From ROBERTS BROS., Boston: Memoir of Samuel J. May. 18mo,

pp. 297.

From D. & J. SADLIER & CO., New York: The Tithe-Proctor. By

W. Carleton. 12mo, pp. xiv.-432.—Ravellings from the Web of Life.

By Grandfather Greenway. 12mo, pp. 364.—Germaine Cousin. By Lady

Fullerton. 18mo, paper, pp. 30.—Which is Which? By the same. Paper,

18mo, pp. 45.—The Elder Brother. By Mrs. Jas. Sadlier. 18mo, paper,

pp. 31.—The Invisible Hand. By Mrs. Jas. Sadlier. 18mo, paper, pp. 36.

From BRIG.-GEN. ALBERT J. MYER, U.S.A.: Annual Report of the

Chief Signal Officer to the Secretary of War, for 1872. 8vo, pp. 292.

From DAILY JOURNAL PRINTING HOUSE, Syracuse: Addresses, etc.,

at the Inauguration of Alex. Winchell as Chancellor of the Syracuse

University. 8vo, paper, pp. 79.

From THE SOCIETY: Annual Address of Chief-Justice Daly, the

President, before the American Geographical Society, Feb. 17 1873.

8vo, paper, pp. 60.

From G. I. & C. KREUZER, Baltimore: Das Leben des HI. Paul

vom Kreuze. Aus dem Italienischen von einem Mitgliede der Congregation

der Passionisten. 12mo, pp. xvi.-400.

From HERDER, Freiburg: Leben des seligen Petrus Faber, ersten

Priesters der Gesellschaft Jesu. Von Rudolf Cornely, S.J. 12mo, paper,

pp. 200.

From WEED, PARSONS & CO., Albany: Remarks of Hon. Thos.

Raines in Reply to the State Engineer and Commissioners. Paper, 8vo,

pp. 28.

THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVII., No. 101.—AUGUST, 1873.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev.

I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at

Washington, D. C.

JEROME SAVONAROLA.

PART THIRD.

“For neither in our own age nor in those of our fathers and

grandfathers has any ecclesiastic been known to be so richly endowed

with virtues, on whom so great reliance could be placed, or who

enjoyed a greater degree of authority. Even his opponents admit him

to have been a man of vast learning in numerous branches.... This was

especially the case in respect of the Holy Scriptures, and in the

knowledge of which it is a general belief that there had not existed

for ages any one at all his equal. He evinced a profound judgment,

not only in literature, but in the ordinary affairs of life.... The

confidence he inspired was marvellous.”—_Guicciardini, Storia Inedita

di Firenze._

“ ... Of such a man one ought never to speak but with

reverence.”—_Machiavelli, Discorsi._

CHARLES VIII. crossed the Alps at the head of an army of 22,000

infantry and 24,000 cavalry—admirably armed and appointed for that

period. They had thirty-six cannons, of which the wonder was related

that they were drawn by horses, the guncarriages having four wheels,

two of which could be detached when they went into battery. To these

forces were to be joined those of Ludovico the Moor, Duke of Milan,

who had specially urged the coming of Charles. To such an army as

this, the Italians feared that all the armies of Italy, even if they

could be consolidated, could offer no effectual resistance. They were

in wretched condition, both as to men and commanders, and the famous

_condottieri_ had degenerated into mere consumers of pay and rations.

Under the able diplomacy of Lorenzo, the most friendly relations had

been cultivated with France, and Charles VIII. was inclined to treat

Tuscany more as an ally than an enemy. But Piero, with characteristic

ineptness, manifested a preference for Naples, and alienated the French

king. The indignation of the Florentines was intense when they found

that Piero’s course was likely to bring an army of invasion within

their walls; for the French advance was already marked by the brutal

massacres of the people of Rapallo and Fivizzano after the garrisons

had surrendered. Having separated his cause from that of the citizens,

and without men and means to oppose the French, the frightened Piero

set out for the king’s camp to sue for peace. Charles had yet to pass

on his way to Florence three strongholds, Sarzanello, Sarzano, and

Pietra Santa, any one of which with a small force could hold a powerful

army in check. When Piero reached the French lines, Charles had been

besieging Sarzanello for three days without success. The invaders

were in a barren country, shut in between the mountains and the sea.

In point of fact, they were poorly commanded; the French king himself

was a model of stupid indolence and neglect, and they might easily

have been driven back in confusion. And yet the panic-stricken Piero,

without consulting the ambassadors who accompanied him, immediately

yielded to all the conditions demanded by Charles, and even more; for

he surrendered at once the three formidable fortresses, besides those

of Pisa and Leghorn, and agreed, moreover, to a forced loan of 200,000

ducats from Florence. The fortresses thus given up had been gained by

long sieges and enormous sums of money, and were the military keys of

Tuscany. Naturally enough, the news of their surrender aroused the

Florentines to anger, which was intensified by what they heard from

the ambassadors of the conduct of Piero. Excitement spread throughout

the city. All business was suspended. Groups in the public places soon

swelled to crowds. Fierce and angry-looking men were seen bearing

weapons but partially concealed. Daggers were brandished that had not

seen the light of day since the Pazzi conspiracy. Artisans of all

trades, and in particular the _ciómpi_, the strong-armed wool-combers,

abandoned their workshops, recalling their former triumphs under

Michele di Lando in the days of the republic. But the old friends of

popular liberty among the higher classes had, during the past sixty

years, all melted away in exile or persecution, and there was every

excess and atrocity to be feared from an enraged multitude just freed

from servitude, and making no concealment of their threats against

those who had become wealthy and powerful by oppressing them. Such

crowds as these raged through the streets of Florence, when a sermon

from Savonarola was announced at the _Duomo_. A dense mass of people

soon filled it, and Savonarola from his place looked down on a human

powder-magazine in which the smallest spark in shape of an imprudent

word would create explosion and spread dire disaster. If “turbulent,

priestly demagogue” there were, this was the moment and this the place

to find him.

What said Savonarola?

Not a word of their complaints or their wrongs, past or present; not

the slightest allusion to Piero or to the Medici; but, bending over the

pulpit with outstretched arms, and looking into the mass of upturned

faces with gaze of affection and expression of tenderest sympathy,

he poured out words of peace, union, and charity: “Behold, the sword

has descended, the scourges have commenced, the prophecies are being

fulfilled; behold the Lord, who is leading on those armies. O Florence!

the time for music and dancing is at an end: now is the time for

pouring out rivers of tears over your sins. Thy crimes, O Florence!

thy crimes, O Rome! thy crimes, O Italy! are the cause of these

chastisements. Behold, then, give alms, offer up prayers, be a united

people. O my people! I have been to thee as a father; I have labored

throughout my life to make thee know the truth of faith, and how to

lead a good life, and have met with nothing but tribulation, scorn,

and opprobrium. I might have had this compensation at least, that I

might have seen thee performing some good deeds. My people, have I ever

shown any other desire than to see thee in safety, to see thee united?

Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. But that I have said

many times. I have so often cried out to thee, I have so often wept

for thee, O Florence! that it might have sufficed thee. I turn, then,

to thee, Lord; pardon this people, who desire to be thine.” He then

went on enjoining charity and faith with an energy overflowing more

with affection than eloquence, and the crowd who entered the _Duomo_ a

raging multitude, left it in peaceful procession.

Old Gino Capponi, a man resolute in word and deed, arose in a meeting

of the signiory, and said: “The republic must look to itself; _it is

high time to get rid of being governed by children_. Let ambassadors be

sent to King Charles, and, if they meet Piero, let them not salute him.

