Savonarola preached his usual course of Lenten sermons in 1493, not at

Florence, but at Bologna. His correspondence with his brother friars at

S. Mark’s during his absence shows that he had gone there unwillingly,

and it is hence supposed that Piero de’ Medici had brought about his

absence through orders from his superiors at Milan and at Rome. The

friar confined his preaching to subjects of doctrine and morals, and at

the outset attracted but little public attention. The _beaux esprits_

set him down as “a poor simpleton, a preacher for women”—_uomo

semplice e predicatore da donne_. But his animation and sincerity

were contagious, and hearers soon came in crowds. The tyrant Giovanni

Bentivoglio then ruled Bologna, and his wife, an Orsini, appeared at

all the sermons, entering late, and followed by a large retinue of

gentlemen, pages, and ladies—_gentildonne e damizelle_. The silent

rebuke of stopping short in his sermon until the disturbance thus

caused had subsided was tried by the preacher several times in vain.

He then referred to the disedification given by such interruptions,

and mildly requested that ladies who came to hear the sermon should

endeavor to be present at its beginning. In response, the haughty woman

made a point of continuing the annoyance with offensive and increased

ostentation, until one morning, when thus breaking in upon the friar

while in all the fervor of his discourse, his patience gave way, and he

cried out: _Ecco, ecco il demonio che viene ad interrompere il verbo

di Dio_—“Behold the demon who comes to interrupt the word of God!”

All the blood of all the Orsinis boiled over at this public insult. A

reigning princess to be thus treated by a mere _frate_! As the story

runs, she ordered two of her attendants to slay him in the pulpit; but

whether their courage failed them, or the crowd would not permit them

to reach the friar, they did not carry out their order. Still enraged,

she sent two other satellites to his cell, where Savonarola received

them with such dignity and impressive calmness that their resolution

oozed away, and they said with great respect: “Our lady has sent us to

your reverence to know if you had need of anything.” To which suitable

and courteous reply being made, they were dismissed. In his closing

sermon at Bologna, the preacher announced: “This evening I shall depart

for Florence with my slender staff and wooden flask, and I shall sleep

at Pianoro. If any person want aught of me, let him come before I set

out. _My death is not to be celebrated at Bologna, but elsewhere._”

The legend runs that it was on this journey, when near to Florence,

that Savonarola, unable to take any food and broken with fatigue, sank

by the roadside, powerless to go further. Quickly there came to him the

vision of an unknown man, who, giving him strength, accompanied him

to the city gate, and disappeared, saying: “Remember that thou doest

that for which thou hast been sent by God.” Each reader will decide

for himself as to the degree of credibility to be attached to such a

legend. Certain it is, nevertheless, that Savonarola himself and many

men of the strongest minds of that day fully believed in it.[146]

INDEPENDENCE OF S. MARK’S.

On his return to Florence in the spring of 1493, Savonarola found a

worse state of things than he had left on his departure. The rule

of Piero de’ Medici was rapidly becoming every day less tolerable,

and the discontent of the people more marked and bitter. One thing,

however, the people knew well. It was that Savonarola was their friend.

Piero de’ Medici was also perfectly aware of it, and, as he had the

power, might at any moment through his influence have the Dominican

prior ordered away to Milan by his superiors in Lombardy or Rome,

as the Tuscan convents formed one province with those of Lombardy.

This union had been brought about some fifty years before by reason

of the depopulation of the Tuscan convents from the plague. As this

state of things had long ceased to exist, and the convents were again

full, it occurred to Savonarola to seek the restoration of the Tuscan

convents to their original condition of an independent province. In

his management of this important and difficult piece of practical

business, there was nothing whatever of the visionary monk, and he set

to work with all his energy to carry out a measure in which he felt

that the purity and elevation of his order and the liberties of the

Florentine people were at stake. The authorization for the measure he

desired must of course come from Rome, and, in order to obtain it, he

sent thither two of his friars, Alessandro Rinuccini, a member of one

of the most illustrious families of Florence, and Domenico da Pescia.

The latter in particular was unreservedly devoted to his prior, ardent

in his admiration of him, and fully persuaded that he was a prophet

sent by God. On arriving at their destination, they encountered a

formidable opposition. Not only the Lombards, but the King of Naples,

the republic of Genoa, the Dukes of Milan and Ferrara, and Bentivoglio

of Bologna, all joined in striving for the defeat of the petition.

Strangely enough—and it is mentioned by historians as an evidence of

his frivolous mind and inattention to serious matters—Piero de’ Medici

had been persuaded to favor a measure of which the main object was to

free S. Mark’s and its prior from his authority. In fact, Savonarola

could not have advanced a step without obtaining his approbation,

inasmuch as the application of the convent as made could not be allowed

to be presented without the approbation of the Florentine government.

In bringing about this important success, Savonarola had the assistance

of Philip Valori, and John, Cardinal de’ Medici, a brother of Piero,

who afterwards became Pope Leo X. While at Rome, the general of the

Dominicans and Cardinal Caraffa of Naples warmly supported him.

Nevertheless, the two friars of S. Mark’s who had been sent to Rome

were dispirited by the formidable aspect of the opposition they there

encountered, and wrote to their prior that success was impossible, and

he must give up all hope of carrying his point. Savonarola’s reply was:

“Away with doubts! Stand firm, and you will be victorious; the Lord

scatters the councils of the nations, and casts the designs of princes

to the ground.” In a consistory of the 22d of May, the Tuscan question

came up, but the pope refused to approve the brief, and dismissed the

consistory until the following day. All the cardinals departed with the

exception of Caraffa, who took the liveliest interest in the success

of the measure, and had a strong personal influence with Alexander VI.

They entered into a friendly conversation, during which the cardinal

produced the brief, and asked the pope to sign it. With a smile,

he declined; when, presuming on his personal familiarity, and in a

half-jesting manner, Caraffa took the pontifical ring from the pope’s

finger, and sealed the brief. Just then, in hot haste, came in fresh

and stronger remonstrances from Lombardy, but the pope replied that it

was too late—“What is done is done”; and he would hear no more of it.

Savonarola’s first care was to reform and strengthen the discipline

of his convent, and it was at this juncture that he brought it back

to the original rule of poverty established by the founder of the

order, as we have already stated. Then followed the enforcement of the

strictest personal economy, the acquisition and practice of useful arts

by the monks whereby to earn their livelihood, and the study of the

oriental languages. In all his conventual reforms, the new prior taught

by example as much as by precept. His monks saw that he inculcated

no principle of which he was not a living model. Sober in his diet,

ascetic in all his habits, of an application to study that seemed to

know no fatigue, he inspired all by his labor and self-denial. In all

the whole convent, the humblest monk was not more poorly clad than his

prior. No cell so naked, no pallet so hard, as his. Rigid with others,

he was severe with himself. Numerous candidates presented themselves

for admission to the Convent of S. Mark, which was now the admiration

of all Tuscany. The sons of the most distinguished families in Florence

sought to become inmates of S. Mark’s, and the Rucellai, the Salviati,

the Albizzi, the Strozzi, and even the Medici, pressed into the narrow

limits of the crowded convent, in order to receive at the hands of

Savonarola the robe of S. Dominic. Additional buildings were absolutely

necessary, and those of the Sapienza were obtained—the same that were

a few years since used for the stables of the grand duke.

Under the brief lately obtained from Rome, the Dominican convents of

Fiesole, Prato, and Bibbiena, and the two hospices of the Maddalena,

asked for reception into the Tuscan congregation under Savonarola’s

authority, and were admitted. Even the friars of another order, the

Camaldoli, were desirous of uniting themselves with S. Mark’s, in order

to be under the rule of Savonarola; but he could not accede to their

request, for want of authority. All this success and honor did not in

the slightest degree affect his character. If, during his career, he

manifested pride and daring, it was towards the great and powerful. In

private life, and in the interior of his convent, he was to the end the

same gentle and humble brother the monks had known as Fra Girolamo.

ADVENT, 1493.

It was natural, under the circumstances, that the Superior of the

Tuscan Congregation of Dominicans, the preacher whose predictions had

been so wonderfully verified, the exemplary monk who had been called

to the bedside of the dying Lorenzo the Magnificent, should enter upon

the delivery of his course of Advent sermons for 1493 with increased

confidence and far greater freedom of speech than the comparatively

unknown Fra Girolamo had ever manifested. His audiences grew daily more

numerous, and crowds awaited for hours his coming. The twenty-five

sermons of this course were on the Seventy-third Psalm (_Quam Bonus_).

His principal topics were the unhappy and ruinous condition of the

church, the immoral lives of the Italian princes and many of the higher

clergy, approaching punishments, and the desire of all good men to stem

the rising tide of depravity. We have already cited the passages (“They

tickle the ears with Aristotle, etc.,” and “In the houses of the great

prelates”) in which he denounces the clergy and hierarchy; and he thus

describes the princes of Italy: “These wicked princes are sent as a

punishment for the sins of their subjects; they are truly a great snare

for souls; their palaces and halls are the refuge of all the beasts and

monsters of the earth, and are a shelter for caitiffs and for every

kind of wickedness. Such men resort to their courts because there they

find the means and the excitements to give vent to all their evil

passions. There we find the wicked counsellors who devise new burdens

and new imposts for sucking the blood of the people; there we find the

flattering philosophers and poets who, by a thousand stories and lies,

trace the genealogy of those wicked princes from the gods; and, what is

still worse, there we find priests who adopt the same language. That,

my brethren, is the city of Babylon, the city of the foolish and the

impious, the city which the Lord will destroy.”

And then, after speaking sharply of a superfluity of golden mitres and

golden chalices, he adds: “But dost thou know what I would say? In the

primitive church, there were wooden chalices and golden prelates; but

now the church has golden chalices and wooden prelates....”

“What doest thou, O Lord? Why slumberest thou? Arise and take the

church out of the hands of the devil, out of the hands of tyrants, out

of the hands of wicked prelates. Hast thou forgotten thy church? Dost

thou not love her? Hast thou no care for her? We are become, O Lord,

the opprobrium of the nations. Turks are masters of Constantinople. We

are become tributaries of infidels. O Lord God! thou hast dealt with

us as an angry father; thou hast banished us from thee; hasten the

punishment and the scourge, that there may be a speedy return to thee.

_Effunde iras tuas in gentes_—’Pour out thy wrath upon the nations.’

Be not scandalized, my brethren, by these words; rather consider that,

when the good wish for punishment, it is because they wish to see

evil driven away, and the blessed reign of Jesus Christ triumphant

throughout the world. We have now no other hope left us, unless the

sword of the Lord threatens the earth.”

THE DELUGE.

In Lent, 1494, Savonarola resumed his preaching in a course of sermons

which, as published, have been entitled _Sermons on Noe’s Ark_

(_Prediche sopra l’Arca di Noé_). It was, in fact, a continuation of

the expounding of Genesis begun in 1490. The impression produced by

them upon his auditors was very great. All the biographers unite in

describing how the people were carried away, the wonder he excited,

and how marvellously all that was foretold came to pass. His Advent

sermons had dwelt on the near approach of punishments—a coming deluge

of calamities—and he now constructs a mystical ark in which all may

take refuge. He prophesied the approach of a new Cyrus who should

conquer Italy without resistance. At length, on Easter morning, his ark

being completed, he invited all to hasten to enter it with the virtues

which distinguish Christians: “The time will come when the ark will

be closed, and many will repent that they had not entered therein.”

Thus the short chapter of Genesis relating to the ark occupied the

whole of Lent, and he resumed the subject in the month of September

following. On the twenty-first day of that month, he was to expound the

seventeenth verse, relating to the Deluge.

The Dome of Florence was crowded. All waited for the sermon in anxiety

and excitement, but attentive and motionless. Mounting the pulpit,

and surveying the multitude in impressive silence for a few moments,

he thundered out: “And behold, I, even I, do bring a flood of waters

upon the earth.” A thrill of terror convulsed the vast assemblage.

