Jesuit. His face was

deathly pale, and the hand which held his wide-brimmed hat trembled

from excessive weakness. His black habit was covered with dust, as if

he had been driven like a prisoner on the highway. Upon his breast

there hung an honorable sign of distinction, bestowed by the new German

Empire—the iron cross. After having saluted those present, this victim

of modern humanity and liberal justice silently awaited the command of

the Russian governor.

“Your name is Indura, and you come from Kosow?” commenced the governor.

“Yes, your honor!” answered the priest, in a feeble voice.

“You have been expelled by the Prussian government, and in the holy

Russian Empire you can find an abiding-place, and perhaps secure for

yourself a splendid position, if you will renounce the Society of

Jesus, and embrace the Russian state religion. Are you determined to do

this?” asked the governor.

“No, your honor! I prefer death to apostasy!”

“Well, we will not hang you yet awhile!” brutally exclaimed the

governor. “But we can send you to the mines of Siberia.”

“That will be impossible, sir!” replied the Jesuit, with a faint smile.

“for my strength is too far gone ever to reach Siberia.”

Von Sempach had until now been a quiet spectator of the scene;

alternate feelings of compassion and indignation filled his breast

whenever he looked at the priest. He turned to Alexandra, in whose

impassive features not a vestige of sympathy was visible.

“Mademoiselle,” said he in a subdued voice, “a work of mercy is

necessary in this case. This poor clergyman is dying from exhaustion.

Will you have any objection if I offer him my seat?”

The Russian lady turned fiercely around, like a serpent that had been

trodden upon.

“What do you mean, sir?” she answered, with a proud disdain. “Do you

think that I will grant such a disgraceful request?”

An angry flush overspread the face of the young man; his eyes gleamed

with a new light, and a proud, contemptuous smile wreathed his lips.

Alexandra at this moment had for ever forfeited the love of a heart of

which she was unworthy.

The governor meantime continued his questions.

“As you still wish to remain a Jesuit,” said he, “that is, a man

dangerous to the empire, an enemy of modern civilization, you will be

sent to Siberia!”

“Will your honor not procure me a passport to India?”

“What do you want to do in India?”

“We have missions there,” replied the priest. “As it is my vocation to

work for the salvation of souls, I wish to preach there the doctrine of

Christ according to my humble capacity.”

“I must reflect upon your petition,” replied the governor. “The

government may not wish the Jesuits to continue their activity even in

India. For the present, you must go to prison!”

The priest made a motion to leave, but his strength failed him, and a

cold sweat appeared in large drops upon his forehead. Then Adolph von

Sempach rose.

“Governor Rasumowski,” said he, “I do not believe that I shall appeal

in vain to your feelings as a man. I therefore urgently beseech you to

allow me to offer some refreshment to this exhausted gentleman from

your hospitable table.”

Von Sempach spoke in such an earnest tone of voice that it seemed

impossible to refuse him.

“If you wish to assume the character of the good Samaritan, Von

Sempach, I do not object,” answered the Russian, making a great effort

to conceal his real displeasure.

Adolph approached the weak and feeble priest, and, giving him the

support of his arm, led him to his seat.

“Allow me, reverend sir, to serve you.”

The Jesuit looked at him with gratitude, and Adolph commenced to fill

his plate. The half-starved owner of the iron cross began to eat, and

like a lamp whose dying flame is revived when oil is poured upon it,

so also was it with the proscribed priest, who soon felt the benefit of

Adolph’s tender care.

Alexandra had left the room when she saw that her father would grant

the request of Von Sempach. With an expression of unutterable scorn and

disgust, she gathered up the train of her rich silk dress, and retired

to her own apartment.

“Will the new German Empire send us any more of such guests?” asked the

governor, who was filled with suppressed wrath at seeing a Jesuit at

his table.

“Hardly!” replied Schulze. “The majority of the Jesuits are Germans or

Swiss; there are only a few Poles among them.”

“Are only the foreigners expelled, and not the Germans?” asked the

Russian.

“No Jesuit, even if he be a German, can remain in the new German

Empire, and discharge any sacerdotal or educational functions,” replied

Schulze.

“It has made a very strange impression upon me,” said the professor,

“to see men condemned and treated like criminals, against whom not the

least fault can be proved. Even the bitterest enemies of the Jesuits

confessed this at the Diet, saying, ‘We find no fault in them!’ An

old proverb asserts that ‘Justice is the foundation of kingdoms.’ The

conduct of Russia against Poland excepted, there is not a similar

example in modern history.”

“Is your remark intended as a reproach, Professor Beck?” asked the

Russian.

“I refer only to historical facts,” replied the professor. “My personal

opinion has nothing to do with it.”

“And I must openly acknowledge to you my belief that Germany acts

very prudently in imitating the Russian method in treating defiant

Catholics!” retorted the governor.

“Then, we shall have violence done to conscience, and the destruction

of human liberty in the highest sense of the word,” said the

professor. “From this tyranny of conscience would result, as a natural

consequence, a state of slavery and a demoralized condition of affairs.