Let commanding officers and troops be called in, and, while kept out of

sight in cloisters and other places, hold themselves in readiness, so

that, while nothing is wanting in honorable dealing with the king, we

yet stand prepared to resist designs to which we should not submit. And

above everything, do not fail to send with the ambassadors the Padre

Girolamo Savonarola, to whom the people are so entirely devoted.”

Capponi’s suggestions were all adopted. The embassy was sent,

Savonarola following it on foot—his usual mode of travelling. The

other ambassadors were coldly received by the king, and immediately

returned to Florence with the assurance that his majesty was by no

means well disposed towards the republic. Savonarola reached the French

camp, and, passing through the soldiery, soon came in presence of the

king, seated among his generals. He was courteously received, and,

with slight preamble, thus addressed Charles in a loud and commanding

tone: “Most Christian king, thou art an instrument in the hand of the

Lord, who sends thee to deliver Italy from her afflictions, as for many

years I have predicted, and sends thee to reform the church, which lies

prostrate in the dust. But if thou be not just and merciful; if thou

pay not respect to the city of Florence, to its women, its citizens,

its liberty; if thou dost forget the work for which the Lord sends

thee, he will then select another to fulfil it, and will let the hand

of his wrath fall upon thee, and will punish thee with awful scourges.

These things I say to thee in the name of the Lord.”

EXPULSION OF THE MEDICI.

Meantime, serious events had occurred in Florence. The reports of the

returning ambassadors had produced still greater excitement. Piero de’

Medici had attempted to regain possession of the government, but had

failed, was hooted at, mobbed, driven from the city, and a price set

upon his head. _Palle! palle!_[163] once the all-powerful rallying-cry

of the Medici in Florence, fell dead on the ears of the people. The

Medicean palace was seized, and the houses of Cardinal de’ Medici,

and of Guidi and Miniati, confidential agents of the Medici, were

sacked. The turbulent mob appeared disposed to proceed to still greater

lengths, when Savonarola returned from his mission to the French camp,

again preaching charity, union, and peace.

His bold language had profoundly impressed the French king, who

resolved to be guided by what the monk had said, and on the 17th of

November, 1494, at the head of a portion of his army, some 12,000

men, he made a peaceful entry into the city of Florence. Meanwhile,

Capponi, resolved to be prepared for the worst, had laid in good store

of munitions of war in buildings where he held reserves of soldiery, in

cloisters and courtyards. Materials for barricading the streets were

provided, and all were ordered to come forth armed at the first sound

of the bell. His precautions were timely.

CHARLES ENTERS FLORENCE.

The reception of the French king was magnificent, and, after the

ceremonies, feasts, and illuminations attendant upon it, he was

sumptuously installed in the Medicean palace. Here the wife and the

mother of Piero de’ Medici contrived to negotiate with him for the

restoration of the Medicean rule. Tempting offers were made him:

Piero was to be brought back, and the government of Florence was to

be shared with the king. The effect of all this was soon visible in

the extravagance of the demands made by Charles upon the Florentines.

The signiory resisted; the king refused to recede, and gave them his

_ultimatum_. On its rejection by the syndics, he said, in a threatening

tone: “Then we shall sound our trumpets.” “And we,” instantly replied

Capponi, springing to his feet—“and we will ring our bells.”

Charles thought better of it, and the treaty was shortly afterwards

signed. It recognized the republic, and gave the king the sum of

120,000 florins in three instalments. The treaty ratified, still the

king lingered. Troubles arose. Collisions had taken place between

the soldiery and the citizens; robbery and murder were of nightly

occurrence; shops were closed, and trade generally suspended. The worst

consequences were feared, and Savonarola, fully occupied in preaching

peace and warding off dangers, was implored to use his influence with

the French king, and persuade him to depart. He immediately presented

himself before Charles, who, surrounded by his nobles, graciously

received him.

“Most Christian prince,” said the monk, “thy stay causes great damage

to this city and to thy enterprise. Thou losest time, forgetting the

duty that Providence hath imposed upon thee, to the great injury of

thine own spiritual welfare and the world’s glory. Listen, then, to the

servant of God. Proceed on thy way without further tarrying. Do not

desire to bring ruin on this city, nor provoke the anger of the Lord.”

A few days afterwards, the king and his army departed.

THE REPUBLIC.

Great was the joy of the Florentines to be rid of the foreigner and his

armed legions. Short as had been his stay, it left profound traces.

Pisa, Arezzo, and Montepulciano had risen in rebellion. The enormous

sums paid to the French king had drained the resources of the city. The

wealthy were impoverished, and misery spread among the poorer classes.

Savonarola proposed, first of all, to provide for the wants of these

last, and to take up collections for them. If they proved insufficient,

to turn into ready money the plate and ornaments of the churches; to

reopen the shops without delay; to lighten the taxes, especially to the

lower classes; and, finally, to pray to God with fervor.

A _parlamento_, or assemblage of the people, was now held to establish

the new government. Without experience or sufficient knowledge on their

part, it resulted in the re-establishment of the old magistrates, and

the maintenance of the old forms so cunningly devised by the Medici,

that, while the people possessed the outward show of an independent

government, it was one which from its nature could easily be wielded at

the will of one man. These defects soon became apparent, and various

propositions for reform were forthwith made at the Palazzo. Differences

were represented by two parties, headed respectively by Paolo Antonio

Soderini, and Guido Antonio Vespucci. Soderini was of the popular

party, and preferred the form of government at Venice as the best model

for the Florentines to adopt, stipulating that, instead of limiting the

Grand Council, as in Venice, it should be composed of the whole people,

and a smaller council called, composed of the _ottimati_, or men of

experience. Vespucci argued strongly against the democratic features

of Soderini’s proposition. It was evident that he carried with him the

majority at the Palazzo, and among them, naturally enough, many recent

partisans of the Medici. While the debates grew warmer and longer, many

citizens feared the result, and appealed to Savonarola for counsel.

He, too, saw the danger even more clearly than they, and resolved

to give the counsel asked. The interference of holy and religious

people in political affairs was no new thing in Italy. S. Dominic had

participated in affairs of state in Lombardy; peace had been effected

between the Guelphs and Ghibellines by a cardinal; S. Catherine of

Sienna interfered to raise the interdict pronounced on Florence by

Gregory XI.; and S. Antonino, the former Archbishop of Florence, had

more than once interposed to prevent the passage of unjust laws.

On the third Sunday in Advent (Dec. 12, 1494), in the course of

his thirteenth sermon on Aggeus, Savonarola spoke to the people of

government, discussed its general nature, the advantages of its several

forms, and what was best for them; and concluded this ought to be the

groundwork: that no individual shall have any benefit but such as is

general, and _the people alone must have the power of choosing the

magistrates, and of approving the laws_.

In a subsequent sermon at the _Duomo_, to which he invited all the

magistrates and people except women and children, he presented the four

following propositions:

First. They should in all things have the fear of God before them, and

there should be a reform of manners.

Second. All considerations of private utility should yield to the

public good and the cause of popular government.

Third. General amnesty absolving the friends of the late government

from all blame, and remitting all penalties, with indulgence to those

who were indebted to the state.

Fourth. Establish a general government which should include all

citizens who, according to the ancient statutes, formed a part of the

state, recommending the form of the Grand Council at Venice as best

adapted, modifying it to suit the peculiar character of the Florentine

people.

This effectually disposed of the plan of Vespucci, which would

otherwise have prevailed at the Palazzo, leaving Florence under a

patrician government which might ripen into despotism, or be the

ever-frequent provocation of fresh disorders and revolutions.

SAVONAROLA ON GOVERNMENT.