Pico di Mirandola relates that a cold shiver ran through all his

bones, and that the hairs of his head stood on end; and Savonarola

has recorded that he was profoundly moved. That very day the news had

arrived that a horde of foreign troops were descending the Alps to

conquer Italy, and popular credulity made their numbers countless,

invincible in arms, gigantic, cruel, and ferocious. “Having, before

the arrival of the King of France, just closed the ark, these sermons

caused such terror, alarm, sobbing, and tears, that every one passed

through the streets without speaking, more dead than alive.” (_MS.

history in Magliabecchian library._) Terror there was indeed. Italy

was helpless. There was neither nation nor national army. The princes

were defenceless, and the whole country must fall an easy prey to the

invader. Men saw rivers of blood before them. What could save them?

All rushed to Savonarola, imploring counsel and help. He alone could

succor them. All his words had been verified. All those whose deaths

he foretold had gone to their graves. Punishment threatened had begun.

The sword of the Lord had indeed descended upon the earth. Not only

the people flocked about him, but the graver men and magistrates of

Florence asked his counsel, and his admirers and adherents became in a

moment, as if by magic, the rulers of the city.

Here may be said to terminate the monastic life of Savonarola, and, in

order to follow his career, we must with him quit the cloister, and

accompany him among the people of Florence down in the public places.

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CHAPTER XIV.

PERHAPS PROPHETIC.

IT was the first time for many weeks that Louis had met Eugénie alone.

He felt greatly excited, and naturally said to himself: “Ought I to

manifest any appearance of avoiding her?... Or, on the contrary, shall

I keep on? Any avoidance might make her think unfavorably of me....

But would it be prudent to speak to her?...” While thus debating with

himself, he looked at Eugénie as she advanced towards him, handsome and

dignified as ever, and as calm as he was agitated. He still kept on,

yielding to an irresistible attraction without bringing himself to an

account for it. As he advanced, he recalled how Françoise had praised

her. “That dear woman,” he said, “could have no interest in deceiving

me. A soul so upright and pure could only tell the truth. And who has

had a better opportunity of knowing Mlle. Eugénie?... Well, I must

study this unique girl a little more!... I will speak to her!... I have

judged her too severely. I must learn her real nature. I must show

her what I am. She has, I am sure, conceived some suspicion about me

which she may already regret. At all events, my line of conduct here is

plainly marked out. I am resolved to regain her esteem, and obtain her

assistance in the good I am doing, in order that it may be done more

effectually and speedily. Now is the time to make the attempt!...”

As he said this to himself, he met Eugénie. She did not appear at all

embarrassed as he advanced to speak to her, but said, in a frank,

natural tone: “You have been to see my patient; she spoke of you

yesterday.”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I have just come from there. I do not think she

will need our assistance long. Poor woman, or rather, happy woman, she

is at last going to receive the reward she so well deserves!... But

how many others there are still to be aided when she is gone!... There

is so much wretchedness whichever way we turn! If there were only more

like you, mademoiselle, to look after the poor!”

“And you also, monsieur. My father has told me something of your plans.

I will not speak of my approval: my approbation is of little value;

but I assure you they please me. Above all, I hope you will not allow

yourself to be discouraged by difficulties you are likely to meet with.”

“I hope, with the help of God, to overcome them, mademoiselle. But the

efforts of an isolated individual like myself are of little avail,

especially when one has had no more experience and is no richer than I.”

These words were uttered in a tone of frankness and simplicity that

produced a lively impression on Eugénie. “If he is sincere in what he

says,” said she to herself, “my suspicions about him are unjust; but

this frankness and simplicity of manner are perhaps subtle means of

blinding my eyes.” She therefore remained on her guard. “Ah! monsieur,

it is not money alone we should give the poor! What they need, above

all, is advice, which you are much better fitted to give than I who

have had no experience of life.”

There was a tinge of irony in these last words that did not escape

Louis, but he pretended not to observe it.

“I do not think,” said he, “that I have had as much experience as you

suppose, mademoiselle. However, a Christian seeks aid from a different

source than the insufficient arsenal of human experience. What we

should, above all, remind the poor of, what we should induce them to

love, are the precepts of religion which they may have forgotten and no

longer practise for want of knowing their value.”

“You are very pious, it seems, monsieur,” she said, in a slight tone of

raillery.

“I must put an end to this,” said Louis to himself. “She seems to

regard me as a hypocrite. I will prove to her I am not. If she refuses

to believe me, her persistency in such odious and unjust suspicions

will redound to her own injury.”

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I am not very pious, but I desire to be

so, or rather to become so again, for I was as long as my mother

lived. She was taken away too soon for my good, for I had need of her

counsels and guidance. I have realized it since! You have doubtless

had an account of my life. It may be summed up in three words: folly,

despair, and return to God. I dare not pledge my word that this return

is irrevocable: I have given too many proofs of weakness to rely on

myself. God, who has brought me back to himself, can alone give me

the necessary strength to remain faithful to him. But if I cannot

promise ever to falter again, I can at least venture to declare that my

conversion is sincere—so sincere that, having lost all I had, I regard

this loss as extremely fortunate, for it was, in God’s providence, the

means of leading me back to the faith. Such a benefit can never be too

dearly purchased!”

Louis kept his eyes fastened on Eugénie as he spoke. She looked up more

than once; the expression of his face and the tone of his voice were so

evidently those of an honest man, that she felt all her doubts give way.

“Monsieur,” said she, “I do not know as I should reproach myself for

what I said with regard to your piety, though I perceive it has wounded

you, for it has led to an explanation on your part which....”

“Which has made me happy,” was what Eugénie was about to say, but she

stopped quite confused as she bethought herself of the interpretation

he might give to her words.

Louis comprehended her embarrassment; he saw her fears, and came to her

aid. “Which you thought necessary, mademoiselle,” suggested he. “I can

understand that. It is rather a rare phenomenon to see a young man pass

from dissipation to piety.”

Eugénie immediately recovered her usual serenity. “Well, monsieur,”

said she, “now I know your intentions and projects; I assure you my

mother and myself will second them as much as is in our power. What is

there we can do?”

“Tell me what charitable offices you like the least, mademoiselle, or

what you find too difficult to perform.”

“That is admirable! We have often longed for a representative, a

substitute, who could effect what we were unable to do. But how can we

otherwise aid you?”

“You are kind enough, then, to allow me to be the medium of your alms.

It is a pleasant office to receive contributions for the benefit of

others, especially from people as benevolent as you, mademoiselle. I

accept the post with lively gratitude, and will at once ask you for

some good books for the library I have established for the workmen.”

“I will bring you twenty volumes to-morrow that are of no use to me,

and are exactly what you want.”

Louis and Eugénie then separated. The interview was short, but it led

to the very points which enabled them to study and appreciate each

other better than they could have done in two hours in a _salon_.

That evening, Louis appeared to his workmen more cheerful and social

than usual. He was at last sure of gaining Eugénie’s esteem. Without

acknowledging it to himself, he already loved her to such a degree that

he was extremely desirous of revealing himself to her under an aspect

more and more favorable. This is loving worthily and heartily.

As to Eugénie, when she entered the presence of the poor woman she went

to visit, she could not resist the desire of speaking again of Louis.

An instinctive, perhaps superstitious, feeling made her believe, as

well as he, that this woman, who was dying in so pious a frame of mind

after so heroic a life, could not be mistaken in her opinion. “So pure

a soul ought to be able to read clearly the hearts of those around

her,” she said to herself.

“Has M. Beauvais been here to-day, Mère Françoise?” she asked.

“Yes, mademoiselle. I am glad you spoke of him. I do not expect to see

him again in this world, and was so taken up with a favor I had to ask

him that I forgot to express my gratitude for all his kindness to me.

Every day he has brought me something new; but that is the least of his

benefits. I particularly wished to express my thanks for all the good

he has done me by his conversation. Ah! mademoiselle, how I wish you

could hear him speak of God, the misery of this world, and the joys

of heaven! If I die happy, it is owing to him. Before he came to see

me, I was afraid of death. However poor we may be, we cling to life so

strongly!... Thanks to him, I now feel I cannot die too soon.... I have

told M. le Curé all this, and he made me promise to pray for one who

has so successfully come to his aid. When I reach heaven, I shall pray

for him and for you, mademoiselle. You have both been so kind to me.

Promise to tell him all this.”

This testimony, so spontaneous and heart-felt, from a dying person,

with regard to Louis’ goodness and piety, and this union of their names

in the expression of her gratitude, produced a profound and lasting

impression on the tender, romantic soul of Eugénie. All the way home

she dwelt on what had occurred. She began to reproach herself for

her suspicions—suspicions now vanished. It was not that she loved

Louis, or even had an idea she might love him, but her noble mind had

a horror of the injustice she had been guilty of towards an innocent

and unfortunate man. “I will repair it,” she said to herself, “by

faithfully keeping the promise I made him.”

That very evening, she spoke of Louis to her father and mother,

repeating the conversation she had had with him, and expressing a

wish to co-operate in the good work he was undertaking. “It is a work

in which we cannot refuse our sympathy,” she said, “for its object

is to ameliorate the condition of our workmen—a question that has

preoccupied us all for a long time.”

Eugénie’s object in this was to induce her parents to express their

opinion of Louis. She particularly wished to ascertain Mr. Smithson’s

sentiments. He was almost an infallible judge, in his daughter’s

estimation, and therefore it was with sincere deference she awaited his

reply. It was the first time she had forced him to give his opinion of

Louis, or that there had ever been any serious question concerning him

in the family circle.

“My child,” said Mr. Smithson, “M. Louis means well, I think. He

seems to be a considerate person, or at least tries to be. I approve

of your wish to aid him in collecting a library; but, if he proposes

your joining him in any other benevolent enterprise, you must consult

me before coming to any decision. This young man, I say, has good

qualities, but he is a little enthusiastic. His ardor just now needs

moderating; after a while, it may be necessary to revive it. Let him go

on. We will aid him when we can be of service, but must be a little on

our guard.”

The oracle had spoken. Eugénie reflected on what had been said. It

was evident that Louis inspired her father with some distrust. Mr.

Smithson, according to his habit, left his wife and daughter at an

early hour to work in his office.

CHAPTER XV.

A QUESTION.

EUGENIE, being left alone with her mother, resolved to obtain, if

possible, some light on the question her father’s words had excited

in her mind. She felt anxious to know why he distrusted Louis. He was

now a subject of interest to her. This was not all: she had begun by

judging him unfavorably; then she reversed her opinion. Now she had

come to the point of wishing to repair her secret wrongs against him

without his being aware of it.... But should she carry out her wish,

or, on the contrary, return to her past antipathy?... On the one hand

was the impression left by her interview with Louis; on the other, the

depressing state of doubt produced by her father’s reticence. She was

one of those persons who prefer certainty to doubt, whatever it may

be. “My mother must be aware of my father’s real sentiments,” she said

to herself; “I will ask her.” Nothing was easier. Mme. Smithson and

her daughter lived on a footing of affectionate equality that I do not

exactly approve of, but which excludes all restraint.

“Mother,” said Eugénie, “give me a sincere reply to what I am going to

ask. What do you think of M. Louis?”

“You are greatly interested in this M. Louis, then? You talk of nothing

else this evening. What is the reason? Hitherto you have paid no

attention to him.”

“Yes; I am interested in him. I have been studying him. You know I

have a mania for deciphering everybody. Well, he is still an enigma.

Yet I am sure of one thing: he is a man to be thoroughly esteemed or

despised, not half-way. In a word, he is that rare thing—a character.

Only, is he a noble or a contemptible character?... The question is a

serious one. I wish to solve it, but cannot with the light I now have.”

“Well done! here is some more of your customary exaggeration! Of

what consequence is it, my dear, what he is? He has come here for

well-known reasons. Your father was tired of attending to all the

details of the manufactory, and employs him to take charge of essential

though secondary duties. He pays him a very high salary—too high,

in my estimation—but he is pleased, delighted with his aptitude and

activity; that is all I care for.”

“Excuse me, that is not enough for me. I repeat: M. Louis is different

from most men, mother. He is a man, and the rest are only puppets.”

“Really! I should not have suspected it. He seems to me quite

commonplace.”