Religion would cease to ennoble man, because her enemies would

misrepresent her doctrines in such a way that she would cease to be the

revelation of God; she would become a machine of the state, and this

machine would be called a National Church—a hideous thing that would

prove to be the grave of all liberty. Finally, an abyss would open, and

swallow up the whole; for Almighty God will not suffer the wickedness

of man to go beyond a certain length. History records his punishments;

as, for example, the Deluge, the destruction of the kingdoms belonging

to the Babylonians and Persians, the destruction of Jerusalem and of

the Jewish nation.”

Rasumowski was about to answer, when the Jesuit father rose from his

chair.

“Sir!” said he to Adolph von Sempach, “you have, in truth, performed a

work of mercy. May the Lord in heaven reward you!”

“He has already done so, your reverence!” replied Von Sempach, with a

look at Alexandra’s vacant seat.

“Accept my grateful thanks, your honor!” said Indura to the Russian.

“That will do!” interrupted the governor. “The commissioner is waiting

for you.”

Adolph left the room with the priest.

“All learned gentlemen do not seem to approve of the war of

extermination against the Catholic Church,” said Schulze, in a

slightly ironical tone.

“At least, not those who have preserved some sense of justice,” replied

Beck. “I cannot understand how so many millions of Catholics can

submit to be insulted and threatened in a way that should excite the

indignation of Christendom.”

“It is all very clear,” explained Schulze. “A national church is to be

established in Germany, just as it is in Russia. Protestantism sees the

necessity of the change, and makes no resistance; but it is not so with

Catholicity.”

“I agree to the last assertion, Herr Schulze,” said Beck. “From the

very earliest ages there have been cowardly bishops and cowardly

priests; but the Catholic Church has never made concessions in matters

of faith, and will never do so in all time to come.”

“For this very reason she must be exterminated, even if we have to

resort to extreme measures,” answered the great official of Berlin, in

a transport of passion.

“And do you believe in the possibility of extermination?” asked Beck.

“Why not? The educated portion of the world has long since repudiated

all belief in the nursery tales of religion.”

“I most solemnly protest against your remarks,” said the professor.

“Religion is as much a nursery tale as is the existence of God, who

manifests himself in his works; the most wonderful work of whose hands

is the Catholic Church, particularly her miraculous preservation. While

everything else in the course of time falls into decay; while the

proudest nations disappear from the face of the earth, leaving scarce a

trace behind them; while sceptres are constantly passing from the hands

of rulers, the chair of Peter stands immovable. No intelligent man can

refuse to respect and admire the Catholic religion. On the other hand,

I do not deny that liberalism in its spiritually rotten condition,

devoid as it is of every high aspiration, is ripe for the establishment

of a national church, which is to be fashioned after the Russian model.

The new German Emperor-pope will be able, without opposition from the

liberals, to introduce the Russian catechism. Liberalism will not

object to the introduction of the pleti and to a Siberia; for it is

servile, without principle, and utterly demoralized. Those Germans,

however, who have preserved their holy faith, their dignity as men,

and their self-respect, are no slaves, and will never wear the yoke of

Russian servitude.”

“Sir, you insult me!” vociferated the Russian governor.

“In what manner do I insult you?” said Beck. “You yourself maintained a

few days ago that the Russians were all serfs of the czar.”

“Yes, they are; but I will not allow you to speak of it with such

contempt,” responded the irritated dignitary.

“Since we are not as yet serfs in the new German Empire,” said the

professor earnestly, “you will permit a free man to express his views.”

“No, I will not allow you to do so!” cried Rasumowski, with a loud

voice. “If you were not, unfortunately, the friend of my future

son-in-law, I would send you to Siberia as a man dangerous to the

empire.”

The professor rose.

“Governor!” he exclaimed, in a tone of unmistakable self-restraint,

“your rudeness makes it impossible for me to stay one moment longer

under your roof. The very thought of having received your hospitality

is painful to me.”

At this moment, Adolph von Sempach appeared.

“Governor Rasumowski,” said he, “I have come to say farewell. Your

daughter, whom I have seen, will communicate to you the reasons of my

departure.”

The Russian, with widely distended eyes, looked with astonishment at

the young nobleman, who bowed and disappeared with his friend the

professor.

At the entrance of the palace, the servant of Von Sempach held open the

door of a carriage. The friends entered, and drove to the depot.

“But, Adolph, how do you feel? Tell me what has happened!” asked Beck.

“That which had to be done, unless I chose to make myself unhappy for

my whole life,” replied Von Sempach. “I have broken my engagement with

Alexandra.”

“I congratulate you from my whole heart!” said Beck, warmly pressing

the hand of his friend.

The next morning, the Baroness Olga welcomed the returned travellers;

and when Adolph related what had happened, joy and happiness

illuminated the face of the good mother, who embraced and kissed her

son. The professor stood smiling at her side.