There is nothing more remarkable in Savonarola’s character and career

than the familiarity displayed by him with the principles and practical

working of government, as manifested by his writings and sermons

during the course of the debates and struggles attendant upon the

formation of the new republic. On all the proposals or modifications

of fundamental laws, the popular party would enter into no discussion,

nor take any decisive step, until Savonarola had spoken. And it was

remarked that, during the discussions which followed in the Consiglio

and other assemblies, the new law itself, or arguments pro or con for

a change or abrogation of the old, were presented by those who spoke

in the very words in which he had discussed the matter in his sermons.

It would indeed be matter of legitimate surprise that a monk whose

whole time was, as we have seen, fully occupied with the duties of his

station, should possess even slight command of a subject so foreign

to his calling, were it not that we are apprised of the sources of

Savonarola’s knowledge. They lay in his profound study of S. Thomas

Aquinas for the principles, and in his keen personal observation for

the practice, of government. To the treatise _De Regimine Principium_

he is largely indebted for his theory of popular government. No modern

writer has pointed out the evils of tyrannical government more clearly

than S. Thomas Aquinas, and none more clearly than he has shown that

government to be the best which tends most to the moral, intellectual,

and material interests of the people, and includes the largest number

of citizens under its protection. We sincerely regret that our

restricted limits will not permit the citation of numerous passages

from “the Angelic Doctor” upon this subject, clothed in to-day’s

English; they might much more readily be taken for the lucubrations of

an advanced political thinker of 1873 than for those of an ecclesiastic

of 1273. And we would express the same regret as to the work of

Savonarola—his _Treatise on Government_.[164] Throughout the entire

range of modern literature, comments on Machiavelli’s _Il Principe_

are so constantly dinned in our ears that one might suppose the Italy

of that day to have been in profound ignorance even theoretically

of the principles of free government. Savonarola’s treatise is the

antidote of Machiavelli’s _Prince_. There are passages in it from which

it might be concluded that he not only saw the necessities of actual

democratic governments, but also foresaw the dangers of those not yet

in existence. Thus: “Not wealth, as we commonly believe, is the cause

why an individual attains the headship of a state. Rather the cause

lies in this: that an individual attains to overwhelming influence and

exclusive consideration in the state by the possession and distribution

of public offices and dignities. To deprive individuals of this power

is the first stipulation of a popular government, which demands that

no law and no tax, no office nor honor, should be conferred or become

valid without the consent of the whole people. But in order that the

whole people shall not be collected together on every occasion, this

right will be vested in a certain number of citizens,” etc. And he

concludes with this passage: “As in everything, so likewise in the

state spiritual force is the best and worthiest of ruling powers.

Hence it is that, even from the beginning, a still imperfect state of

government will flourish in complete security, and with time acquire

perfection; if it is always universally acknowledged that the end

of all Christian states is the improvement of the citizens by the

withdrawing of all obscenity and all wickedness, and that the truly

Christian life subsists in the fear of God; if, moreover, the law of

the Gospel is esteemed as the measure and rule of civil life and of all

laws that are made; if, further, all citizens show a true love of their

country; if, finally, a general peace shall have been concluded among

the citizens, all past injustice of the former government forgiven, and

all older hatred forgotten—such unity makes strong within, secure and

feared without.”

SAVONAROLA’S CIVIL REFORMS.

The first measures decreed by the new government proved superior

intelligence in political matters. The ancient laws of the city were

found in such confusion that even judges and officials were not aware

of the extent of their duties or their jurisdiction. It was ordered

that these laws should be consolidated in one volume, or, as we would

say nowadays, codified. Savonarola then insisted on a reform in the

system of taxation, which, under the Medici, was not only onerous and

clumsy in application, but unjust in its distribution. The so-called

_catasto_, or system of assessing taxes on the supposed profits of

trade and commerce, was not only exhausting but absolutely destructive

of many branches of trade and industry, at once ruining those who

pursued them, and drying up the sources of wealth to the state. “Lay

the taxes solely on property,” said Savonarola. “Put an end to the

continual loans and all arbitrary imposts.” And he recommended a new

system—one devised with so much prudence, says Villari, so much

wisdom, and on such sound principles, that it has continued to be

acted upon ever since. This new law established a tax on property for

the first time in Florence, and also for the first time in any part

of Italy; it put an end to all loans and arbitrary assessments, and

obliged every citizen, without distinction, to pay ten per cent. of the

income he derived from permanent property.

A general amnesty for political offences was next decreed, and many

penalties assessed were remitted. Among the latter was one of June 8,

1495, which possesses a certain historical interest: “The magnificent

signiory and Gonfalonieri, considering that Messer Dante Alighieri,

great-grandson of the poet Dante, has not been able to return to this

city, from his want of means to pay the taxes imposed by the signiory

in the past November and December, and they being of opinion that it

is very fitting that some mark of gratitude should be shown, through

his descendants, to a poet who is so great an ornament to this city, be

it enacted that the said Messer Dante may consider himself free, and

hereby is free, from every sentence of outlaw, exile, etc.”

Savonarola next drew public attention to the sore need of a _Monte di

Pietà_—an institution to which the poor could resort in pecuniary

stress for a temporary loan of money on objects pledged. By reason

of the absence of such an establishment, and the popular indignation

against the Jews, from whom the needy were obliged to borrow, serious

disturbances had broken out under Piero de’ Medici; but the poor were

no better off than before, and the necessity of some aid for them was

a crying one. It was officially ascertained that there were Jews in

Florence who lent money at 32-1/2 per cent., with compound interest, so

that a loan of one hundred florins on their terms would in fifty years

amount to 49,792,556 florins.

Savonarola urged the subject vehemently from the pulpit, without,

however, attacking the Jews. He desired they should be converted, not

persecuted. A law was passed (Dec. 28, 1495) establishing a _Monte_.

Expenses of the institution were not to exceed 600 florins per annum;

interest to be paid by the borrower not to exceed six per cent.; and

borrowers were required to take an oath that they would not gamble

with the money so lent. Thus, with a fairer administration of justice,

a radical reform in taxation, the abrogation of usury, the permanent

relief of the poor, the liberty to carry arms, the abolition of the

Parlamento, and the establishment of the Consiglio Maggiore, it may be

said that the freedom of the Florentine people was obtained without

bloodshed or riot in a single year. The American traveller of to-day

who visits Florence will remark on the platform in front of the Palazzo

Vecchio the admirable statue of Judith slaying Holofernes—the work of

the immortal Donatello. It was placed there at this time as a symbol

of the triumph of liberty over tyranny. On its pedestal are inscribed

these words: _Exemplum sal: pub: cives posuere MCCCCXCV_. (“The

citizens placed this symbol of the public safety, in the year 1495”).

If the man who was the soul of this great movement had been a great

soldier or potentate, his name would have been handed down to posterity

as that of a new Lycurgus. But he was a simple white-robed monk, with

no other insignia of rank or authority than his persuasive word and the

example of his pure life. Neither in the public places nor the meetings

of deliberation and discussion was he ever seen, nor had he any

system of secret influence or hidden working. Of seeking any personal

advantage or emolument no one ever thought of seriously accusing him.

All he thought and had to say on matters of public weal he announced

publicly in the pulpit. To those who complained of undue clerical

influence in secular matters, and hinted at the desire of a monk to

govern a republic, he replied that in its trouble he held it to be his

duty to give advice to the new state, especially when so many in the

council feared to proclaim the truth. More he had not done. Seeking to

lead men to propriety and justice is not meddling. Such participation

in civil affairs is neither unworthy itself of a priest nor without

example in history, ancient or modern. He had gone no further than to

denounce open abuses, to encourage men to what was good and peaceful,

and to preach the Gospel. “I have said to you,” he tells them in one of

his sermons, “that I will not mix in government affairs, but only labor

therein to preserve complete the general peace. To recommendations of

individuals or similar solicitations I never yield. Go with these to

the proper officials. I also say here openly, if any of my friends

should be recommended to you, deal no otherwise with him than according

to justice. Yet once more: I do not meddle with state affairs; I wish

only that the people should remain in peace, and receive no injury.”