“But not to me.”

“What can you see in him so remarkable?”

“He has, or at least appears to have, an elevation of mind and

constancy of purpose that are striking.”

“Why, my dear, you make me laugh. Really, if all the gentlemen you see

would only adapt themselves a little to your humor, there is not one

you could not turn into a hero of romance.”

“Not at all. The proof is that I have hitherto only seen men unworthy

of any serious consideration. When did I ever acknowledge I had found a

man of character such as I would like to see?...”

“And you think M. Louis this white blackbird?”

“I really do.”

“Well, I confess you astonish me. I never should have dreamed of your

noticing him. Perhaps you have taken a fancy to him.”

“Mother, we are accustomed to think aloud before each other. I do not

fancy him—understand that—in the least. I do not even believe I ever

could fancy him. This does not prevent me from thinking him, as I said,

different from other men. Whether in good or ill, he differs from young

men of his age. But is he better or worse?—that is the question—a

serious one I would like to have answered. Till to-day, I have thought

him worse.”

“It is not possible! The poor fellow has committed some errors, as I

have told you. I certainly do not wish to palliate them, but we must

not be more severe than God himself: he always pardons.”

“It is not a question of his sins.”

“What is the question, then? You keep me going from one surprise to

another this evening.”

“It is a question of knowing if he is the man he pretends to be—that

is, one who has forsaken his errors, acknowledges he has gone astray,

repents, and resolves to live henceforth in a totally different

manner. If he is such a man; if he can resign himself courageously

to his modest situation here, and, moreover, has the noble desire of

comforting the afflicted, instructing the ignorant, and reclaiming

those who have gone astray, I tell you M. Louis is worthy of the

highest esteem; we ought to encourage and aid him with all our might.

But if he is not the man I think—if these fine projects are only a

lure, an artful means....”

“A means of doing what?... Goodness! Eugénie, you get bewildered

with your fancies. Do you imagine he wishes to revolutionize the

establishment, and supplant your father?...”

“Let us not exaggerate things, I beg, mother. What I wished you to

understand was a delicate point. I hoped you would guess it from a

word. Come, have you no suspicion of what so greatly troubles me?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“Indeed!... I am astonished. Well, may he not manifest all this zeal,

and affect all these airs of disinterested benevolence, to bring about

a secret project?”

“What one, I ask you again? When you go to dreaming impossibilities,

you know I can never follow you. Explain yourself clearly.”

“Well, since I am forced to call things by their right names, is he not

aiming at my hand?”

“What a droll idea!... Why, he has not a sou left! Everybody knows

that. He spent his property in six or seven years, and has nothing

more to expect for a long time. So you believe he resolved to become

religious, thinking that would be sufficient capital, in Mr. Smithson’s

eyes, to obtain his daughter? I think he has too much sense to imagine

anything so absurd; especially to give it a serious thought.”

“But if he hoped to please me by this means?... to win my esteem, my

good will, my affection?...”

“All romance that, my dear.”

“But not impossible.”

“I prefer to think, for my own peace of mind and your father’s, that

things will turn out differently. We have never intended you to marry

a man without property. The idea of your having a husband who, instead

of being wealthy, has squandered all he had, and might spend what you

brought him!...”

“Ah! I understand you: you do not think him sincere.”

“I do not say that! He may be changed for the present, but who can be

sure his conversion will be lasting?”

“It will if it is sincere; I am sure of that, for I have studied him.

He possesses one quality which I either admire or detest, according to

the use made of it: he has a strong will. He has been here a month,

and, having nothing better to do, I have observed him, and have not

discovered a single inconsistency in his conduct. He has always shown,

exteriorly at least, the same love of labor, the same desire of doing

all the good he can, and the same unassuming deportment. Either he is a

man of rare excellence, or is uncommonly artful. I wish I knew exactly

what my father thinks of him.”

“And why this persistency in discovering a mystery of so little

importance?”

“Because I do not wish to despise M. Louis if he is worthy of esteem,

and it would be wrong not to encourage him in well-doing if he has

entered on that path with a sincere heart. Besides, I regard what he

has undertaken and all he wishes to do as admirable as it is useful. I

had been wishing for such an attempt to be made here, and could not be

better pleased than to see my idea so speedily realized. M. Louis is,

in my eyes, either a saint or a hypocrite. I have no fancy for loving

either the one or the other; but, if he is a saint, I should feel like

aiding him to a certain degree. After all, mother, is there anything in

the world more desirable than to do good to those around us, especially

when we are so situated as to make it a duty? Have you not often said

so yourself?”

“You are right, my dear Eugénie. I feel what you say, and approve of

it. As I advance in years, I feel a constantly increasing desire of

laboring for Almighty God, for whom I have hitherto done so little.

You need not fear; neither your father nor I have any doubts as to M.

Louis. Nothing we have observed or have been told leads us to think

him a hypocrite. As you desire it so strongly, I will tell you your

father’s secret opinion, but do not betray me. He only dislikes one

thing in M. Louis: he is too devoted a Catholic. It is all in vain:

we cannot induce your father to like our religion. Catholics are

too ardent every way, too superstitious, he says. He distrusts the

engineer because he thinks him overzealous, that is all....”

When Eugénie went to her chamber, she selected the books she wished to

contribute to Louis’ library, and then retired to rest, thinking of

all the good that would now be done by him, as well as herself, in a

place where want and every evil passion were to be found. Her noble,

ardent soul had at length found its sphere. Hitherto she had dreamed

of many ways of giving a useful direction to her activity, each one

more impracticable than the rest. The right way was now open. Louis had

pointed it out. Eugénie longed to become the benefactress of St. M——.

Her imagination and her heart were pleased. It seemed to her as if she

had become another being. She prayed that night with a fervor she had

not felt for a long time. Then she fell into a reverie. In spite of

herself, Louis’ image continually recurred to her mind. Before she fell

asleep, she murmured a prayer for poor Françoise. Her name recalled the

last words of that excellent woman: “In heaven, I shall pray for him

and for you!” And circumstances were tending that same day to link them

together as the dying woman had joined their names in prayer. There

was something singular about this that struck Eugénie’s imagination.

“Can her words be prophetic?” she said to herself. “So many strange

things happen!... But this would be too much. He pleases me in no way

except....” And she reviewed his good qualities, then blushed for

attaching so much importance to the thought....

The next morning, she went with the books she had selected the night

before. Fanny accompanied her. Louis received her with the exquisite

politeness he never laid aside but with a cold reserve he had resolved

to maintain towards her. Their interview only lasted a few minutes.

Fanny, who had been easy for some time, was greatly astonished when

asked to accompany her mistress to the engineer’s office. Their

conversation showed they had recently seen each other, but under

what circumstances she could not make out. All this redoubled her

suspicions. On her way home with Eugénie, she remarked:

“That M. Louis is a charming young man; more so than I had supposed.

What respect he showed mademoiselle! I am sure mademoiselle judges him

with less severity than she did several weeks ago.”

“I have never judged him with severity,” replied Eugénie, with that

lofty coolness which made those who did not know her accuse her of

pride. “Why should I judge M. Beauvais? that is my father’s business.”

Fanny returned to the assault: “That is a queer notion of his to wish

to instruct all those ignorant people. Much good will it do them! The

more they know, the more dangerous they will be!...”

“Fanny, you should address such observations to M. Louis or my father.

It is they who have founded the library and school, and they intend

doing many other things without consulting you, I imagine.”

“Common people sometimes give good advice.”

“But they should give it to those who need it. All this does not

concern me, I tell you again.”

“O the deceitful girl!” said Fanny to herself when alone in her chamber

that night. “I always said she would deceive me. Where could she have

seen him?... Is she already in love with him?... She is capable of

it! But I will watch her narrowly, and, if it is not too late, will

counteract her projects! I have a good deal to contend with, however.

This M. Louis is an artful fellow. And on the other hand, it is no

easy matter to lead Mlle. Eugénie.... I only hope she is not yet in

love with him!... If she were to marry him instead of her cousin, I

should go distracted.... Poor Albert! if he knew what is going on here.

Fortunately, I am on the spot to watch over his interests. And there is

more reason than ever to be on the lookout.”

CHAPTER XVI.

LOVE WITHOUT HOPE.

LOUIS came to see us as often as his occupations allowed. He made

us a long call the very day after Eugénie gave him the books for

his library, and seemed more excited than usual. He related his

conversation with Mr. Smithson, and spoke of his pleasure at meeting

Eugénie and regaining her good opinion by a frank explanation of his

plans and the motives by which he was influenced.

“Well,” said Victor, “does she continue to please you?”

“More than I wish.”

“Why this regret?”

“It is only reasonable. My happiness is involved in being pleased with

her.”

“Come, I see we shall not be able to agree on this point.”

“Yes, my dear friend; the more I reflect, the plainer it is that I

ought not to become attached to her; at least, to make her aware of it,

should such a misfortune happen. But I will not conceal it from you: I

fear I already love her....”

“You are decidedly tenacious in your notions. Why do you torture

yourself with scruples that are evidently exaggerated?...”

“All your friendly reasonings are of no avail. However disinterested

my love might be, it would seem to her only the result of calculation;

this is enough to justify me in my apprehensions.”

“I cannot agree with you. Delicacy of sentiment is a noble thing, but

it must not be carried to excess. I am willing you should conceal your

love for her till you can prove it sincere; that is, not the result of

calculation—I will go still further: till the time comes when they

voluntarily render homage to the nobleness of your intentions. But

when that day comes, and you see that Mlle. Eugénie esteems and loves

you....”

“She will never love me.”

“How do you know?”

“Mlle. Smithson has rare qualities which make her the realization of

all my dreams, but I see I am not pleasing to her. Before any change

in her sentiments is possible, she will have another suitor with more

to offer her than I, and without a past like mine to frustrate his

hopes. He will please her, and I can only withdraw. Well, I confess I

wish to reserve one consolation for that day, feeble as it may be—the

satisfaction of being able to say to myself: “She did not know I loved

her.”

“My poor friend, you take too gloomy a view of the future.”

“Do not imagine my fears will result in a dangerous melancholy. I

realize more fully than you may suppose the advantages of my present

position. I might at this very moment be in another world—a world of

despair.... To us Christians, such a thought is full of horror. Instead

of that, I see the possibility of repairing the past, and of doing

some good. When I compare my present life with that I was leading a

year ago, the favorable contrast makes me happy! I had discarded the

faith, lost the esteem of upright men, and given myself up to ignoble

pleasures!—useless to the world, an object of disgust to myself. I had

not the courage to look at myself as I was. How all that is changed!

How happy I ought to be!... But, no; the heart of man is at once weak

and insatiable. At a time when I ought to be happy, I am so weak as

to yield to a love I should have denied myself. If I cannot overcome

it, it will be a source of new regret. I know there is one means of

safety, or perhaps there is—that of flight.... But, no; I will not, I

cannot thus ensure a selfish security. It would be cowardly to recede

before the noble work God has assigned me. There is no doubt now as to

my future usefulness at Mr. Smithson’s. I could not find elsewhere the

same facilities for doing the good I long to effect. I will remain....”

“I will not assert it would be cowardly to leave, but a man as

courageous as you are and have need to be ought to remain at his post

at whatever cost. Like you, I believe that is the post to which God

himself has called you.”

“I shall remain.... You cannot imagine how happy I am there when my

heart is not agitated. Provisions are dear this year, and we have

quite a number of hands forced by want to leave Paris. These two

things combined have produced unusual demoralization among the men

we employ. Some give themselves up to drunkenness by way of relief;

others, listening to the evil suggestions of hunger, conceive an inward

hatred against those who are rich. There are a few ringleaders, and

a good many disaffected men, all ready to yield to the most criminal

proposals. Mr. Smithson is aware of this, and therefore fully approves

of my plan for the amelioration of so mixed a set. I must do him the

justice to acknowledge he has been generous. His wife and daughter

are still more so. I shall therefore remain as long as I can. I only

beseech God for one favor—to bless my efforts, and give me the courage

necessary to make the great sacrifice if it be required....”