“You see, most gracious lady,” said he, “that the study of Russian

affairs is very apt to convince every good German of the impossibility

of obtaining real happiness and prosperity from the land of the knout.”

A few days later the poor people exclaimed: “Our mother Olga is well

again; her eyes have lost their sad expression, and the kind smile has

returned to her lips.”

MY COUSIN’S INTRODUCTION.

THE only fault we could possibly find with the Gastons was that they

were Roman Catholics.

True, they were our own cousins, quite as well off as ourselves, and as

well educated and respectable as any family in the country; but then,

being Romanists, you know, they associated with such queer people, had

such singular notions, and attended a church filled every Sunday with

families that you and I would never think of speaking to, you know.

Aunt Mildred went to Mass with them one Sabbath, just out of curiosity,

and declared there wasn’t a decent bonnet in the whole congregation

outside of Cousin Mary’s pew; and father, who looked in at the chapel

on Christmas Day, told us he didn’t see a single carriage at the

entrance—nothing but a lot of farmers’ and workingmen’s wagons.

Nevertheless, the Gastons were charming people. Our affection for

them went to the full extent of our cousinly relationship, and I

in particular—by the way, I forgot to introduce myself—George

Willoughby, at your service, just twenty-one—nice age, isn’t it?

Graduated at—but I won’t mention what college in New England, lest

you might expect too much of me. Well, as I was saying—and I in

particular had conceived quite an attachment for my Cousin Richard

Gaston. He was three years my senior, had received his education in

some out-of-the-way Catholic college situated on the top or at the

foot—I really forget which—of some mountain among the Alleghenies. We

had frequently met and exchanged visits during our vacations, and the

only objection I had to Cousin Dick was that on these occasions he made

no end of fun of my Protestant Latin pronunciation, asking me to read a

page of Virgil, and then rolling over in his chair, splitting his sides

with laughter. What he found so comical in my recitation I could not

imagine. I saw nothing in it to laugh at. This was several years ago. I

now know the cause of his mirth.

But even if Dick did make fun of my Latin, and call it barbarous,

he was a good fellow, although I must say that at times he presumed

a little upon his seniority so as to be a trifle mentorish. Indeed,

I loved him as a friend, independently of my affection for him as a

relative. He was considerate, too, and never troubled me with any of

his Romanish notions, except when I sometimes asked him a question

about the church, or touching some point in Catholic history, and

then I generally received more information than I either expected or

desired. One of these occasions I well remember, for the conversation

eventually led to serious results for me. I had gone down to spend a

week with the Gastons. One rainy afternoon—too wet to drive over to

the village, as we had intended—I had just waded through the strange,

eventful story of that gay and festive American citizen, Mr. St. Elmo,

and, as usual when at a loss for something to do, I began to look

around for Dick.

I soon found him in the library, but so entirely engrossed with a book

that he did not notice my entrance.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“Oh!” said he, “nothing that would interest you.”

“Let me see?” I took the book, and read the title-page: _Introduction

to a Devout Life. From the French of S. Francis of Sales._ “Why, Dick,”

said I, “this is Thursday, not Sunday.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why,” said I, “on Sunday you get out the Bible, or some pious book,

and read a spell—needn’t read very long, you know, about enough to

keep your face straight for the rest of the day. It’s the thing to

do—good young man, and all that sort of thing, you know—_Cela vous

pose_, as the French say; but as to pious reading, except for that or

to fight a rainy Sabbath with—never heard of such a thing. But what’s

your book about? Who is your Sales man? Some old ‘stick-in-the-mud’ of

a stupid hermit, eh?”

“Your phrase is not of the politest,” replied Dick, “but I will answer

your question. S. Francis of Sales was not what you describe, but an

elegant, accomplished gentleman, a graduate of the Sorbonne at Paris,

and of the University of Padua, where, after a brilliant examination,

he took the degree of doctor of laws with great distinction.”

“That might all be,” I answered, for I was determined not to accept

Dick’s saint without a fight, as was indeed my duty, being a staunch

Protestant—a _rôle_ no one need ever have any trouble in filling,

for, as I understand it, you have nothing to do but deny everything

the Romanists assert—“that might all be. I suppose he took refuge in

orders and sanctimony because he had a game-leg, like your Loyola man

there—what do you call him? yes, S. Ignatius—brave fellow, by the

way, and a good soldier—or else he was jilted by some handsome girl.”

“Nothing of the kind. His early years, his youth, his student life, and

his advent in the world were all marked by a modesty, a purity, and a

piety that seemed to be the sure precursor of a saintly life.”

“Oh,” said I, “I have it now. He must have been a hard-featured fellow,

so ugly, most probably, that, piety being his only resource, he became

a regular old square-toes of a monk in advance of the mail.”