Perfect, Savonarola’s work certainly was not, for there was in it

the germ of an oligarchic power which at a later day worked like a

principle of corruption. Savonarola himself would have wished it more

complete. It has been sought to throw personal ridicule upon the great

Dominican, and to deny him any marked political eminence; but when we

gather the opinions of three great Florentines who lived after him,

who were not his disciples, and who were eminently qualified to judge

the subject-matter in question, moderns and foreigners may properly

remain silent. We refer to Machiavelli, Guicciardini, and Gianotti. Of

Savonarola personally, Machiavelli frequently spoke in terms of sarcasm

and irony, although in his writings he refers, to “the learning, the

prudence, and the purity of his mind.” He describes him (_Decennale

Primo_) as “breathing divine virtue”; and again he says: “Of such a

man one ought never to speak but with reverence.” He admits the great

importance of the institutions founded by Savonarola, and tells Leo

X. there is no other way to bring the state of Florence into order

than by the restoration of the Consiglio Maggiore—the council for the

establishment of which Savonarola struggled with such pertinacity.

Gianotti, a noble patriot twice exiled, who made special study of the

subject of government, says: “He who established the Consiglio Grande

was a far wiser man than Giano della Bella, because the latter thought

of securing the liberties of the people by humbling the great, whereas

the object of the other was to secure the liberties of all,” and is

elsewhere enthusiastic in his admiration of Savonarola. Guicciardini

the pompous historian and diplomat, and Guicciardini composing in the

privacy of his study, are two different writers. It is not in his

_Storia d’Italia_ that we must look for his real sentiments on certain

subjects. The diplomat holds the pen there. But in his _Ricordi_,

published long after his death, he says: “Such was the love of the

Florentines for the liberty conferred upon them in 1494 that no arts,

no soothings, no cunning devices of the Medici, ever sufficed to make

them forget it; that there was a time when it might have been easy,

when it was a question of depriving the few of their liberty; but,

after the Consiglio Grande, it was the deprivation of liberty to all.”

Elsewhere he says: “You are under heavy obligations to this friar, who

stayed the tumult in good time, and accomplished that which without

him could only have been attained through bloodshed and the greatest

disorders. You would first have had a government of patricians, and

then an unbridled popular government, giving rise to disturbances

and shedding of blood, and probably ending in the return of Piero

de’Medici. Savonarola alone had the wisdom, from the outset, to arrest

the coming storm by liberal measures.” Finally, in his _Storia di

Firenze_, he has none but the most enthusiastic terms of praise for the

prudence, the practical and political genius, of the friar, and calls

him the saviour of his country.

THE SERMONS AGAIN.

The great questions of government which then agitated Florence did not

for a moment distract Savonarola’s attention from the duty of preaching

practical Christian duties. After the course of sermons on Aggeus, he

preached on the Psalms, for the Lenten course of 1495 on Job, resuming

the Psalms after Lent. Solid teaching and vehement admonition were

never absent, and the sermons of 1494 were quite as strongly marked by

those features as those of the first course at the _Duomo_, in one of

which he tells his hearers: “How have you renounced the devil and his

pomps—you who every day do his works? You do not attend to the laws

of Christ, but to the literature of the Gentiles. Behold, the Magi

have abandoned paganism, and come to Christ, and you, having abandoned

Christ, run to paganism. You have left the manna and the bread of

angels, and you have sought to satiate your appetite with the food that

is fit for swine. Every day avarice augments, and the vortex of usury

is enlarged. Luxury has contaminated everything; pride ascends even to

the clouds; blasphemies pierce the ears of Heaven; and scoffing takes

place in the very face of God. You (who act thus) are of the devil,

who is your father, and you seek to do the will of your father. Behold

those who are worse than the Jews; and yet to us belong the sacred

Scriptures, which speak against them.... Many are the blind who say

our times are more felicitous than the past ages, but I think, if the

Holy Scriptures are true, our lives are not only not like those of our

fathers of former times, but they are at variance with them.... Cast

your eyes on Rome, which is the chief city of the world, and lower your

gaze to all her members, and, lo! from the crown of the head to the

sole of the foot, no health is there.

“We are in the midst of Christians, we converse with Christians, but

they are not Christians who are so only in name; far better would

it be in the midst of pagans.... For now men have become lovers

of themselves; covetous, haughty, proud, profane, disobedient,

ungrateful, given to ribaldry, without love, without peace, censorious,

incontinent, spiteful, without benignity, treacherous persons,

deceivers, puffed-up, lovers of voluptuousness more than that of God,

_who have the form of righteousness, but who deny the value of it_.”

More than ever the people hung upon his words. Numbers came from Pisa,

Leghorn, and the neighboring cities to hear him; many also from as

far as Bologna, to remain in Florence during Lent. Residents of the

neighboring villages and hamlets, and mountaineers from the Apennines,

filled the roads to Florence on Saturdays and the eves of feast days;

and, when the city gates were opened at dawn of day on Sunday morning,

crowds were there waiting entrance. Strangers thus coming were received

with brotherly charity, and the duties of Christian hospitality were

observed. Even in winter, the people of Florence rose from their

beds after midnight, in order to reach the _Duomo_ in time to secure

a place, and then waited in church, taper in hand, praying, singing

hymns, or reciting the office, for hours together. The cathedral could

not contain his audience. Seats were put up in an amphitheatre to

increase the space. Men and boys swarmed on the pillars and every point

where it was possible to obtain a position. Even the piazza was full.

All these remarkable manifestations were not without results. Florence

became a changed city. Not only were churches assiduously attended,

but alms were freely given. Women laid aside their rich ornaments and

expensive jewels, and dressed with simplicity. Light and careless

carriage or demeanor was rare. Habits of prayer and spiritual reading

in the houses of the Florentines became the rule rather than the

exception. The obscene carnival songs of the Medicean period were no

longer heard in the streets, but, in their place, lauds or hymns.

At the hour of mid-day rest, the artisan or tradesman might be seen

reading the Bible or some pamphlet by Savonarola, and young men of

noted licentious or frivolous habits became models of good conduct.

Fast days were observed with such rigor that, in justice to the

butchers, the tax on their calling was lowered. Men and women of

disedifying or tepid life became religious—among them men of mature

age, distinguished in letters, science, and public affairs. Such young

men as the Strozzi, the Salviati, the Gondi, and the Accaiuoli joined

the friars of S. Mark and other religious orders. Restitution of

ill-gotten gains or property was common. But the most wonderful thing

of all, says a historian, was to find bankers and merchants refunding,

from scruples of conscience, sums of money, amounting sometimes to

thousands of florins, which they had unrighteously acquired.

PROPHESIES HIS OWN DEATH.