“Ah! then you really love Mlle. Smithson. I thought at the most you

were only afraid of loving her.”

“No; I will no longer keep this secret to myself; it is too great a

burden to bear alone. Besides, this concealment would not be worthy of

either of us. I was still in doubt this morning, but have since read

the state of my heart more clearly. And this is what enabled me to do

so:

“I returned home from church this morning with Mlle. Eugénie and her

mother. The church, you know, is a kilometre and a half from the mill,

but the road is delightful. On coming out of church, Mme. Smithson,

who is an excellent woman, and quite pleasant and easy in her manners,

invited me, as it were, to accompany them. Mlle. Eugénie at first

remained apart with her waiting-maid, but still near enough to hear

what we said. We first discussed the things suitable to give the poor,

and the utility of familiar conversation with them in their houses. I

expressed a determination to perform this act of charity as often as

possible. I begged Mme. Smithson to mention the families she thought it

advisable to visit in this way, as she knows them better than I. She

promised to give me a list. Mlle. Eugénie then drew near, and said she

would add a few names to it; then, taking a part in the conversation,

and even directing it with the grace she shows in everything, she spoke

in turn of charity, religion, and literature with an elevation of

thought and in such beautiful language that it was a pleasure to listen

to her. From time to time we stopped to look, now at one object, and

then at another—the large trees by the wayside, the bushes, or the

cottages. Mlle. Smithson found something charming to say of everything.

We were half an hour in going a distance we might have accomplished in

twenty minutes—a delightful half-hour, but it had its bitterness, as

all my joys will henceforth have. I see it is the will of God that I

should expiate my offences. Like you, I am persuaded that the privilege

of doing good—the most desirable of all privileges—is only to be

purchased at the price of suffering.”

“Yes,” said Victor; “but at the price of what suffering? Who can assure

you it is that of which you are thinking?... That is a secret known

only to God.”

“That is true, but I am sure I had to-day a foretaste of the suffering

I allude to. She was there beside me—that beautiful young girl

who would be a model of feminine excellence did she not lack one

quality—piety—a piety more womanly, more profound, and more simple.

She said many striking things—things that go straight to the heart:

there was perfect sympathy between her soul and mine, but I watched

over myself that I might not betray the admiration, the delight,

the emotion, with which I listened to her! In the expression of her

eyes, the tone of her voice, and whole manner, I could see, alas! how

indifferent she was towards me; that she regarded me as her father’s

agent—a mere employé, worthy only of passing attention.”

“How do you know? You are so accustomed to reading hearts that perhaps

you take imagination for reality.”

“I do not think so.... She has changed towards me, I acknowledge. She

regards me as a sincere, upright person. I know how to keep in my

place, but there she allows me to remain, and will continue to do so.”

Louis was extremely agitated when he left us that evening. My poor

Victor, ill as he was, and he was now worse than ever, was thoughtful

and sad for some time after Louis had gone.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“I am thinking of Louis,” he replied. “I fear things may turn out badly

for our poor friend. I do not know whether he will ever marry Eugénie

or not; but I have a presentiment, I know not why, that this love is to

cause him great suffering. And yet this attachment could not fail to

spring up. If it is God’s will that Louis should pass through a severe

trial, promise me to stand by him.”

“But you will also stand by him?”

“I shall no longer be here.”

Sad words! they were soon to be verified. Meanwhile, the hour of trial

was approaching our poor friend—the trial he himself had foreseen.

CHAPTER XVII.

A SOUBRETTE’S PLOT.

MEANWHILE, Fanny was preparing sad hours for Louis.

Louis thought Eugénie maintained great reserve during the conversation

that took place on their way home from church—so insatiable is one who

loves! But Fanny received quite a different impression. Never had she

seen her mistress so inspired, or converse with so much fluency and

animation. Mme. Smithson’s kindness towards Louis, the appreciatory

remarks she and her daughter made after their return home, and the

dry, haughty manner with which Eugénie put Fanny in her place when she

attempted to speak of the engineer, all excited the cunning servant’s

suspicions in the highest degree.

“There is nothing lost yet,” she said to herself; “perhaps there has

been no danger of it. Mademoiselle is not in love with him now, but

she may be soon, if care is not taken. To delay any further would risk

everything. I will hesitate no longer. How M. Albert would reproach me

were I to warn him too late! How much I should reproach myself! Instead

of having that excellent boy, so dear to me, for a master who would

allow me to govern his house in my own way, I should be the humble

servant of this gentleman, who is by no means pleasing to me, and who

appears determined to make everybody yield to him. He is humble for the

moment, because he has nothing; but I can read in his eyes: the day

he is master here it will be in earnest. I shall then have to start.

That would be distressing. There is only one way of avoiding such a

misfortune: I must hasten to write Albert’s mother!”

So saying, Fanny seated herself at her table. An hour after, her

_chef-d’œuvre_ was completed. She reminded Mme. Frémin, her old

mistress, of the affection she had always cherished for her and her

son—which was true; she spoke of having wished for several years

to see Albert marry Eugénie, and pointed out the perfect harmony of

taste there was between the two cousins. This point, however, remained

problematical. Fanny added that she should not be happy till the day

she saw her two dear children united and established, and she herself

living with them, entirely devoted to their interests.

Like all shrewd people, the _soubrette_ reserved the most important

communication for the end of her letter. She then remarked that Mlle.

Eugénie seemed to be tired of the country, and it was time for Albert

to offer himself; for, if another suitor appeared first, which she

insinuated was by no means improbable, Albert might regret his delay.

She had serious apprehensions.... Albert must really come. She would

tell him all; he would never regret having undertaken the journey. But

he must be careful, if he came, not to mention that she, Fanny, had

urged him to do so. If she wrote thus, it was only because she was in

a manner constrained by her affection for Albert and Eugénie. He must

therefore be careful not to risk everything by his indiscretion....

This letter, carefully corrected and copied, was taken to the

post-office in town the next day. No one suspected Fanny had written

to Tante Frémin. It is useless to speak of the impatience with which

she waited to see what her _protégé_ would do. She trembled at the idea

that he might not be roused till it was entirely too late to come.

CHAPTER XVIII.

A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM.

A WEEK after, Louis was again invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s,

whose birthday they were to celebrate. The only people invited out of

the family were the doctor and the _Curé_ of St. M——. The _curé’s_

invitation was an affair of importance, as you will see.

Mr. Smithson, as I have remarked, was an Englishman by birth. He had

been induced by two motives to settle permanently in France when about

thirty years of age: the climate suited his constitution better than

that of his own country, and he could live more at his ease on the same

income than he could in England.

Taking a house in Paris occupied by several tenants, his attention was

drawn towards a young girl employed in a mercer’s shop on the ground

floor of the same building. This girl was no other than the present

Mme. Smithson. She lived with her mother, who was in comfortable

circumstances, but made no pretensions. They were very estimable

people, and gave the rich Englishman to understand that he could

only be admitted as a visitor on condition of acknowledged serious

intentions. Mr. Smithson at first hesitated. The girl was not rich, she

belonged to a class he considered inferior to his own, and, what was

more, they were of different religions. But it was too late to call

reason to his aid. For six months he had felt a constantly increasing

love for her. He therefore offered her his hand, merely requiring one

concession on her part before he could marry her: she must embrace

the religion he professed himself. Neither of the women who listened

to this proposition was pious, but they did not lack faith, and they

fulfilled the absolute commands of the church. They therefore replied,

without a moment’s hesitation, that Mlle. Suzanne could not give up her

religion for the sake of marrying him. At this, Mr. Smithson hesitated

anew, but, as before, love carried the day. He renewed his offer,

promising not to interfere with Suzanne’s religious belief if she

would become his wife. He only made one condition to their marriage:

they should respectively practise their religion without making any

attempt to convert each other. As to the children, the boys must be

brought up in their father’s belief, the daughters in that of their

mother. Deplorable arrangement! showing the shameful indifference of

both parties, or their foolish and culpable inconsistency. You know

the church expressly forbids such concessions. It only tolerates mixed

marriages on a precisely contrary condition: the parties to be married

must pledge themselves that their offspring shall be brought up in the

Catholic religion. I do not know how Mlle. Suzanne, in becoming Mme.

Smithson, found means to evade this new difficulty. It is possible

that, through ignorance or culpable weakness, she yielded to the terms

without acknowledging it to any one. She doubtless hoped, when the time

came for testing the arrangement, to find some means of extricating

herself from it. At all events, they were married. Mr. Smithson

remained an Anglican, and, astonishing to say, a thorough one. His

attachment to the Church of England was easily explained by those who

knew him. He still cherished an ardent love for his country, and almost

reproached himself for leaving it. His fidelity to the English Church

was a last testimony of attachment to the country he had abandoned.

When Eugénie was born, her father manifested a temporary sullenness and

ill humor at her baptism that frightened Mme. Smithson. Nevertheless,

she was firm. Eugénie was brought up very strictly, and her father

gradually became accustomed to her being a Catholic, to see her

practise her religion, and even hear her speak of it with enthusiasm,

for she was enthusiastic on all great themes.

These were, it must be said, the only concessions Mr. Smithson made to

the true faith. He never entered a Catholic church. He even refused

to acknowledge that which its very enemies are forced to concede—the

grandeur and utility of the enterprises she alone successfully

achieves; the efficacious assistance she renders each one of us at

critical moments in our lives; and the happiness—earthly happiness

even—that she bestows on all who are faithful to her teachings.

But the decided stand Mr. Smithson took against the true faith was

specially manifested by his antipathy to the priesthood. Though he had

lived a year and a half at St. M——, he had never had any intercourse

with the Abbé Bonjean, the _curé_ of the commune. Mme. Smithson

and her daughter went to High Mass every Sunday, made the _curé_ a

brief call on New Year’s Day, and went to confession at Easter—that

was all. I had some reason, therefore, to say it was a thing of no

small importance to see the _abbé_ at Mr. Smithson’s table. What had

effected such a change in the mind of this dogmatic Englishman?...

Had his daughter begged it as a favor?... By no means. Eugénie was

not pious enough to care for the society of the _curé_.... Had Mme.

Smithson ventured to break the compact which forbade her broaching,

even remotely, the subject of religion to her husband? Still less

likely. Madame had not the courage unless forced to revolt against some

enormity like apostasy. What led Mr. Smithson to invite the _abbé_

was the result of his own reflections. Since he had taken charge of

a manufactory, and been brought in contact with a large number of

workmen, some poor and others corrupt, he had felt an increasing

desire of being useful to them, both morally and physically. Mr.

Smithson had really a noble heart. Catholic benevolence excited his

admiration more than he confessed. It caused him to reflect, though he

was careful not to reveal his thoughts. These salutary reflections had

gradually convinced him that, if he wished to reform the place, he must

obtain the aid of some one not only of good-will like Louis, but of

incontestable moral authority.... Where find a person with more means

than the _curé_?... With the extreme prudence habitual to him—and he

was more cautious now than ever, as it was a question of a priest—he

was desirous of studying his future co-laborer. He could not help it;

this black-robed man inspired him with distrust. “I will begin by

studying him,” he said to himself; “and, for that, he must come to my

house.” This plan decided upon, he acted accordingly. Without telling

any one of his secret intention, without even giving a hint of it,

except to his wife and daughter at the last moment, he invited the

_abbé_.

Louis had already begun to understand his employer’s prejudices, and

was therefore extremely astonished when he arrived to find the _curé_

had been invited. But his astonishment was mingled with joy. He had

already become acquainted with the _abbé_, and had been to confession

to him more than once, and had more than one conversation with him. The

_curé_ was even aware of all Louis’ plans, and, as may be supposed,

gave them his entire approbation.

There was some stiffness and embarrassment as the guests seated

themselves at table, and looked at one another; but, after a few

moments, the genuine simplicity of the _abbé_, who was no fool, and the

doctor’s facetiousness, broke the ice. Mr. Smithson alone maintained

his usual reserve. He had sent for the _abbé_ that he might study his

character, and he was not neglecting it. As to Louis, seated opposite

Eugénie, he seemed to emulate the wise man of the Scriptures who had

made a compact with his eyes and his tongue. He tempered the fire of

his eye, restrained his flow of words, and courageously filled the part

he had imposed on himself—that of a man serious unto coldness, calm

unto insensibility.