My cousin took a new book off the table, and said, “How ugly he was you

shall hear from his Protestant biographer.[51] Listen:

“‘A commanding stature, a peculiar though unstudied dignity of manner,

he habitually moved somewhat slowly, as though to check the natural

impetuosity of a vigorous, healthy frame; regular though marked

features, to which a singularly sweet smile, large blue eyes, and

pencilled eyebrows gave great beauty; a complexion of almost feminine

delicacy, in spite of ceaseless exposure to all weathers. His voice

was deep and rich in tone; and, according to one who knew him, he was

in appearance at once so bright and serious that it was impossible to

conceive a more imposing presence.’”

“That’s all very well,” I answered, determined not to give it up

yet; “but that work of his you were reading, that _Devout life_,

is nothing but a string of prayers anyhow, isn’t it?—a sort of a

down-on-your-marrowbones manual?”

“Quite the reverse, my dear George. When the book was first published,

it was seized upon with avidity, and became immensely popular,

precisely because its author, not content with prescribing rules for

exterior acts of devotion, sought also to lead souls into the interior

life of piety. But judge for yourself. Let me read now a short extract

from the very first chapter, and you will at once see that, in the

opinion of S. Francis of Sales, the mere down-on-your-marrowbones

performance, as you not very elegantly phrase it, will not, of itself,

take you to heaven.”

“Well,” said I, “Dick, this is getting to be rather more than I

bargained for; but I’ll fight it out on this line if it takes me till

tea-time. So go on.” And he read:

“As Aurelius painted all the faces of his pictures in the air and

resemblance of the woman he loved, so every one paints devotion

according to his own passion and fancy. He that is addicted to

fasting, thinks himself very devout if he fasts, though his heart

be at the same time filled with rancor; and, scrupling to moisten

his tongue with wine, or even with water, through sobriety, he

hesitates not to drink deep of his neighbor’s blood by detraction and

calumny. _Another considers himself devout because he recites daily

a multiplicity of prayers_, though immediately afterwards he utters

disagreeable, arrogant, and injurious words amongst his domestics and

neighbors. Another cheerfully draws alms out of his purse to relieve

the poor, but cannot draw meekness out of his heart to forgive his

enemies. Another readily forgives enemies, but never satisfies his

creditors but by constraint. These by some are esteemed devout, while,

in reality, they are by no means so.”

“That’s pretty plain talk,” was my comment—“a good deal plainer than

they give it to us down at our meeting-house. It sets a fellow to

thinking, too.” And here I was about to make a damaging admission,

when I fortunately recollected that I was in line of battle, with my

enemy in front. So I charged again with: “Oh! it’s easy enough to write

or preach the most pious precepts, and, at the same time, not be at

all remarkable for their practice. If your Sales man was such a fine

gentleman as you describe, I strongly suspect that that very fact kept

him pretty closely tied to the world, and that he may have been, after

all, a mere ornamental guide-post to point out to others the road he

had no idea of travelling himself.”

“George, you are incorrigible, and I doubt that you really believe

the half of what you are saying. But I shall not ask you to accept my

opinion of S. Francis of Sales’ personal piety. Here is a Protestant

estimate of it: ‘There is a beauty, a symmetry, an exquisite grace of

holiness, in all that concerns the venerable Bishop of Geneva which

fascinates the imagination and fills the heart. Beauty, harmony,

refinement, simplicity, utter unself-consciousness, love of God and

man, welling up and bursting forth as a clear fountain that never can

be stayed or staunched—such are the images and thoughts that fill the

mind as we dwell upon his memory.’

“It was in 1592,” continued my cousin, “that Francis of Sales returned

to the paternal mansion, after having been for twelve years a scholar

at the universities, and a student of the great world. His father had

ambitious projects for the advancement of his only son. By agreement of

the parents on both sides, he was to marry a rich heiress, the daughter

of the Seigneur de Vegy; and the reigning Duke of Savoy tendered him

the high position of senator; yet, notwithstanding the most energetic

remonstrances and prayers of his father and many friends, he calmly

but resolutely declined both the marriage and the senatorial dignity,

and in 1593 was received in minor orders by the Bishop of Geneva, and

ordained priest in December of the same year.”

“After which,” I interposed, “he, of course, had an easy time of it.”

“Listen, and you shall hear. The duchy of Chablais, adjoining

the Genevese territory, had in previous years been conquered and

occupied by the Bernese, and, as one of the results, Calvinism became

predominant. Restored to the Duke of Savoy in 1593 as the result of

treaties, it was important to provide for the spiritual wants of the

few scattered Catholics who remained. A learned and pious priest

named Bouchut was sent to one of the towns of the Chablais, but was

compelled to leave it, on account of the fierce and hostile attitude

of the inhabitants. It was soon understood that any Catholic priest

who undertook to minister there publicly would do so at his peril.

There was an absolute necessity that some one should go, but the

Bishop of Geneva naturally hesitated to order any of his priests to so

dangerous a mission. He would gladly have sent Francis of Sales, for

he saw that he possessed all the qualities desirable in so critical an

emergency—bravery, firmness, prudence, and gentleness, besides a name

and family position which commanded respect throughout the country.