Still Savonarola pressed on in his work of conversion as though it had

just begun. His followers had prepared themselves for a joyful tone

of victory in his sermons by reason of his brilliant civic triumphs,

and were ready to rend the air with their alleluias. But he, on the

contrary, seemed more serious, more sad, than ever, and, in his first

discourse after the events we have just related, opened with an

allegory full of sorrowful forebodings, and the prophecy of his own

violent death:

“A young man, leaving his father’s house, went to fish in the sea;

and the master of the vessel took him, while he was fishing, far into

the deep sea, whence he could no longer discern the port; whereupon

the youth began to lament aloud. O Florence! that sorrowful youth

thus lamenting is before you in this pulpit. I left my father’s house

to find the harbor of religion, departing when I was twenty-three

years old in pursuit only of liberty and a life of quiet—two things

I loved beyond all others. But then I looked upon the waters of this

world, and began, by preaching, to gain some courage; and, finding

pleasure therein, the Lord led me upon the sea, and has carried me far

away into the great deep, where I now am, and can no longer descry

the harbor. _Undique sunt angustiæ-_-shoals are on every side. I

see before me the threatening tribulations and tempests, the harbor

of refuge left behind, the wind carrying me forward into the great

deep. On my right, the elect calling upon me for help; on my left,

demons and the wicked tormenting and raging. Over, above me, I see

everlasting goodness, and hope encourages me thitherward; hell I see

beneath me, which, from human frailty, I must dread, and into which,

without the help of God, I must inevitably fall. O Lord, Lord! whither

hast thou led me? That I might save some souls to thee, I am myself so

placed that I can no more return to the quiet I left. Why hast thou

created me to live among the contentions and discords of the earth?

I once was free, and now I am the slave of every one. I see war and

discord coming upon me from every side. But do you, O my friends! you

the elect of God, have pity upon me. Give me flowers; for, as is said

in the Canticle, _quia amore langueo_—because I languish through

love. Flowers are good works, and I wish for nothing more than that

you should do that which is acceptable to God, and save your own

souls.”

Here his agitation was so great that he was obliged to pause, saying:

“Now let me have some rest in this tempest.” Then resuming his

discourse:

“But what, what, O Lord! will be the reward in the life to come to be

given to those who have come victorious out of such a fight? It will

be that which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard—eternal beatitude. And

what is to be the reward in the present life? The servant will not

be greater than his master, is the answer of our Lord. Thou knowest

that, after I had taught, I was crucified, and thus thou wilt suffer

martyrdom. O Lord, Lord!” he then exclaimed, with a loud voice that

echoed throughout the church, “grant me this martyrdom, and let me

die quickly for thy sake, as thou diedst for me. Already I see the

axe sharpened. But the Lord says to me: Wait yet awhile, until that

be finished which is to come to pass, and then thou shalt show that

strength of mind which will be given unto thee.”

HIS VISIONS AND PROPHECIES.

He then resumed the explanation of a psalm at the verse _Laudate

Dominum quia bonus_, and declaimed in a burst of ecstatic excitement,

which carried his hearers along with him, sobbing and weeping. It

was by passages like these, in which the magnetic attraction of the

speaker’s features, voice, and gestures predominated, that his hearers

were most affected. And this readily explains the fact that, when

we read his sermons as reported by those present, it is difficult

to invest the words with the tremendous effects they seem to have

produced. This state of ecstasy which seized him in the pulpit

frequently followed him to his solitary cell, where, for days and

nights together, he would remain the sleepless victim of visions, until

sleep happily released him. From his youthful days, he had made himself

familiar with all that S. Thomas Aquinas says of angels and prophets

and of their visions, and, in like manner, with all the dreams and

visions of the prophets and patriarchs as related in the Old Testament.

All these filled his mind, and at night reproduced themselves with

the vividness of original revelations. They increased upon him as

he read the Bible and the Fathers more assiduously, and he accepted

them as divine inspirations sent through the intervention of angels.

It is difficult to believe the extent to which a blind faith and

devotion to these visions had taken possession of all his faculties,

when we look at the calm, decided, and practical manner in which he

disposed of important questions of a merely mundane character, such as

administration, finance, and civil government.

Savonarola has left on record the fullest account of the workings and

condition of his own mind on the subject of his visions and prophecies,

in two works—_Dialogo della Verita Profetica_ (Dialogue on Prophetic

Truth), and _Compendium Revelationum_.

WAS SAVONAROLA A PROTESTANT?

In these works, Savonarola reveals himself without reserve on the

important subject of the prophecies and visions, and lays bare his

inmost heart. This is a part of his biography we would gladly treat at

length, for the reason that one of the accusations against him is that

of insincerity, bad faith, and deception of the people by abusing their

credulity. We must, however, content ourselves with the remark that,

although these works may afford some proof of an overheated imagination

and an overexcited mind, they certainly afford none whatever of any

thought or impulse of their author not perfectly sincere and loyal.

His two German Protestant biographers, Rudelbach and Meyer, to their

honor be it said, were the first to study these prophetic writings of

Savonarola. Their views diverge but slightly, both seeking to show that

he was a Protestant—a question now scarcely worth while discussing,

notwithstanding the impertinent assertion of the Luther monument at

Worms. In this connection, we may here cite the opinion of a late

writer on Savonarola, a distinguished English Protestant:[165] “So that

the effort made by some of the German biographers, more especially

Meyer, who artistically concocts a complete system of Protestant

dogmatics from his works, appears to be injudicious; and we must come

to the only reasonable conclusion: that, though he (Savonarola) is now

claimed both by Catholics and Protestants, he lived and died in that

church in which he was reared, and which he would not have destroyed,

but purified.”[166]

PARTIES AND FACTIONS.

When we speak of the respect and veneration entertained for Savonarola

by the population of Florence, we must not for a moment suppose he

was any exception to the rule that the presence of a good man is a

reproach to the depraved, or that Florence, like Athens, had not

within her walls those who were tired of hearing a man called just.

The Medici had still a large body of adherents in the city—men who,

whether they preferred or not an oligarchy to a republic, still

regretted the offices or emoluments they had lost—were themselves

of the aristocracy, or sympathized with it. Then came many of the

amnestied, who, themselves pardoned, did not therefore forgive others.

Then, too, those who felt themselves thwarted in their license or

licentiousness by the changed state of public morality. The dominant

party—that of the Frate—went by the name of the _Frateschi_. A

smaller party, composed of those who were not personally his adherents,

but were in favor of a republic, were called _Bianchi_ (white); another

and larger party, made up of partisans of the Medici, most of them

amnestied, were called _Bigi_ (grays), and, while outwardly favorable

to Savonarola, were his bitter and unrelenting enemies, in constant

correspondence with Piero de’ Medici, whose return was the object of

all their devices and plots. The partisans of the oligarchy, so active

in their endeavors to defeat the new government, and bent on getting

the power into their own hands, and establish a pretended republic

under aristocratic rule, were naturally opposed to both Savonarola and

the Medici. They had contemptuously bestowed the name of _Piagnoni_

(Mourners) on the followers of Savonarola, and, from their known bitter

hatred, were themselves called the _Arrabiati_ (rabid or infuriated).

Carefully avoiding any opposition to the republic, they sought by

every means to cast discredit on Savonarola, to throw ridicule upon

his visions and prophecies, to create discontent with his reforms,

and to foster a spirit of criticism and dislike against him. The

accidental elevation to the office of Gonfaloniere of a man unfit for

it—Filippo Corbizzi—was seized by them as an opportunity to attack

Savonarola as early as 1495. At their instigation, he called together

at the Palazzo a sort of theological council of theologians, abbots,

priors, etc., before whom a charge of intermeddling in the affairs of

state was laid against Savonarola. The council was opened, and the

discussion commenced, when, by the merest accident, Savonarola, in

entire ignorance of what was taking place, entered the hall with his

friend Fra Domenico, of Pescia. He was instantly assailed with words

of abuse and invective, and a Dominican monk of Santa Maria Novella,

who had some reputation as a theologian, made a violent speech against

him. Others followed the monk, and, when all were through, Savonarola,

calmly rising, said: “In me you see verified the saying of our Lord:

_Filii matris meæ pugnaverunt contra me._[167] It truly grieves me to

see my fiercest adversary wearing the dress of S. Dominic. That very

dress ought to remind him that our founder himself was in no small

degree occupied with the affairs of this world; and that from our order

have gone forth a multitude of religious men and saints to take part

in the affairs of state. The Florentine republic cannot have forgotten

Cardinal Latino, San Pietro Martine, Santa Caterina of Sienna, nor

Sant’ Antonino, all of whom belong to the Order of S. Dominic. A

religious man is not to be condemned for occupying himself with the

concerns of that world in which God has placed him. I defy any one to

point out a single passage in the Bible condemnatory of our showing

favor to a free government which is to promote the triumph of morality

and religion.” And he thus concluded: “It is easy to see that religion

ought not to be treated in profane places, and that theology is not a

fit subject for discussion in this place.”