Everything passed off very well till the dessert. Mr. Smithson then

directed the conversation to the condition of his workmen, and spoke of

his desire to ameliorate it. Eugénie warmly applauded what her father

said; she spoke of some visits she had made, and gave many interesting

details respecting the families she had assisted.

The good _abbé_ had, alas! one fault. Priests have their faults as well

as we—fewer, without doubt, but still they have some. The _curé’s_

defect was a want of prudence. He was agreeable in conversation, and

had the best intentions in the world, but he did not weigh his words

sufficiently. He never troubled himself about the interpretation,

malevolent or otherwise, that certain people might give to them. He

was a good man, but not sufficiently mindful of our Saviour’s counsel

to be wise as a serpent and simple as a dove. He was amiable and

sincere, but lacking in discretion: that was a misfortune. At a time

of religious indifference and of impiety like ours, more than usual

prudence is necessary for all who love their religion: the impious are

so glad to find a pretext for their calumnies! The _abbé_ now began

in the heartiest manner, and very sincerely too, to compliment Mr.

Smithson for all he had said, and Mlle. Eugénie for all she had done.

He gave a thrilling but true sketch of the ravages want and immorality

were making among the working-classes, and dwelt on the necessity of

an immediate and efficacious remedy. All this was proper. There was

nothing so far to criticise. But the _abbé_ should have stopped there.

He had, however, the indiscretion to keep on, adding many things ill

adapted to those before whom he was speaking. “I know what remedies are

necessary,” said he; “and who of us does not? They are—instruction to

a certain degree, visiting the poor in their houses, dropping a good

word, and, above all, the infinite service of leading them back to the

holy Catholic religion, which alone knows how to influence the heart

of man, and inspire benevolent souls with the wisdom and perseverance

necessary for perfecting their noble enterprises. I hope I wound no

one’s feelings in expressing myself thus. What I have said is only a

well-known truth, readily acknowledged by a multitude of upright souls

who have not, however, the happiness of belonging to us.”

Mr. Smithson said nothing. He felt the shaft, however blunted, that

was aimed so directly at him. The _curé_ himself seemed conscious of

having gone too far in the ardor of his untimely zeal. The Englishman

was one of those men who only retort when obliged to: he remained

silent. The poor _curé_ hurt himself still more by enthusiastically

eulogizing Louis a few minutes after in these words: “M. Louis, by

another year, you will have shown yourself the good angel of the whole

country around.”

This appeared exaggerated to Mr. Smithson. It excited his jealousy,

already awakened. He imagined he saw proofs of an understanding

between the _curé_ and the engineer in this unfortunate remark. Their

understanding had an evident aim, in Mr. Smithson’s eyes, to diminish

his moral influence, and even suppress it. “That is the way with

Catholic priests,” he said to himself. “They are ambitious, scheming,

eager to rule, and knowing how to find accomplices everywhere.” The

_curé_ and Louis thenceforth became objects of suspicion, though he was

careful not to show it outwardly.

Louis had begun to understand human nature, and at once realized all

the imprudence of the _curé’s_ remarks. He foresaw the bad effect they

would have on the master of the house. He tried in vain, by some adroit

turn in the conversation, to lessen, if not to annul, the unfortunate

impression the _abbé’s_ conversation might have produced. The _curé_

persisted in his opinion, and only added to his previous blunder. Louis

felt he should not gain anything, and stopped short with so distressed

an air that it was pitiful to see him.

Mr. Smithson, led away by his prejudices, thought Louis’ depression

the consequence of his accomplice’s betraying so awkwardly the secret

tie between them. “The engineer is, perhaps, the more dangerous of

the two,” he said to himself. “I should never have suspected their

plan, had it not been for the _abbé’s_ imprudent frankness.” Hence he

concluded there would be more need than ever of keeping an eye on his

subordinate.

Eugénie, though not pious, understood her religion too well, and loved

it, or rather, admired it too much, to be astonished at what the _curé_

had said. She thoroughly agreed with him, but, as the conversation

became serious, she only attended to the most important points, and

paid but little attention to the _abbé’s_ imprudent remarks. The

praise he bestowed on Louis did not seem to her excessive. She rather

approved than condemned it. She did not, therefore, suspect the cause

of Louis’ sadness, but attributed it to a want of ease naturally

occasioned by the inferior position into which he had been thrown

by his misfortunes. More than once she came to his aid, politely

addressing the conversation to him. Seeing him still preoccupied, she

ended by proposing after dinner that he should sing something to her

accompaniment. Louis excused himself. “I insist upon it,” she said, in

a tone of sweet authority that instantly transported him into a new

world. He forgot the _curé’s_ imprudence, its probable effect on Mr.

Smithson, and his own difficult position. The first time for a long

while—ten years, perhaps—he had one of those moments of cloudless

happiness that rarely falls to man’s lot, and can never be forgotten.

It seemed as if a mysterious, ravishing voice whispered that Eugénie

was beginning to love him. At least, he no longer doubted for the

moment the possibility of her loving him some day. Louis had the soul

of an artist, and possessed undoubted talent, and he sang that evening

as he had never sung in his life.

When the song was ended, he turned toward Eugénie, and read in her eyes

sincere astonishment and admiration, but nothing else. All his doubts,

all his sadness, revived. An instant before, his heart overflowed

with joy: now he was so cast down that he was alarmed, and wondered

what misfortune was going to happen to him. I am not exaggerating:

ardent natures often pass through such alternations of extreme joy

and sadness. The evening passed away without any new incident. Before

midnight, the guests returned home, and were free to yield to their own

thoughts. The few hours just elapsed had modified the sentiments of all

who had dined together at Mr. Smithson’s.

Eugénie, without allowing it to appear outwardly, had also had one

of those sudden revelations that like a flash reveal everything with

unexpected clearness. For the first time, she fully realized the

possibility of loving one whom she at first despised. Louis’ dignified,

melancholy air, his grave, earnest manner of conversing, his remarkable

musical talent, and the sympathetic tone of his voice, all produced an

effect on Eugénie she had never experienced before. Not that she loved

him yet, but she asked herself how long her indifference would last.

First impressions are hard to efface from ardent souls. Eugénie was

alarmed at the idea of loving one who had at first inspired her with so

much distrust. She resolved to watch more carefully over herself, and

keep an observant eye on one who might take a place in her heart she

did not wish to give, unless for ever.

This was wise. One cannot take too much precaution when there is reason

to fear the heart is disposed to yield. The heart is the best or the

worst of counsellors, according as it is guided or abandoned by reason.

Besides, Eugénie was wholly ignorant of Louis’ feelings towards her.

Poor Louis ended the evening in disheartening reflections. He began by

dwelling on a painful alternative: either Eugénie did not suspect his

love for her, or, if she perceived it, her only response was a coldness

that was discouraging. “And yet,” thought he, “if I am mistaken!... If

she already loves me in her heart!... If at least she could some day

love me!” ... He smiled. Then another fear, still worse than the rest,

crossed his mind. “Well, if it were so, there would be another obstacle

in the way more dangerous than the indifference of Mlle. Eugénie

herself—the opposition of her father. He would never consent to the

marriage. His antipathy to me has always been evident. The _abbé_ has

completed my ruin. I am henceforth a dangerous man—a fanatic—in Mr.

Smithson’s eyes!”

“What shall I do?” added Louis, by way of conclusion. “Shall I give up

the work I have undertaken? Ought I to practise my religion secretly,

in order to give no offence?... No, indeed; that would be cowardly,

unworthy of a man of courage, and criminal ingratitude towards God, who

has been so merciful to me.... No hateful concessions! With the divine

assistance, I will do what I think is for the best. Whatever happens

will be the will of God.... Whatever it may be, I shall be sure of

having nothing to repent of....”

To be serious, I should add that Louis, in forming this resolution, was

not so heroic as he really believed himself to be. He was young, he was

in love: and youth and love have always some hope in store.

It is useless to speak of Mr. Smithson. We are aware of his sentiments.

Louis was not wrong in his fears respecting him. And yet, however sad

Louis’ position might be, it was soon to become still more so. A new

cloud was rising without his suspecting it.

TO BE CONTINUED.

MARRIAGE SONG.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

Love begins upon the heights,

As on tree-tops, in the spring,

April with green foot alights

While the birds are carolling:

Aye, but April ends with May:

Love must have the marriage-day!

II.

Love begins upon the heights,

As o’er snowy summits sail

First the dewy matin lights

Destined soon to reach the vale:

Love-touched maidens must not grieve

That morn of love hath noon and eve!

III.

Love begins with Fancy first,

Proud young Love the earth disdains

But his cold streams, mountain-nursed,

Warm them in the fruitful plains

Ere the marriage-day be sped:—

Peal the bells! The bride is wed!

PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.

A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF “THE CATHOLIC WORLD.”

THE suggestion often made in your excellent magazine, that Americans in

general, and American Catholics in particular, should be supplied with

some means of acquiring sound knowledge of philosophical truth, led me

to consider what particular plan might be most adapted to this end,

and what resources were at our disposal for carrying out successfully

such a praiseworthy undertaking. The result of this my investigation

is not calculated, perhaps, to excite that degree of interest which

the subject deserves; yet, as it may be the occasion of other useful

reflections on the part of those who wish to promote this enterprise, I

have decided to offer it to your philosophical readers.

I assume that our plan should unquestionably embrace either all that

is worth knowing in philosophy, or at least all that is needed for the

explanation and vindication of all important truths, as well as for the

radical refutation of all modern errors.

To carry out such a plan, a writer would need an extensive knowledge

and a keen appreciation of the teachings of the scholastic philosophers

and theologians, and especially a masterly comprehension of the general

principles on which those teachings have their rational foundation.

Such a writer, I think I may safely add, should be of that sort of men

who not only know the doctrines of the great masters of the old school,

but who also feel the greatest respect for those eminent thinkers;

and he should be prepared boldly to follow their leadership in all

fundamental questions concerning principles, without the least regard

for what is now circulated as “modern thought.” His style should be

modern, but his principles should be the principles sanctioned by the

wisdom of all past ages.

Every one, of course, will allow that we modern men, in many branches

of natural science, have attained to a degree of information vastly

superior to what the ancients even dreamed of. Accordingly, we may not

improperly consider ourselves better qualified than they were for the

solution of a great number of physical questions, of which they are

known to have either overlooked the very existence, or missed the true

interpretation. It is quite certain, however, at the same time, that we

are immensely inferior to them with regard to strictly philosophical

knowledge; and this is the more surprising as one would suppose that

our superior information concerning the laws of nature would have

enabled us to reach truth from a higher standpoint, and to correct and

improve, even to perfection, the philosophical theories of the old

school. Yet the fact is certain and notorious: we have only a few good

philosophers, while we need a great many to stand against the torrent

of infidelity.

As it is, I think that no man of judgment will deny that we cannot

raise ourselves to a competent philosophical level and secure the

triumph of truth unless we learn again, and turn to account in our war

against our modern barbarians, those doctrines that triumphed over the

barbarians of old, and made Europe remain for centuries the shining

centre of the civilized world. Wisdom was not born yesterday, and

philosophical principles are as old as mankind; hence, new facts may be

seen, but no new principles of philosophy can be invented.

It therefore remains for us, if we wish to spread sound knowledge and

foster true wisdom, to cling to the old philosophical principles, to

vindicate them so far as in our present struggling condition it may be

necessary, and to apply them judiciously to the close discussion and

consistent settlement of arising questions. This is the road that will

lead us to the goal; and it is a short and easy one, too; for the first

principles of all things are not very many, and can be mastered with

ease, while their application needs only two conditions, namely, first,

a sufficient knowledge of the primitive facts and laws of the physical

order; and, second, a rigorous logic.