Sorely embarrassed, the good bishop convened a chapter, and all his

ecclesiastics were summoned to be present. He laid the matter before

them, together with the letters of the reigning duke, spoke plainly of

the difficulties and perils of the mission, and asked their counsel

as to what should be done. As in the case of an overwhelming peril at

sea, or a desperate charge on a fortified place, where the captain

or commander hesitates to order men to certain death, and calls for

volunteers, so the good bishop in this manner really asked, ‘Who will

undertake this dangerous duty?’

“As the head of the chapter, it was for Francis of Sales to speak

first. No one present knew as well as he the most serious dangers of

the proposed mission.

“Amid profound and discouraging silence, he arose, and said,

‘Monseigneur, if you hold me capable of the work, and bid me undertake

it, I am ready’—few words, but to the point. Information of what

had taken place soon reached Château de Sales, and in spite of his

seventy-two years, the father instantly ordered his horse, and rode to

Annecy, where he imploringly remonstrated with his son, and begged him

to withdraw his offer.

“From the son the old man went to the bishop, and protested in tears

against the step about to be taken. ‘I give up,’ he exclaimed, ‘my

firs-tborn, the pride and hope of my life, the stay of my old age, to

the church; I consent to his being a confessor; but I cannot give him

to be a martyr.’ The father’s remonstrance was so powerful, his grief

so violent, that the good bishop was deeply moved, and gave signs of

wavering, when Francis, perceiving it, cried out: ‘Monseigneur, be

firm, I implore you; would you have me prove myself unworthy of the

kingdom of God? I have put my hand to the plough; would you have me

look back, and yield to worldly considerations?’

“But the father held out as well as the son. ‘As to this undertaking,’

he said to Francis, in parting, ‘nothing can ever make me either

sanction or bless it.’ At the last moment, several priests offered

the brave volunteer to accompany him, but he would take no one but

his cousin, the Canon Louis de Sales. It would be a long but most

interesting history to go into the details of the Chablais mission.

Under other circumstances, the people of that province might have run

the risk of being dragooned into Catholicity as they had been into

Protestantism. But the mild counsels of its noble apostle prevailed.

After trials, labors, and dangers most formidable, his holy life

and winning words of peace and reconciliation shamed persecution,

transformed hatred into respect and admiration, and the conversion of

the Chablais was the result of his holy daring. It was during this

period that he even penetrated into the camp of the enemy, going to

Geneva several times to visit Calvin’s successor, Theodore Beza, then

seventy-eight years of age.

“The Apostle of the Chablais, as Francis de Sales was henceforth called

by the reigning duke, was now urged by the aged Bishop of Geneva to

become his coadjutor, and with great difficulty was almost forced

to accept the position. He was soon after sent to Rome, to ask the

good offices of the sovereign pontiff in arranging a serious dispute

between Savoy and France, as to whether Geneva was included in the

provisions of the treaty of Vervins. Having transacted the business

of his mission, he was notified by Clement VIII. to prepare for a

public examination in his presence within a few days. It is related, as

characteristic of his strong sense of justice and independence, that,

with all his reverence for pontifical authority, and his well-known

personal humility, the first impulse of Francis was to resist this

order as an infringement upon his ecclesiastical rights. He laid the

matter before the ambassador of Savoy, who immediately sought an

audience of his holiness. Clement VIII. at once recognized the validity

of the objection, and promised that the case should not be treated as

a precedent. He had heard so much, he said, of the ability and talent

of De Sales, that he was desirous of an opportunity of judging of it

himself, as was also the College of Cardinals. The order, it was then

agreed, should stand, and the examination go on. The only preparation

of Francis for this formidable trial was—prayer. Indeed, there was no

time for any other, for there were but three days between the order and

the ordeal.

“Among the cardinals before whom he appeared were Baronius, Federigo

Borromeo, Borghese, and, among their assistants, the great Bellarmine.

Added to these was a crowd of archbishops, bishops, generals of

religious orders, and many eminent ecclesiastics of lesser dignity. A

Spanish priest of distinguished learning, who was to have presented

himself with Francis for examination before this body, was so

overpowered on entering the hall that he fainted. The scope of the

examination included civil law, canon law, and theology, but it was

confined to the last-named branch. Thirty-five questions were proposed,

and every possible objection was raised by the examiners to all the

answers. The examination over, his holiness expressed his supreme

satisfaction, went to Francis, and embraced him in presence of the

assembly, repeating the verse: ‘Bibe, fili mi, aquam de cisterna tua,

et fluenta putei tui; deriventur fontes tui foras, et in plateis aquas

tuas divide.’[52]

“In January, 1602, Francis was sent to Paris, charged with the

arrangement of certain ecclesiastical difficulties which had arisen in

consequence of the late transfer of the small territory of Gex from

Savoy to France. Negotiations with royal ministers are proverbially

slow, and a matter that Francis supposed might be terminated in six

days retained him at Paris six months. But for him this was not lost

time. He gave the course of Lenten sermons at the Royal Chapel,

preached constantly in various churches and communities, and was so

tireless in his spiritual labors that during these six months he is

said to have delivered one hundred sermons. It was during this visit

that he suggested to Pierre de Berulle (afterwards cardinal) the

foundation in France of an order for the education of the clergy, on

the model of the Oratory established in Italy by S. Philip Neri. The

project was carried out, and in 1611, when the Oratory was established

in France, its founder asked Francis of Sales to be its first superior.