There was no attempt at reply, except from one, who cried out: “Tell us

now frankly, Do you aver that your words come from God, or do you not?”

“That which I have said I have said openly; and I have nothing to add,”

was Savonarola’s reply.

SONNET

TO THE PILLAR THAT STANDS BESIDE THE HIGH ALTAR AT “S. PAUL’S OUTSIDE

THE WALLS,” ROME.[168]

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

A conqueror called thee from the eternal night,

And said, “Ascend from thy dark mother’s breast;

Sustain my glory on thy sunlike crest,

And by mine altar watch—an acolyte.”

A poet, wandering from Helvellyn’s height,

Beheld thee dead ere born. That Alpine guest

Adjured thee, “Where thou liest, forever rest,

And freeze those hearts that trust in mortal might.”

The years went by; then, clear above that cloud

Which blinds the nations, from her Roman throne

Thus spake the universal church aloud:

“Arise at last, thou long-expectant stone!

For God predestined, consummate thy vow:

Advance; and where the Apostle stood stand thou!”

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CHAPTER XIX.

ALBERT’S VISIT.

FANNY, after despatching her letter, was filled with an uneasiness that

was continually increasing. “Will he get here in season?” she asked

herself. “Perhaps mademoiselle will have come to a decision before

Albert arrives.”

But however partial Fanny might be to her protégé, she could not help

seeing that Louis possessed rare qualities. If her interests had not

been at stake, she would have confessed at once that he alone was

worthy of Mlle. Smithson; but her selfishness kept her wilfully blind.

Alas! day after day passed away without result. The wonderful letter

Fanny depended so much on produced no effect. Twenty times a day she

went from despair into anger.

“Such a fine dowry!” she would exclaim. “Such a pretty girl! And he

allowing them to slip through his fingers—to fall into the hands

of another—and what other!... A spendthrift who will squander her

property—a libertine who will neglect his wife!... Ah! she might be

so happy with him, and he with her! And I should be so sure of an easy

life in their house! What is he doing?... Is he absorbed in trifles,

and going to lose such an opportunity? I was right: he is light-headed.

But his mother, Mme. Frémin, has sense enough, I am sure, and has

longed for this match these ten years: is she asleep too? Or has she

changed her mind?...”

When the day of the dinner came, of which I have just spoken, Fanny’s

distress was unbounded. “The enemy is constantly gaining ground,” she

muttered to herself. “Every day Mlle. Eugénie becomes less indifferent

towards him. Perhaps they will come to an understanding to-night, and

vow to love each other. We are lost! Albert is positively a simpleton!”

When Eugénie retired to her chamber, Fanny, quivering with excitement,

was there to eye her narrowly, hoping to read the depths of her soul.

She saw her mistress was more thoughtful than usual, and began by

artfully praising Louis. Eugénie seemed to listen with pleasure. All

this caused the wily servant a sleepless night.... When daylight

appeared, Fanny had decided on her course. This _soubrette_ was a

long-headed woman!

“If I had to choose a husband for Mlle. Eugénie,” she said to herself,

“I certainly should not select M. Louis. Mademoiselle would be far

happier with Albert. As to him, he will never find another equal to

her. But I cannot force them to be happy. It is their own affair. Mine

is to look out for my own interests.... What do I want?... To secure

a pleasant home for the rest of my life. Perhaps this new suitor

would give me one.... Is he really as much of a spendthrift, and as

overbearing, as I feared at first? I have seen him only a few times,

but I know him well enough to see I may have been greatly deceived,

and that there is much more in him than I supposed.... Well, that is

settled: if Albert is not here in season, if I see the other one is

likely to win the day, I shall take sides with him.... But I will make

one more sacrifice for the ungrateful fellow whom I have loved so much!

I will write his mother again, and wait a few days longer....”

She wrote, and did not have long to wait. Albert arrived the next

day but one. When he appeared, Fanny almost sank to the ground with

astonishment and joy: with joy, because she loved him as spinsters

always love when they love at all—with as much strength as

selfishness; with astonishment, for she hardly recognized him. She

had not seen him for a year and a half. He was then in the third year

of his law studies—a young man of sprightly, jovial air, faultless

in dress, and fluent of speech, though he only talked of trifles....

_Quantum mutatus!_ ... He now had a grave air, his dress was plain

even to severity, and there was a solemnity in his manner of speaking

that confounded Fanny, but which pleased her. What had wrought such a

change? She was dying to know, but had to wait to be enlightened on the

point till she could see him in private. This could not take place at

once. He must renew his acquaintance with his uncle, aunt, and cousin.

Albert’s sudden arrival caused some surprise, but not very much,

however, for he had promised several months before to come about this

time. Mr. Smithson received him with his usual quiet, somewhat cool

regard. He looked upon his nephew as frivolous, and for such people

he had no liking. But Mme. Smithson gave her dear Albert a very

different reception. She loved him for his own sake, and especially

for his mother’s, whom she regarded with affection and pity. She was

quite well aware that her sister’s income was very limited, and to see

Albert marry her daughter would by no means have been repugnant to

her. Eugénie also received her cousin with the pleasure and cordiality

natural to a relative meeting the friend of her childhood.

In the course of two hours, he was made to feel quite at home, at

liberty to go where he pleased, and to do what he liked. All the family

had some employment, Eugénie as well as her parents. Albert at once

profited by this liberty to _prendre langue_, as the saying is—to get

the news from Fanny. For had she not induced him to come here, and

made him aware of her projects?... He found her in a small building

not far from the house. It was on the banks of the river, which was

more charming here than in any other part. Its peaceful current glided

between high banks where grew on either hand a row of willows whose

pendant branches swept the very waters. Everything was delightfully

quiet and romantic. It was Eugénie’s favorite retreat, where she often

came in the morning to read, or to muse as the day declined. But Albert

gave no heed to the beauties of nature around him.

“At last we can have a talk, my good Fanny,” said he: “talk of our

mutual plans, eh! eh!—for it seems you, too, wish me to marry Eugénie.

Our plans are in danger, if I am to believe your two letters: it

is possible I may be set aside! That would be a pity! My cousin is

handsomer than ever.... But to tell the truth, her style of beauty is

not exactly to my taste: she is too dignified. But ...”

“Too dignified!... Mademoiselle is enchanting; and then, there is her

fortune, which it is no harm to consider.”

“My uncle’s losses have made a hole in it, however.”

“But they are being repaired every day by his industry. You would not

believe how profitable this mill is. Come, tell me plainly, will you

ever find a wife as rich?—with even half as much as she will have?...”

“_Ma foi!_ no.”

“And the money you would never find again you have come near letting

slip into another’s hands!... There is some danger of it still.”

“You alarm me.”

“It is just so. Why were you so long in coming?”