As the main object we should have in view is the improvement of

American thought concerning moral and social truths, it might seem

that the work of which I am speaking should mainly be a work of moral

philosophy, comprising the treatment of all natural rights and natural

duties whether of individuals or of societies, and leaving dialectics

and metaphysics mostly in the background as idle speculations, or

at least as teaching nothing that is essential to the happiness and

prosperity of private and public life. It is a fact that the general

reader is inclined to look upon all logical and metaphysical subtleties

as a string of mere quibbles or an array of unsubstantialities. Though

I am sure that, in the present wretched state of our public education,

many would be found, even among our best citizens, ready to adopt and

countenance such a view of the subject, I must say that the view is

intrinsically wrong.

Philosophy is a whole whose parts are not merely _integrant_, but

_constituent_; for each of these parts is essentially linked with the

others. As time cannot exist without motion, so neither can moral

philosophy without logic and metaphysics; and so sure as no velocity

can exist apart from a moving body, even so rational philosophy cannot

exist apart from all metaphysical truth. To see this the more clearly,

let us examine what are the relations that bind together the parts of

philosophy.

The old division of this science into _rational_, _real_, and

_moral_, which we find to have been given by Plato,[147] is drawn

from the inmost nature of things and the very constitution of

philosophy. Everything that is perfect, whether it has an existence

in the fields of reality, or only in the region of thought, is found

to involve in its constitution, 1, something competent to give a

certain determination; 2, some other thing liable to receive such a

determination; 3, some third thing which is the immediate result of

the concurrence of the other two. That which gives a determination

is called the “formal” constituent of the thing; that which receives

such a determination is called the “material” constituent of the same

thing; finally, that which results is called the “formal complement,”

and is the actual constitution or the very actuality of the thing thus

constituted. Thus, for example, the human soul, inasmuch as it gives

life to the human body, is the formal constituent of man; the organic

body, inasmuch as it receives life through the soul, is his material

constituent; and actual conscious life, which is the immediate result

of the concurrence of soul and body in one compound nature, is the

actuality of the being thus constituted, and makes it formally complete

in its individual reality.

Now, philosophy is similarly made up of three such constituents. The

formal constituent and, as it were, the soul of philosophy (and of all

other sciences, too) is logic, or _rational philosophy_. Its duty is to

impress a kind of rational stamp on the objects of science by applying

to them the process of definition, division, and argumentation, which

is the scientific process, and constitutes the “form” of science. For

this reason, logic holds that place in regard to any object of science

which the soul holds in regard to its body, and is therefore to be

considered as the formal constituent of philosophy.

The material part, or the body, of philosophy is “all real being as

such,” or, in other terms, all the subject-matter of metaphysics, or

_real philosophy_; for metaphysics is nothing but the knowledge of

real things acquired through the consideration of their intrinsic

constitution; hence, all reality, be it created or uncreated, matter

or spirit, substance or accident, is the “material” constituent of

philosophy inasmuch as it is subjected to the scientific form by the

application made to it of the logical process. The objective truth

of things, so long as it is not subjected to the searching scrutiny

of speculative reasoning, mostly belongs to the lower region of

experimentalism, which scarcely deserves, though it has usurped, the

high name of science; but, when pervaded by intellectual light, rises

suddenly as vivified by it, and takes up its place in the serene

region of metaphysics, where it shows itself in all the glory of its

ontological beauty. Hence it is that metaphysics may be compared to a

living body, of which logic is the soul.

Finally, by the application of logic to objective realities, namely,

by the study of metaphysics, a wonderful bond is established between

the rational faculty and objective truth, the first getting hold of

the second, and the second reacting after its own manner on the first;

so that reason, enlightened by objective truth, knows how to pronounce

a right judgment on the merit of things, and in its natural rectitude

feels compelled to give them that relative place in its estimation to

which each of them is reasonably entitled. As the soul, therefore,

owing to its intimate connection with the body, “feels” what suits or

suits, not the requirement of the animated organism, and is pleased

with the one, and displeased with the other, so also reason, owing

to its clear possession of objective truth, “perceives” what agrees

and what clashes with: the objective order of things, and, with the

authority of a judge, pronounces its sentence that the first must be

approved, and the second condemned. Such dictates of reason form the

object of _moral philosophy_; and it is through them that the moral law

is naturally communicated and promulgated to all rational creatures.

Hence, it is evident that the knowledge of morality is the result of

an intellectual knowledge of the real nature of things, and of their

intrinsic perfection, exigencies, and manifold relations. Hence, also,

the conclusion that the rational, the real, and the moral order,

though distinct objects of knowledge, are so bound together in one

general science that it would be scarcely possible to speak of the one

without referring to the other. Hence, finally, the further conclusion

that the greater the importance of a true and thorough knowledge of

morality, the more stringent is the necessity of securing to it the

foundation of good, sound, and intelligible metaphysics. To neglect the

latter would be to tamper with the most vital interests of the former.

Perhaps I might go even further, and say that what we need just now is

not so much a new book of logic or of ethics as of metaphysics. A good

metaphysical work is the surest foundation both of a good logic and of

a good moral philosophy. The laws of thought and the laws of morality

must be explained in accordance with the laws of real being; and the

better we understand these last, the more truly conversant shall we

become with the first. Besides, with respect to logic and ethics,

we have no new doctrines to teach, whilst in metaphysics we have to

settle a number of old and new questions regarding the constitution of

natural things, and their causality, and their mutual connection, as

we find that such questions are not satisfactorily treated either by

the ancient metaphysicians or by our modern unphilosophical physicists.

Such questions regard, as I said, natural things; but their solution

has a bearing on many other philosophical doctrines, because it

materially effects the terminology by which those doctrines are to be

expounded.

I do not wish, nor would this be the place, to enter into particulars

with regard to the method which might be followed in the treatment of

different philosophical subjects; yet I think it worth remarking in

general that the fewer the principles on which a philosopher shall

build his reasonings, the more clear, uniform, and satisfactory

will his demonstrations generally prove; and, on the other hand, in

proportion as these principles shall be higher, the fewer will be

needed. This leads me to believe that one of the best means which could

be made available for the much-desired success of the undertaking

would be to take our standpoint as high as possible (according to the

very nature of philosophy, which is _scientia per summas causas_), and

to base our demonstrations on the very first constituent principles

of being. Looking down from such a height, we could easily dissipate

the vague phantasmagory, and control the dangerous influences of many

other so-called principles or axioms whose intrusion into the body of

philosophy is due to ignorance or wrong interpretation of the facts and

laws of the physical world. It is through these assumed principles that

a very lamentable discord has been fostered and perpetuated between

the votaries of physics, on the one hand, and those of metaphysics, on

the other; and it is through the same cause, that even now the same

student, after learning one thing as true in his class of metaphysics,

is obliged to hear it declared false in his class of natural

philosophy. This should not be; and we may hope that it will not be

when our philosophical reasonings are ultimately grounded on first

principles, and when no secondary principles are admitted which are not

demonstrated, or corrected, or restricted by some evident and adequate

reduction to first principles.

But now a question is to be answered which professors of philosophy

will perhaps be the first to propose. The question is this: Can a

sound and thorough work of philosophy, such as we want, be written in

common and popular English, so as to prove easy reading for the average

American student? Or must a special language be used which none but

trained philosophers will understand?

Every one who knows how peculiar is the language of other sciences

and arts will anticipate the answer. Of course, the English tongue is

as fit as any other to express common thoughts; but common thoughts

are the thoughts of common people, who do not commonly think with the

utmost philosophical precision, nor talk of matters (of which there

are many in philosophy) that transcend the common wants of their

ordinary avocations. This being the case, it is obvious that, in

writing a philosophical work (especially if it be intended to serve as

a text-book for our higher Catholic institutions), it will be necessary

to make use of a special language, which, though English, cannot be

that easy-going and popular English which we find in common use, but

must be a precise, guarded, dry, methodic, abstract, and perhaps

stiff language, such as the gravity, subtlety, and difficulty of

philosophical investigations often require.

I said, “Especially if the work is intended to serve as a text-book,”

because, in this case, it will be absolutely necessary to adopt in it

the whole of the philosophical terminology that has been handed down to

us by our Catholic ancestors. Terminology, in all branches of study,

is the faithful exponent of the various achievements of science, and

contains, as it were, a summary of all that mankind has succeeded

in learning in the course of centuries. To ignore more or less the

philosophic terminology is therefore to ignore more or less the wisdom

of all past ages. Moreover, it is only by means of an exact terminology

that a teacher can convey the knowledge of exact truth to his pupils’

minds; and accordingly, all who study philosophy _ex professo_ need to

be well acquainted with its language, that they may acquire a clear,

distinct, and precise knowledge of things; so that, when called upon

in after-life to discuss or expound philosophical matters in a plain

and popular way for the benefit of the unlearned, they may use such

circumlocutions as will not essentially conflict with the truth of

things. Experience shows that those who have not a clear and distinct

conception of things, however much they may try to explain themselves,

are never well understood.

But what if our work be not especially intended for the class-room,

but only for common reading? Would it still be difficult to have it

written in a plain and intelligible manner? I think it would, unless,

indeed, we leave out the most fundamental questions of metaphysics. If

we were asked only to write a few “academical” essays on philosophical

subjects, without concerning ourselves with the intimate nature of

things, it would not be very difficult to perform such a task in

tolerably readable and popular English; but if we are asked to go to

the root of things, and to give a consistent, clear, accurate, and

radical account of them and of their objective relations; if we are

expected to lay down and explain those grounds of distinction between

similar things that will enable us to avoid latent equivocations, to

detect paralogistic inferences, and to expose the sophistry of our

opponents; if, in short, we must prepare a standard work which will

create a deep and lasting interest, and take hold of the public mind by

its fitness to uproot prejudice, to confound error, and to silence,

if possible, all philosophical knavery, then, I say, we cannot do this

in the language with which people are generally familiar, without

filling it with a number of other words, phrases, and formulas of our

own. This, however, should not be looked upon as discouraging; for the

popularity to which a work on philosophy aspires is not the general

popularity of the newspaper or the novel, but a popularity confined

within the range of deep-thinking minds. Philosophy is not intended for

blockheads nor for the general reader; hence, if these have no relish

for our philosophical style, we shall not, on that account, complain of

any want of popularity.

We must own, however, that a number of philosophical words have

become popular in other modern languages which are still above

popular comprehension in the English; and on this account the range

of popularity of a philosophical work will be less in our country

than it would, all other things being equal, in France, Italy, or

Spain. In these last countries, where languages are so nearly akin to

the philosophic Latin, and where the study of philosophy under the

supervision of the Catholic Church formed for centuries a prominent

part of public education, every educated person soon learned how to

express in his national idiom what he had been taught in the Latin of

the schools. It is through this process that the language of philosophy

gradually became, in those countries, the language of all educated

people. In England, the same process was going on up to the XVIth

century, and, if continued, would have led to the same results; but

it was checked at the time of the Reformation, to the unphilosophical

and maleficent genius of which it must therefore be ascribed that

all further popular development of the philosophic language has been

arrested for three centuries in the Anglo-Saxon race.

Had England remained Catholic, and continued, like her sister nations,

to cultivate the fields of speculative knowledge, there is little

doubt that English writers, and the clergy in particular, would

have popularized and brought into common use those philosophical

and theological expressions which had been received already in

their dictionaries, and might have been a most valuable instrument

for improving the intellectual education of the country. But while

this process of familiarizing speculative knowledge was carried on

throughout Catholic Europe, England had something else more pressing

to do: she busied herself with tearing to pieces and burning the

metaphysical and theological books she had inherited from the great

Catholic founders and luminaries of her universities. How could

the Anglo-Saxon race attain to even a common degree of philosophic

development under the sway of a system which was the very negation of

philosophy? Could any one be a philosopher, and yet “protest” against

conclusions of which he had to concede the premises? Protestantism was

not the offspring of reason, but of passion and tyranny; it is carnal,

not intellectual; it popularizes matter, and studies material comfort,

but cannot raise the people to the contemplation and appreciation of

eternal and universal truth. Hence, whilst in all the branches of

knowledge which are connected with their senses the English people

made remarkable strides, in philosophy they remained infants; and it

was only by rowing the boat against the stream that a few privileged

beings saved some relics from the great national wreck. Even now

the Anglo-Saxon Protestant is fated to admire Hume and Bain, Darwin

and Huxley, Mill and Herbert Spencer; and it will be long before he

realizes that it is a shame to talk of these sophists as “our great

national philosophers.”