“The reigning King of France was then Henry IV. He so highly prized

and admired De Sales that he offered him every inducement to remain in

France. He recognized in Francis the possession of all the qualities

and virtues belonging to the model ecclesiastic, and best calculated

to make religion respected and loved in a community scarcely recovered

from the evil effects of religious wars. The learned Cardinal du

Perron also appeared to be of the same opinion, for he said: ‘God has

certainly given him (De Sales) the key of hearts. If you want merely to

convince men, bring me all the heretics, and I will undertake to do it;

but if you want to convert them, take them to Mgr. de Genève.’”[53]

“Richard, cousin of mine,” said I, “your measure is Scriptural, heaped

up and running over. I ask you a question about that little book there

on the table, and you give me the entire biography of your Saint of

Sales. It’s all very edifying, certainly, but I want to know about the

work.”

“Oh! _The Devout Life?_” he replied. “I will tell you. In the first

place, a singular fact connected with it is that the work was completed

before S. Francis was aware that he had written a book. It happened

thus: A young, beautiful, and wealthy lady of the fashionable Parisian

world was so impressed by a sermon preached by the Bishop of Geneva

that she resolved to lead a new life, and solicited his spiritual

advice. His counsels of enlightened piety soon taught her that it was

possible to serve God with zeal without absolutely leaving the world.

Seeing her but seldom, he wrote from time to time such instructions as

he wished to convey, and also answered her letters asking for further

advice. On a visit to Chambéry, Mme. de Charmoisy—for that was the

lady’s name—showed these papers to the learned and pious Père Forrier,

rector of the College of Jesuits at that place. He was so much struck

with their contents that he had them copied, and wrote to Francis of

Sales, now Bishop of Geneva, urging him to publish them. The bishop

did not at first understand what he meant, and replied that he had

no talent for authorship, and no time to write. When the matter was

explained, and he ascertained that Père Forrier had studied and written

out what he called his ‘few miserable notes,’ he exclaimed: ‘Truly,

it is a wonderful thing that, according to these good people, I have

composed a book without knowing it.’ Very opportunely there reached him

at this juncture a letter from the secretary of Henry IV. of France,

expressing his majesty’s earnest wish that Mgr. de Genève would write a

work setting forth the beauty of religion, and showing worldly people

that a life of piety was not incompatible with a busy, active career.

‘No one,’ said the king, ‘could write such a book but Mgr. de Genève.’

“Thus pressed on all sides, the bishop set to work, made some changes

and additions[54] in the manuscript, and published it under the now

familiar title of _Introduction to a Devout Life_.

“The work had no model in French literature. It was neither apologetic

nor controversial, but purely moral and advisory; and this was much

in a period torn by religious dissensions and wars. Its success was

enormous. Praises of the book and its author poured in upon all sides.

Exaggerated encomiums disturbed the good bishop. ‘What!’ he said,

‘cannot God make fresh-water springs to come forth from the jaw-bone

of an ass? These good friends of mine think of nothing but me and my

glory, as though we might desire any glory for ourselves, and not

rather refer it all to God, who alone works any good which may be in

us.’

“Meantime, the _Introduction_ was translated into all languages, and so

widely read[55] that it was called at the time the _breviary_ of people

of the world.

“The imagery and symbolism of the book are full of grace and

attraction. It draws illustrations from pictures and flowers, and its

style is rife with similes and images which light up the essential

solemnity of the subject. As Sainte-Beuve says, ‘He puts plenty of

sugar and honey on the edge of the vase.’[56]

“But this grace of language and of style is not obtained at the

sacrifice of strength or of principle. The work has many passages full

of sombre energy, and, in particular, a meditation on death (first

book), which displays something of the peculiar vigor of a similar

chapter (twenty-third of the first book) in _Thomas à Kempis_.

“Then, there is a sharpness of penetration and a delicacy of insight

surprising to those who have not closely watched the springs of human

action and the workings of the human heart in themselves as well as in

others. Distinguished moralists, such as Montaigne and Franklin, have

discoursed eloquently and effectively on the morals and motives of

men, but you will find in none of them the elevation and purity of S.

Francis of Sales. Take, for instance, the thirty-sixth chapter of the

third book, in which he points out the almost imperceptible motives of

partiality and injustice which prompt us in everyday life to the most

selfish acts, consulting only interest and passion, while we pretend

to ourselves and others to be totally unconscious of anything in our

conduct that is not entirely praiseworthy. Listen and see how admirably

he introduces the subject: ‘It is reason alone that makes us men, and

yet it is a rare thing to find men truly reasonable; because self-love

ordinarily puts us out of the path of reason, leading us insensibly to

a thousand small yet dangerous injustices and partialities, which, like

the little foxes spoken of in the _Canticle_ destroy the vines; for,

because they are little, we take no notice of them; but, being great in

number, they fail not to injure us considerably.’