“Because ... _Tiens_, my dear, I was just going to tell you a fib,

but it would do no good. I may as well show my hand.... I came very

reluctantly, because I prefer my bachelor life. It would suit me better

to wait a while. Would it be dangerous to ask a delay of two or four

years?”

“Ah! it is not enough to furnish you with a handsome wife and a fine

fortune! One must wait till you are disposed to accept them! Where are

your wits?”

“Come, do not get angry. I see I must marry her at once. I will do as

you say. Here, I am all ready to listen to your advice, for you must

tell me what I am to do.”

“You give in? You may as well! Come, own that you gave me a false

impression. And I was so pleased! Your grave air and plain dress made

me hope you were converted—I see I was mistaken, and am sorry for it.”

“A fine farce. And so I even took you in! But did you not tell me to

come here like a man seriously disposed? If I succeeded in deceiving

you, the disguise must be perfect. The rest are more easily taken in

than you!... But that is not the point. You look quite frightened. What

are you afraid of?”

“Everything, and principally lest you make Mlle. Eugénie unhappy.”

“She shall be mistress: that is what she likes—what else?”

“When you are married, you will no longer have any need of me, and will

send me away.”

“Send you away! I am ready to swear.... Here, I will give you my

promise in writing: you shall never leave my house. Fanny, do you

think me capable of such ingratitude? I am frivolous, but I have some

heart, you well know, you old grumbler.... Well, how do affairs really

stand?... Does not your affection for me incline you to take too gloomy

a view of things?... My enemy—my rival, if I rightly understand your

letters—is a fellow who ruined himself, and came here to win the

beautiful Eugénie’s heart and fortune; he is very sedate in appearance,

and artful in reality. But it is not enough to be ruined, and long for

a fortune—the thing is to get it. The first condition is to please the

lady. Is he a handsome fellow?”

“No; but he has a sensible, refined face calculated to strike the fancy

of a young lady like your cousin.”

“Has he much wit?”

“He talks little, but well.”

“He is religious, I think you said?”

“Yes; he has founded a library and a school for the benefit of

the workmen, and he visits the poor. All this affords him many

opportunities of meeting Mlle. Eugénie. She gives him books for his

library, paper and pens for his school, and they agree upon the

families to visit.”

“Ha! he is a knowing fellow. He thinks that a good way to please my

cousin and to see her. Then Eugénie is more religious than she used to

be?”

“It seems so, but you know it is not easy to tell what is going on in

mademoiselle’s heart.”

“Fanny, you have rendered me a service I shall never forget. It was

time to come—high time. I am even afraid I am too late. Have you

detected anything to make you think her in love with him already?”

“She began by regarding him with aversion. This softened into

indifference. What further change there is I do not know.”

“What caused her aversion?”

“She thought he came here to catch her.”

“The deuce!”

“His piety seemed to her mere artifice.”

“Evidently!... Is any one ever converted without a motive?”

“You are a wicked creature, Albert. Louis may be a hypocrite, but all

religious people are not hypocrites. I even begin to think he is not.”

“Come, go on!... Well, I see Eugénie regards him as a saint. She

admires him, if nothing more. The danger is imminent.”

“What are you going to do? Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Be easy on that score. I am going to keep an eye on that man, and

study him. If he is sincere, I will make him ridiculous; if he is

false, I will unmask him. Of course, I shall also employ other means.

If Eugénie is not yet in love with him, I shall be the foremost to win

her heart. If she is attached to him, I shall do my utmost to appear

more worthy of her regard, and to rout him. It is unnecessary to say I

shall persist in my _rôle_ as a person of gravity. Eugénie is absurdly

romantic. I must endeavor to appear more saintly than this new apostle.

No one will suspect the farce. It is an age since I was here, and

it would not be astonishing if I also had been converted during the

interval.”

“Don’t go too far!”

“You may rely on that. There is only one thing I am anxious about. Have

I not some invisible obstacle to contend against?... Eugénie has a will

of her own. If she has already made up her mind, if her heart is set on

him, all my attempts would be of no avail.”

“Things have not come to that pass yet, I have every reason to believe.

I know where and when she has seen him, and what he has said to her.

She only regards him with esteem, you may be sure.”

After deciding on his plans, Albert had but one wish—to put them

at once in execution. That very evening at dinner he directed the

conversation to Louis. Mme. Smithson heartily praised the engineer. Mr.

Smithson neither praised nor spoke disparagingly of him. He kept his

suspicions with regard to Louis to himself. He was not in the habit of

doing anything hastily, but had fully made up his mind to dismiss him

if he found him as thorough a Catholic as he had reason to believe;

that is, an overzealous one, secretly contriving with the _curé_ all

sorts of dark plots, the idea of which alarmed him.

Eugénie, in a perfectly natural manner, confirmed all her mother had

said, spoke of the good works he had undertaken, and finally mentioned

the part she had had in them.

“I also should be delighted to participate in all these laudable

undertakings,” said Albert. “I must tell you, dear cousin, that I am

beginning to be reasonable. I take an interest in studying the great

social problems, especially the extinction of pauperism, and the moral

improvement of the lower classes.”

Mr. Smithson gave Albert an incredulous look, and Eugénie broke out

into unrestrained laughter.

“Well,” said Albert, intimidated and cut to the quick, “you shall see

if what I tell you is not true! To-morrow I will visit this wonderful

school, and offer my services to the person who has charge of it. I

rather think they will not be refused.”

“Oh!” said Eugénie, “how amusing it will be to see you drilling under

M. Louis’ orders!... You will soon have enough of it.”

“You think me fickle, then?”

“Rather so.”

“You are mistaken. I always like the same things, and especially the

same people, my dear cousin.”

“How gallant you have become,” said Eugénie, laughing again. “But

what has come over us! We used to say _thou_ to each other; now we

say _you_. Once we kept up a succession of compliments anything but

flattering to each other, and here you are now gracious, amiable, and

complimentary beyond description! It is a pity I can make no return....

But it is all in vain, my dear Albert; neither your white cravat nor

your subdued air can deceive me. My aunt wrote me not long ago that you

were just the same. Do you hear?—your own mother said there was no

change in you.”

This unvarnished statement had really been made in one of Mme. Frémin’s

letters. She little thought of injuring her son by showing him in so

true a light.

“My mother was mistaken,” said Albert, exceedingly vexed at such

annoying remarks; “or rather, you have given a wrong interpretation to

her words. I am indeed the same in a certain sense. When there is cause

for laughter, I am ready to laugh. But though it is proper to laugh at

suitable times, I feel that excessive and constant gaiety is unworthy

of a man who aspires to a high place in the estimation of others.”

“Ah! to think of your sermonizing, my dear cousin,” cried Eugénie,

looking at him with a mocking air. “But now I begin to understand

your behavior.... Yes; that is it.... You have an eye to the bench.

You consider gravity as part of a judge’s outfit. You are right, but

between ourselves, as no one hears you, confess that the mask is

anything but comfortable.”

Albert was vexed and uneasy. His attempts were in vain: he could not

persuade Eugénie he was really what he wished to appear. His sagacious

cousin continued to banter him with a wit he found it difficult to ward

off.

Eugénie had no special design in her bantering, but her very simplicity

and wit disarmed Albert, and thwarted his plans. How far this was from

the _belle passion_ he hoped to inspire! Eugénie treated him merely

like a cousin, almost like a boy. He resolved to let her see he was a

man—a thoughtful and even religious man. “To-morrow,” thought he, “I

will go and beard the lion in his den. I will watch him narrowly; I

will become his friend in order to thwart him. When I have convinced my

uncle and aunt there are others quite as rational as this gentleman,

without being fanatics like him—for he is one, according to Eugénie’s

own account—when I have won the admiration of my romantic cousin, then

we will think of wooing. But we must begin by driving this Jesuit away.