The same evil that stayed in England the process of popularization of

the philosophical language, caused this language to remain deficient

in many useful and some necessary words wherewith other nations wisely

enriched their vernacular tongues. This is equivalent to saying that

the English idiom, even as used by the learned, does not always

afford sufficient facilities for the exact expression of metaphysical

relations, and that, therefore, a writer who wishes to be quite

correct in treating of them will be tempted to take liberties with the

language, and will yield to the temptation.

As an example of this, suppose we wish to say in plain English what

S. Thomas Aquinas teaches in the following sentence (in 1. _Sentent_.

Dist. 2. q. 1, a. 2): “In Deo est sapientia, et bonitas, et hujusmodi,

quorum quodlibet est ipsa divina essentia; et ita omnia sunt unum. Et

quia unumquodque eorum est in Deo secundum sui verissimam rationem,

et ratio sapientiæ non est ratio bonitatis in quantum hujusmodi,

relinquitur quod sunt diversa ratione non tantum ex parte ipsius

ratiocinantis, sed ex proprietate ipsius rei.”

How should we here translate the word ratio? Andrews’ _Dictionary_

gives _reason_, _account_, _business_, _relation_, _regard_, _concern_,

_care_, _manner_, _plan_, _reasonableness_, _proof_, and such like;

to which we may add the very word “ratio” used by the English

geometricians to express the quotient of a quantity divided by another

of the same kind. Now, which of these terms can we employ in the

present case? There is not one of them which would not transform this

beautiful and important passage of the angelic doctor into a clumsy

piece of nonsense. To speak of the _reason_ of wisdom, of the _concern_

of goodness, of the _manner_ of eternity, or of the _business_ of

immensity would be absurd. The temptation to infringe on the rights

of lexicographers is therefore evident. But what other English word

can we employ? Should we translate, _the concept_ of wisdom, and _the

concept_ of goodness? By no means. Not that this last meaning of the

word _ratio_ is not legitimate, but because it is not what we need in

the present case; for the holy doctor does not say that God’s wisdom

and goodness are distinct only on account of our conceptions, but

explicitly teaches that they are distinct on their own grounds, “ex

proprietate ipsius rei.” Hence, “concept” is not the right word; and,

instead of “concept,” we should rather say “that which is the ground

of the concept.” Yet this circumlocution, besides being too long to

replace a single word, does not exactly correspond to it, as every

intelligent reader will easily perceive. The force of the word _ratio_

might be sufficiently rendered by the compound expression “objective

notion”; but this is forbidden by our dictionaries, according to which

the word “notion” has only a subjective sense. We cannot translate

“the nature” of wisdom and “the nature” of goodness, because it would

then seem that divine wisdom and divine goodness are of a different

nature objectively, and therefore _really_ distinct; which is not the

case, as they are only _mentally_ distinct, though on their own _real_

grounds. Perhaps, to avoid misconceptions, we might add an epithet to

the word “nature,” and translate _ratio sapientiæ_ as “the notional

nature of wisdom,” that is, as that formality which is distinctly

represented by the notion of wisdom. This last expression might be

considered tolerably correct; yet I should prefer to stick to the Latin

_ratio_, which is so much simpler and clearer, and which has, moreover,

a general and uniform application to all objects of thought; as we

everywhere find _ratio intelligibilis_, _ratio entitativa_, _ratio

generica_, _ratio specifica_, _ratio personæ_, _ratio substantiæ_, and

a great number of similar ratios. And, again, the word _ratio_ has

another very superior claim to adoption, inasmuch as it is the only

word that exactly expresses the transcendental unity resulting from

the conspiration of a material with a formal principle, and implies

in its concrete meaning the two principles from which it results as

actually correlated; for, as the geometric ratio implies a numerator

and a denominator correlated as “that which is mensurable” and “that

by which it is measured,” so the _ratio intelligibilis_, the _ratio

entitativa_, and all the others, imply and exhibit a potential and a

formal principle, correlated as “that which is determinable” and “that

by which it is determined”; and as the terms of a geometric ratio,

inasmuch as they are correlated, give rise to a simple result which

is the value of the ratio, so also the constituent principles of all

beings, inasmuch as they are correlated according to their mutual

ontological exigency, give rise to the actuality of the ontological

_ratio_. It would therefore appear that, if mathematicians are allowed

freely to use the word “ratio,” as they do, in the peculiar sense just

stated, metaphysicians too, _a fortiori_, may be allowed the free

use of the same word in that general sense which I have pointed out,

and which, solely through English philosophical apathy, was unduly

restricted to its present narrow mathematical meaning.

What I have said of this word may suffice as an instance of the poverty

of our philosophical language. There are other words which philosophers

are sometimes disappointed not to find in our dictionaries, and which

it will be necessary to borrow from other sources, or to translate

from the works of the schoolmen; but, as I cannot come to particulars

without entering into discussions which would lead me much further than

I at present intend to go, I will say nothing more on this point.

I beg to conclude with a last remark which some readers may deem

superfluous, but which should not be overlooked by the teachers or the

friends of philosophy. It is not so much the want of proper words as

the vague and improper use of the words which we already possess that

is calculated to impair the merit and mar the usefulness of an English

work of philosophy. If I knew that any one was engaged in such a work,

I would earnestly entreat him to spare no efforts to the end that all

indefiniteness or looseness of expression may be excluded from it, and

to take care that his philosophic language be, if possible, as precise

and as carefully wielded as that of the mathematician. In philosophy,

nothing is so dangerous as loose reasoning; and loose reasoning is

inevitable with a loose terminology. Truth, by careless wording, is

often changed into error, and even great heresies are frequently

nothing but the incorrect expression of great truths; according to the

remarkable sentence of S. Thomas: _Ex verbo inordinate prolato nascitur

hæresis._ Hence, all those terms which in the popular language have

a vague meaning should in philosophy be either avoided or strictly

defined, and constantly taken in the strict sense of the definition.

I remember having found years ago, in the works of an Italian

philosopher whose celebrity has since vanished, nine or ten _different_

definitions of the word _idea_. Which of such definitions he adopted

as his own I could not discover; but it seemed to me that he adopted

them all in succession, according as they suited the actual needs of

his multiform argumentation—a proceeding which, while confounding

the minds of his readers, was certainly not calculated to give weight

to his conclusions. This same word _idea_ in our popular English is

extremely indefinite; it stands for _object of thought_, _plan_,

_judgment_, _opinion_, _purpose_, and _intention_, none of which would

be the correct philosophical meaning of the word; for “idea,” in all

the approved treatises of psychology, means the knowledge of a thing

directly perceived in any object of first apprehension. Hence, no

accurate philosopher would say that we have an “idea” of God, or of his

immensity, or of virtue, but only that we have a “concept” of God, of

his immensity, of virtue, and of all those other things that are not

objects of first apprehension, and the notions of which can be acquired

only by a special operation of the intellect on pre-existing ideas.

This distinction between “idea” and “concept” is very important in

psychology, and should therefore be adopted in a philosophical work at

the very first beginning of logic, as a first precaution against the

equivocations of the ontologists.

It is not my intention to point out other words the popular meaning of

which must be sharply looked into by a philosopher before he makes use

of them; I will only add, in connection with the word “idea,” that,

in the classical books of philosophy, the direct knowledge of the

existence of a thing was not called “idea,” but _notitia_. In English,

we have the word “notice”; but this word means, according to Webster,

_the act_ by which we have knowledge of something within the reach of

our senses, whilst the Latin word _notitia_ means rather the permanent

_knowledge_ acquired by that act; whence we see that the Latin _notitia

facti_ cannot be translated “the notice of the fact,” and yet why

should not a philosopher be allowed to use the word “notice” in the

sense of the Latin _notitia_ when he wishes to contrast the knowledge

of the existence of a thing with the knowledge of its properties? This

would be, after all, only a late justice done to the word by again

recognizing its primitive legitimate meaning.

On the contrary, the word _conscientia_, which in Latin has two

distinct meanings, the psychological and the moral, in English

has been represented by two distinct words, “consciousness” and

“conscience.” This is a real improvement, so far as it goes. But the

word “consciousness,” which properly expresses the knowledge of self

and of the affections of self, has already acquired, as used by modern

authors, a very indefinite meaning, inasmuch as it already replaces

not only the Latin _conscientia_, but every kind of knowledge as well;

so that our educated men do not scruple to declare their consciousness

of the rotation of the earth, or their consciousness of your presence

in the room. In philosophy, where no word should be liable to two

interpretations, such a promiscuous and illogical use of the word is

really intolerable; and I respectfully submit that the word should by

all means be again restricted to its natural signification.

Not to tire the reader with other considerations of a similar

nature, I will come to an end. My object has been to point out in a

general manner what I considered to be most needed in a good English

philosophical work. Certainly, a work based on unobjectionable

principles, ample in its scope, complete in its parts, and precise

in its terminology, would be a great boon to the higher classes of

American society. Let a writer come forward who, besides a sound

knowledge of philosophical truths, possesses the rare art of expressing

them correctly and forcibly in plain language, and he will see his

efforts so fully rewarded that he will never regret the labor he may

have endured in such a difficult undertaking.

A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.

CHRISTE’S CHILDHOODE.

TILL twelve yeres’ age, how Christ His childhoode spent

All earthly pennes unworthy were to write;

Such actes to mortall eyes He did presente,

Whose worth not men but angells must recite:

No nature’s blottes, no childish faultes defilde,

Whose Grace was guide, and God did play the childe.

In springing lockes lay chouchèd hoary witt,

In semblance younge, a grave and aunchient port;

In lowly lookes high maiestie did sitt,

In tender tunge, sound sence of sagest sort:

Nature imparted all that she could teache,

And God supplyd where Nature coulde not reach.

His mirth, of modest meane a mirrhour was,

His sadness, tempred with a mylde aspecte;

His eye, to trye ech action was a glasse,

Whose lookes did good approue and bad correct;

His nature’s giftes, His grace, His word, and deede,

Well shew’d that all did from a God proceede.

—_Southwell._

THE TROWEL OR THE CROSS

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

“_This is your hour, and the power of darkness._”—S. Luke xxii. 53.

CONCLUDED.

CHAPTER III.

JESUIT AND NEW PROTESTANT.

EARLY the next morning, the count was awakened suddenly from his

slumber. The three bells of the church-tower gave forth sorrowful

tones. The peasants assembled from all parts. Von Scharfenstein opened

a window, and looked in vain for the rising smoke, in order to discover

the whereabouts of the fire; but neither flame nor smoke was to be

seen. And yet all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were

moving in the same direction, so that there must have been some cause

for the alarm.

“Where is the fire?” he asked of an aged man, who could hardly walk

even with the aid of his cane. “Where is the fire, good man?”

“There is no fire; the gendarmes are here to arrest our pastor.”

Von Scharfenstein closed the window.

“This is too much,” said he angrily. “The Freemasons, who are

ordinarily cunning enough, have this time committed a great mistake. If

the sons of the cross are not more prudent than the sons of the trowel,

there will be bloodshed in this case. The peasants will defend their

priest with scythes and axes.”

Meanwhile, the police commissioner who had come from the city with two

gendarmes endeavored to put a stop to the ringing of the bells. Before

going to the church, he had foolishly stationed the gendarmes upon the

high step of the pastoral residence, so that the Jesuit should not

escape.

“Stop the ringing of the bells,” cried out the commissioner to the

bell-ringers.

“Ring away!” exclaimed a sturdy, well-dressed farmer who had closely

followed the commissioner. “Continue to ring; the bells are ours; there

is fire!”

“I am the police commissioner,” said the officer sternly. “I am here by

the command of the government, and I repeat my orders to stop at once

the ringing of the bells!”

“And I am the burgomaster of this place, and repeat that the bells

shall be rung,” replied the angry and excited villager. “You have no

right to command here, and much less in the church. When the whole

parish is assembled, the bells shall be stopped, not before.”