“Now, remark how unerringly he places his finger on spots and

blemishes that to our eyes are apparently as white as snow:

“‘Are not the things of which I am about to speak unjust and

unreasonable? We condemn every trifle in our neighbors, and excuse

ourselves in things of importance; we want to sell very dearly, and

to buy very cheaply; we desire that justice should be executed in

another man’s house, but mercy and connivance in our own; we would

have everything we say taken in good part, but we are delicate and

touchy with regard to what others say of us; we would insist on our

neighbor parting with his goods, and taking our money; but is it not

more reasonable that he should keep his goods, and leave us our money?

We take it ill that he will not accommodate us; but has he not more

reason to be offended that we should desire to incommode him?... On

all occasions, we prefer the rich before the poor, although they be

neither of better condition, nor more virtuous; we even prefer those

who are best clad. We rigorously exact our own dues, but we desire

that others should be gentle in demanding theirs: we keep our own

rank with precision, but would have others humble and condescending;

we complain easily of our neighbors, but none must complain of us;

what we do for others seems always very considerable, but what others

do for us seems as nothing. We have two balances: one to weigh to

our own advantage, and the other to weigh in to the detriment of our

neighbor. _Deceitful lips_, says the Scripture, _have spoken with a

double heart_; and to have two weights, the one greater, with which we

receive, and the other less, with which we deliver, is an abominable

thing in the sight of God.’”

“The book must be interesting,” said I. “You must lend it to me.”

“Candidly, George,” my cousin answered, somewhat to my surprise, “you

had better select something else for your reading; for, if you wish

merely to pass away the time in its perusal, it will most certainly

disappoint you, and you will find it dry and dull. If, indeed, you

desire to read it with a motive corresponding to the author’s aim in

writing it, that’s quite another affair. The book is for the heart

and the soul, not for the calculating head and worldly mind. There’s

nothing about it of what your admired Carlyle calls _dilettanteism_,

and its object is your welfare—not in this world, but in the next.”

“In what language,” I inquired, “was this work written?”

“In French, of course.”

“But Francis of Sales was, you say, a Savoyard?”

“True,” replied Dick; “what then?”

“Why, perhaps he didn’t write pure French?”

“Perhaps not. You are an American, are you not, George?”

“Of course I am; what then?”

“Why, then, perhaps you don’t speak the English language correctly. And

that,” continued Dick, “reminds me, as our late President used to say,

of a little story. You know that queer old original Major Eustace, who

lives just beyond the lake. I heard him relate that, when a young man,

he was travelling in Europe, and found himself one fine day at Moscow

without funds or tidings from home, except a letter advising him of

the failure of his father’s house. This was at a time when travelling

facilities were far inferior to those of the present day. He could not

get away, and so sat down and studied the Moscow advertisements. One

of them demanded an English tutor for the two sons (aged respectively

fourteen and sixteen years) of a Russian nobleman residing at a

well-known château near the city. Eustace was a college graduate. He

felt himself abundantly qualified for the position, and made instant

application. He was cordially received for the chances of obtaining

an English tutor at Moscow were very slim. The Russian questioned

Eustace very closely as to his acquirements—this conversation being,

of course, in French—and things went on swimmingly until he asked our

American cousin from what part of England he came. Eustace replied that

he was an American. The Russian’s face fell. ‘And what language do they

speak in America?’

“‘In the United States we speak English,’ replied Eustace.

“‘But it must be a _patois_,’ objected the Russian.

“‘Not at all,’ said Eustace. ‘We have no dialects, and, taken as a

body, the American people speak better English than the people of

England.’

“The Russian could not comprehend it. The result was that Eustace was

not engaged. Our nobleman went all the way to St. Petersburg for what

he wanted, and returned home triumphant with his born-English tutor.

Meantime, Eustace found something else to do, and remained at Moscow

long enough to acquire the Russian language, and make many pleasant

acquaintances. Being in London five years afterwards, he found the

Russian colony there in a fit of Homeric laughter over the strange

mishap of two young noblemen recently arrived from Moscow. Eustace at

once recognized the name of the Russian who insisted that Americans

speak a _patois_. His sons had been taught English by the tutor picked

up in St. Petersburg, and, fortified with plenty of money and excellent

letters of introduction, had been sent over to acquire the polish of a

London season in the best English society. In this society, then, they

made their _début_ speaking English fluently in _the broadest Yorkshire

dialect_!