The commissioner ground his teeth. He quailed before the determined

aspect of the burgomaster, and returned to the priest’s house. There

his anger changed into fear. The large yard before the house, the

surrounding walls, and the street were thickly covered with people. He

saw threatening looks and fierce eyes glaring upon him when he ascended

the steps. The crowd was as yet quiet, but already there were signs of

a coming storm.

The police commissioner unceremoniously entered the presence of Prince

Joseph von Eberstein, the Jesuit father.

“There, look!” he exclaimed rudely. “That is your work—open rebellion

against the government!”

“Pardon me, Herr Commissioner,” replied the priest calmly; “how could I

have caused the tumult, since I had no knowledge of your coming?”

“You have nevertheless incited the people to revolt against the

government, and here is the result of your teaching!”

“Sir, I have not incited the people against the government; the

government itself, by a violent and unjustifiable act, has provoked the

honest wrath of these simple peasants. I beg you to be less prejudiced.”

The bells were now silent; in the yard, a threatening murmur was heard;

the crowd seemed to be greatly incensed, and the commissioner saw that

the situation was becoming very critical. He listened at the window.

“To carry away our priest like a thief, like a murderer!” exclaimed a

trembling voice. “We will not permit it; he must remain here!”

“If our pastor was a servant of Judas,” said another voice, “and would

betray our religion to the Freemasons, then they would not persecute

him. But because he is a pious, conscientious priest whom we all love

and respect, they wish to take him away.”

“Yes; that is the reason.”

“We will not suffer it; we will keep our priest; he shall not go!”

exclaimed many voices confusedly.

The officer looked at the excited crowd, and acknowledged that it would

be dangerous to use violence.

“I regret this commotion,” said Prince von Eberstein. “If, however, you

choose to follow my advice, you can yet take your prisoner.”

“What is your advice?”

“Send away the gendarmes at once; their presence only serves to

exasperate the people. After that, I will speak to my parishioners, and

will enter the carriage with you.”

“Your advice is discreet,” replied the commissioner, who went out, and

commanded the gendarmes to leave Weselheim forthwith.

The departure of the gendarmes tranquillized the crowd. The threats

ceased, and the clinched fists were opened. Upon the steps of his

residence the prince now appeared dressed in his cassock.

“May Jesus Christ be praised, your reverence!” exclaimed the assembled

parish.

“Now and for ever, dear children! First let me thank you for the love

and sympathy you have always shown me during my stay among you. You

know that the government objects to my remaining here because I am a

foreigner. I have been frequently directed by the temporal power to

leave my parish. But because our Lord Jesus Christ has not commanded

the temporal powers to preach the Gospel, to administer the sacraments,

or to govern the church, but has given that right to the Pope, the

bishops, and the priests, and because I have derived my mission not

from the temporal authority, but from the church, I have refused to

leave the dear fold entrusted to my care, nor shall I leave it. In

order that these unfortunate disturbances may not recur again, I intend

to accompany the commissioner to the city. There I will lay the whole

affair before our most gracious king, who is a wise and just ruler.

I shall ask him to arrange matters so that I shall not be molested

again in the discharge of my sacred duties. Are you satisfied, dear

parishioners?”

The deepest silence reigned.

“Your reverence,” exclaimed a voice, “if you promise us to come back,

then we are satisfied.”

“I promise it to you,” answered the priest firmly.

He then re-entered the house.

“Herr Commissioner, have the carriage immediately brought before the

steps, so that any further excitement may be avoided.”

This was done. When, however, the children saw their pastor getting

into the carriage, they commenced to weep aloud, in which the girls and

women joined, so that heart-rending lamentations filled the air. The

driver whipped the horses, and the carriage almost flew through the now

desolated village.

“Do not weep so!” said Keller; “our pastor will return: he has promised

it.”

“But if they imprison him?” said a timid woman.

“Ah! bah! things have not yet come to such a pass!” observed the

burgomaster; “the parish will protect him!”

The people now separated. Only the burgomaster and some of the

influential villagers remained in the priest’s house conversing

together. In a short time, another carriage stopped at the door. The

astonished men saw an official wearing a very rich uniform descend from

the carriage.

“I think I know him,” said Keller. “Yes; I am right: he is one of the

four Freemasons.”

A priest who accompanied the official was received by the villagers

with sharp and suspicious looks.

“Good-morning!” said the friendly official. “I am rejoiced to meet here

in the priest’s house such a number of gentlemen. Herr Burgomaster, if

I am not mistaken?”

“Yes; I am he, and these are the councilmen.”

“This is splendid; what a fortunate circumstance!” remarked the

official. “I am the government counsellor, and have come to introduce

this reverend gentlemen into his office, so that the good parish of

Weselheim should not be one moment without a pastor.”

The men looked at one another; they were greatly perplexed, and seemed

hardly to understand what was going on.

“But, Herr Counsellor,” said the burgomaster, “we have a pastor. He

went only an hour ago to the city to see his most gracious majesty the

king, and to-morrow he will return.”

“You are mistaken, Herr Burgomaster,” assured the smiling counsellor

and grandmaster of the Freemasons. “The Jesuit will not return.”

The last words fell like a thunderbolt among them.

“What?—O ho!” exclaimed the men. “We shall see! Our pastor is the Rev.

Herr von Eberstein; we wish no other.”

“Unfortunately, Herr von Eberstein is a foreigner,” replied the

counsellor, shrugging his shoulders. “I introduce to you a pious priest

whose zeal will certainly bring a blessing upon the parish.”

The priest bowed and smiled, but the villagers evidently did not like

him.

“What is your name, if we may be allowed to ask?”

“My name is Stechapfel” (thorn-apple), answered the priest.

“What! Stechapfel?” cried they all, drawing back.

“Are you not the New Protestant Stechapfel of whom we have read so much

in the newspapers?” inquired Ewald, one of the councilmen.

“I am not a New Protestant, but an Old Catholic,” replied Stechapfel.

“It is really so—it is he!” exclaimed Keller. “Do you know, Herr

Stechapfel, what you call ‘Old Catholic’ is understood among Catholics

as ‘New Protestant’? We know also why the heretics of our day have

invented the word ‘Old Catholic’: they did so to throw sand in the

eyes of the people; as if they, the heretics, had remained faithful

to the old Catholic doctrine, but the Pope and all the bishops and

priests, as also all Catholics, had renounced the true faith. Luther,

the first Protestant, did the very same thing. He accused the Pope

and the bishops of having left the old doctrine, but that he, Luther,

had retained it, for which reason he was an Old Catholic. The same is

repeated to-day; it is deception—pure deception; therefore we do not

call these deceivers ‘Old Catholics,’ but ‘New Protestants.’”

“I deplore all this confusion,” replied Stechapfel devoutly. “I have

nothing to do with Luther nor with heresy of any sort. I keep firmly to

the Old Catholic doctrine.”

“Please listen to me, Herr Stechapfel; I wish to ask you something,”

began Keller, moving his cap on one side of his head. “Do you believe

that the Pope is infallible when he explains and defines how an article

of faith or of morals is to be understood?”

“No; I do not believe it, because it was never believed before,”

replied Stechapfel.

“Was never believed before—only hear that!” exclaimed the villagers,

laughing.

“Then let me continue—I am not through yet,” said Keller. “You

believe, therefore, Herr Stechapfel, that the Pope and all the bishops

erred when they maintained this doctrine in the council?”

“Of course they erred; for they invented a new article of faith,”

answered Stechapfel.

“Ha! ha! That is too absurd!” cried out some of those present.

“Do not laugh, men; it is not a laughing matter,” said Keller. “Now,

Herr Stechapfel, since you are to be our pastor, you can perhaps

explain something that I do not understand. Our Lord instituted an

infallible teaching tribunal in his church before he ascended to

heaven. That he was obliged to institute this infallible tribunal I can

understand; for fifty years would not have elapsed after his ascension,

before learned men would have begun to misinterpret and distort his

doctrine. Therefore an infallible tribunal was necessary, that it might

tell the people what is and what is not the doctrine of Christ. Our

Lord has also promised and given to this infallible tribunal the Holy

Ghost, that he should remain with it unto the end of the world, and

establish it in all truth. But now, this tribunal, that is, the Pope

and the bishops, has declared that the Head of the church is infallible

when he gives to the whole world a decision or an interpretation

concerning the meaning of an article of faith or morals. Now follows

what I do not understand. You New Protestants maintain that it is not

so. But if it is not true, then the infallible tribunal has erred;

then our Lord has told a falsehood. How does this all agree, Herr

Stechapfel?”

The counsellor and the priest could not conceal their vexation.

“You are well instructed,” said Schlehdorn.

“This is in consequence of having had a good and zealous priest,”

replied the burgomaster. “Are you not a New Protestant, Herr

Counsellor?”

“By no means! I hold fast to the original doctrine of the Holy Catholic

Church; therefore I am, strictly speaking, an Old Catholic.”

“I do not believe it!” exclaimed Keller, with a fierce gleam in his

eyes. “You are a Freemason; although you have shaved off your beard and

moustache, yet I know you. Did you not a few days ago meet three other

Freemasons on the Vogelsberg (mountain of birds)? Did you not then say,

‘The trowel or the cross’? Did you not say that there was no God, no

devil, no heaven, no hell?”

“You are mistaken in the person,” replied the astonished official, in

great embarrassment.

“Well, what of it?” cried Ewald consolingly. “Do not for that

reason excite yourself, Herr Counsellor. We knew long ago that the

New Protestants had very little religion. Who are the most zealous

New Protestants? Just those who never go to confession or to holy

communion. They have wrapped themselves in the little cloak of ‘Old

Catholicism,’ so that they might work the better against the Catholic

Church.”

“Enough!” exclaimed the official, who had regained his self-command.

“I am not here to expose myself to rude attacks, but to introduce this

priest into his office.”

“That is not necessary!” exclaimed the men. “You can take the New

Protestant at once back again with you; we do not want him.”

“We are not in Bavaria,” said the burgomaster. “We shall be faithful

to the Pope and his bishops; we care nothing for the infallible

professors. We do not believe that any man is infallible of himself;

but the Pope is infallible by virtue of his office as teacher; and the

Holy Ghost is neither promised nor sent to the professors.”

“Herr Burgomaster,” began the counsellor sternly, “I make you

responsible for the safety and official influence of Pastor Stechapfel.”

“Alas! Herr Counsellor, you have asked too much!” replied the

burgomaster. “We in this village are Catholics in the strictest sense

of the word. Therefore, we cannot have Herr Stechapfel, because he is

a New Protestant. Do you imagine, Herr Counsellor, that the people

will allow themselves to be commanded in religious matters? Do you

think that our faith is to be knocked into and out of our heads by

police-clubs, just because you say the word? No; I refuse to become

answerable for the New Protestant pastor you have brought us, and I

also assure you that, if he enters the church, the people will run out.”

Keller, who had evidently devised some plan of action, gave the

burgomaster a secret sign.

“I think,” said he, “as the government counsellor has come purposely

hither, we should give Herr Stechapfel a trial. By the way of

beginning, you should introduce Herr Stechapfel into the pastor’s

residence.”

“You have spoken very wisely,” answered Schlehdorn. “I must now go;

farewell, gentlemen!”

The official thereupon returned to the city, and Stechapfel and the

burgomaster entered the priest’s house.

Keller remained outside; he spoke earnestly with the other men, and the

nature of his communication created great but suppressed mirth among

them.

After a short interval, Keller and Ewald appeared before Stechapfel.

“Have you maturely considered the matter? It will not do,” commenced

Keller. “If it becomes known in the village that an Old Catholic New

Protestant is here, there would be a terrible tumult. The people would

be wild at the thought of having a man as their pastor who is more

infallible than the Pope and the bishops, and who is at the same time

excommunicated. To avert misfortune, you must leave at once!”

“I protest against such treatment; I shall remain!” exclaimed

Stechapfel.

“You can protest as long as you wish; it becomes you very well, for you

are a New Protestant!” replied Keller indifferently. “But remain here

you cannot!”