“Now, to return to your Savoyard objection,” continued my cousin. “You

must know, my dear George, that Savoy is essentially French in tongue

and general characteristics of race. The French language is both spoken

and written there in all its purity; and many authors of worldwide

reputation as French writers are, in reality, Savoyards. There is, for

instance, Vaugelas the grammarian, Saint-Réal the historian, Ducis

the poet, the great Joseph de Maistre, his brother Xavier de Maistre,

whose _Voyage autour de ma Chambre_ I know you have read; and, in our

own day, Cherbuliez, whose success as a novelist has made the Parisian

romancers look sharply to their laurels. I have reserved mention of

S. Francis of Sales for a special reason. He wrote at a period when

the French language under the influence of Malherbe was soon to settle

down into its modern form; and so pure is his language and phraseology,

even tried by the highest French standard, that he is one of the model

authors adopted by the French Academy when its celebrated _Dictionary_

of the language was undertaken. The list of prose writers included,

among others, the names of Amyot, Montaigne, Charron, Arnauld, S.

Francis of Sales, Duplessis-Mornay, Cardinal du Perron, etc., etc.[57]

S. Francis of Sales is thus, you perceive, a French classic. The

English translations we have of his works,” continued my cousin, “fail

to do him justice.”

“Oh!” said I, “the old story—_traduttore_—_traditore_[58]—as the

Italians say.”

“Precisely so, for the sense and substance; and then, for the form and

setting, a period of nearly three hundred years has so modified shades

of signification and value in words which to-day apparently have the

same general meaning, that in our modern rendering the subtle aroma and

the more delicate beauties of thought and language appear to evaporate

in the process of translation.

“There is a certain charming simplicity and quaintness in the original

to which our grand modern style refuses to bend; and it appears to me

that we might have had an English version of the _Devout Life_ really

redolent of its author’s spirit if it could possibly have been done by

one of that noble band of young Jesuit martyrs judicially murdered by

Queen Elizabeth—say Campion or Southwell, for instance, who wrote in

the English of Shakespeare’s day—a period exactly corresponding with

that of S. Francis de Sales.”

“To sum it all up, then,” said I, “you ask me to accept this work as

perfection, and yet refuse me an opportunity of judging for myself.”

“On the contrary, George; for, although I contend that it is admirable

and, indeed, unsurpassed for its purpose, I have already said that

a reader seeking in it purely literary gratification would most

certainly be disappointed. I will say more, for I will not allow you

to monopolize the functions of _advocatus diaboli_: the book, to our

nineteenth century eyes, has several defects.”

“What do you mean by calling me the devil’s advocate?”

“Well, merely this, Cousin George. In our church, whenever it is

proposed to canonize as a saint a person of holy life, there is a

member of the commission appointed to examine the case, whose duty it

is rigidly to scrutinize all the testimony presented as to the holy

life of the deceased, to require the strictest proof, and to present

and urge every valid objection to its saintliness, such as charges of

any irregularity or lapse in conduct, morals, or faith. This official,

in short, is a sort of infernal prosecuting attorney, and has hence

received the descriptive nickname of _advocatus diaboli_. Now, it

appears to me, Cousin George, that, from the moment our conversation

on the _Devout Life_ began, you have been plying his vocation pretty

vigorously.”

I could not deny it, so I said nothing, and allowed Gaston to go on.

“No; so far from claiming perfection for the work, I will volunteer

a criticism or two upon it. In the first place, there is an excess

of symbolism, and the multitude of comparisons and images becomes

fatiguing. Many of these images are full of grace and simplicity,

especially those drawn from the writer’s observation of nature; for

S. Francis of Sales, as we gather from this book, had a quick and

sympathetic appreciation of the charm of landscapes, the song of birds,

the fascination of flowers, and the thousand beauties of nature visible

only to one who truly loves nature, and sincerely worships nature’s

God. But there is an excess of all this; and when he gets beyond the

line of personal sympathy and observation, the comparisons become

stiff, and frequently violate good taste. Those drawn from natural

history, for instance, are strained and incongruous. The writer must

have found his Paphlagonian partridges with two hearts in Pliny. There

are many things, too, which to us appear to be in excessively bad

taste; but that is a defect not chargeable to the author individually,

but to the prevalent style of the age in which he lived. After all,

there are ‘spots on the sun.’ S. Francis of Sales did not write for

fame as an author, nor, indeed, from any worldly motive. A ‘classic

style’ and ‘the French Academy’ were inducements which never engaged

his attention. There is nothing of the rhetorician in his phrase, for

it is almost familiar in its ease and simplicity. But there’s the

tea-bell, my dear George, probably a happy release for one of us, for I

fear I have bored you dreadfully.”

“On the contrary, my dear Dick, for I have been as much edified as

interested in the saintly life you have revealed to me.”

“Why, my dear boy, I haven’t told you the half of it; nor, indeed, do I

know it thoroughly. But if it at all interests you, here it is.”

I read it, and have since read the lives and some few of the works of

several other saints, with what result it does not interest the public

to know. I can only say that I am going to fight it out on my present

line if it takes till doomsday. Cousin Dick and I are firmer friends

than ever, and Aunt Mildred from time to time asks me, with a slight

tone of sarcasm, if I saw any fashionable bonnets at our church last

Sabbath?

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.