Really, the comedy begins to interest me. A fine fortune and a pretty

wife are at stake. Moreover, there is this dismal creature to cover

with confusion. If I do not come off conqueror, it will be because the

fates are strangely against me.”

Such were Albert’s thoughts after retiring to his chamber. Then he

betook himself to a novel. He was delighted to find himself so shrewd,

and had no doubt of his success.

At that same hour, Louis was also awake, but absorbed in prayer. Piety

daily increased in his steadfast soul: so did love in his heart.

Albert’s arrival, which he was at once informed of, produced a painful

impression. “Mr. Smithson distrusts me,” he said to himself; “Eugénie

does not yet love me: it will be easy for this young man to win the

place I covet in her heart.” He dwelt on these sad thoughts for some

time, but soon had recourse to his usual source of consolation, and

confided all his cares to God. The prayer he uttered might be summed

up in these few words, so full of Christian heroism: “O my God! if it

is in his power to render her happier than I could, I pray thee to

bestow her on him, and let me find my only consolation in thee!...” The

true Christian alone can so purify his affections as to render them

disinterested. When Louis fell asleep, he felt a storm was brewing in

the air, but calmness was in his heart. Resignation, trust in God, and

the purity of his love had restored serenity to his soul.

CHAPTER XX.

A VILLAIN.

Albert called at Louis’ office about ten o’clock the next morning. This

office was in the centre of the manufactory, between two large rooms

always filled with workmen. Here Louis was confined ten long hours a

day. If he went out from time to time, it was first to one place, and

then to another, to keep an eye on everything, and remedy any slight

accident that might have occurred. He everywhere replaced Mr. Smithson.

He saw to everything, and gave orders about everything, and acquitted

himself of these duties with an ability and zeal that his employer

could not help acknowledging. He could not have wished for an assistant

more capable, more energetic, or more reliable. Had it not been for

one suspicion in this cold Protestant’s breast, one cause of antipathy

against this overzealous Catholic, Mr. Smithson would not only have

esteemed Louis, but would have taken him to his heart. As it was, he

contented himself with merely esteeming him, and this against his will.

The workmen were divided into two parties with respect to Louis. The

good, who were the least numerous—alas! it is so everywhere: the

majority are on the wrong side—were absolutely devoted to him. The bad

feared him. They knew he was inflexible when there was any question

of their morals or the rules of the establishment. Louis would not

tolerate drunkenness, or blasphemy, or any improper talk. The fear he

excited among the bad made him extremely hated by a few.

When Albert entered the engineer’s office, the latter went forward to

meet him with the ease of a man of the world receiving a visit, and

with the reserve of a diplomatist who finds himself in the presence

of an adversary. From the very moment these two men first saw each

other, they felt they were opponents. Each one had a position to defend

which the other sought for, and both were conscious of it. Before the

Parisian uttered a word, Louis divined what was passing in his heart.

“He has come to drive me away and marry his cousin,” thought he. “If

Providence favors his plans, I shall submit. But it was God who brought

me hither. I do not think I am mistaken in believing he has given me a

work to do here, and I shall not leave till I clearly see I ought to

give it up and go away.”

Albert had to introduce himself. “I am Mr. Smithson’s nephew,” said

he, “a licentiate of the law, and an advocate at the Paris bar. My

relatives have for a long time urged me to visit them, and I have

profited by an interval of leisure to accept their invitation. I am

aware, monsieur, of the important _rôle_ you fill in the house, and

what a useful man you are, and am desirous of making your acquaintance.

Besides, I have need of your services.”

“If I can be of any service whatever to you, monsieur, I assure you it

will give me great pleasure to serve you.”

“My charming cousin Eugénie tells me, monsieur, that you are engaged

in things I am likewise interested in—the relief of the poor and the

instruction of the ignorant around you. Eugénie has even given me to

understand that she is your assistant in this work.”

Albert kept his eyes fastened on Louis’ face as he uttered these words.

He thought he would betray his feelings at such a greeting—at the mere

name of Eugénie. But Louis’ countenance remained impenetrable as usual.

Albert felt he had before him either a very indifferent or a very

shrewd man.

“I am glad to learn, monsieur,” replied Louis, “that you take an

interest, as well as I, in these Christian labors, which in these times

are more necessary than ever. Poverty and immorality are making great

ravages. But I should remark that I am a mere novice in such matters.

As Mlle. Eugénie has been so kind as to speak of me, she may have told

you how little I have yet accomplished. And what I have done has only

been through Mr. Smithson’s constant aid. You wish, monsieur, to be

initiated into my undertakings. That will be very easy! I will show you

our library, scarcely established, and our evening-school: that is all.”

“You must also introduce me to your poor. I am seriously disposed

to make a practical study of the great questions of charity and

instruction. They are quite the order of the day. When can I meet

you?...”

“This evening, if you like; the school begins at seven o’clock.”

“And what do you do at this school?”

“I teach reading and writing to those who are ignorant of them,

orthography to some, and ciphering to others. I end by reading

something carefully selected, with occasional remarks easy to

comprehend and to retain. This affords me a daily opportunity of giving

my audience useful advice.”

Albert made a slight grimace. This manner of procedure did not suit

him. He wished for exercises that afforded a more promising field for

satisfying his vanity. It was well to propose being useful! He wished

to shine.

They continued to converse a while longer. Louis, with the shrewdness

that characterized him, led the conversation to the most serious

subjects. Albert replied without suspecting the scrutiny he was

undergoing. Faithful to his _rôle_, he affected to judge matters with

the seriousness of a man armed with unfaltering convictions. But this

seriousness did not blind Louis. Without appearing to observe it, he

caught him a dozen times in criminal ignorance, and, what was worse,

this ignorance was accompanied with a conceit that was ridiculous. At

length the two young men separated. They had formed an opinion of each

other at the first glance. Louis had seen through Albert’s mask, and

found him a man of no depth, poorly aping a person of gravity. Albert

felt he had a sagacious person to deal with. If Louis was his rival, he

was a formidable one.

It may be supposed that, loving Eugénie to such a degree, Louis felt,

as an impartial observer would have done in his place, that it would

be sad to see a woman of so much worth united to a superficial man.

He could not help feeling that he himself was more worthy of Eugénie

than Albert; that he was more capable of making her happy. He was not

mistaken; he had a right to think so.

A few days after this first interview, I sent Louis word that Victor

was very much worse. His disease had made alarming progress. Victor had

hitherto struggled courageously against it, but, the evening before,

he took me by the hand, and, fixing his large melancholy eyes on mine,

said:

“My dear, my beloved wife, I have kept up till now, and continued to

work as usual. But the hour has come for me to lay aside all earthly

thoughts and cares.... It is time to collect my thoughts.... Death is

approaching ...”

At these words, I began to weep and sob. He waited till this natural

explosion of grief was over.

“I can realize your distress, my good Agnes,” said he. “I, too, feel

how painful it is to leave you. But we are both Christians. Our

religion is a source of never-failing consolation.... See how good God

has been to us! I might have died months ago: God has left me with you

till now. He has given me time to prepare to enter his presence. And

I truly believe that, by the help of his grace, I have made a good

use of these last days. I have found and trained a man to succeed me

in the journal. He will defend the good cause as well as I; perhaps

better. I have saved the life of a young man who is and always will be

a consistent Christian such as we need more of. I shall, I hope, have

a share in all the good Louis will accomplish; and he will do a great

deal.... Of course, my dear Agnes, it is hard to separate from you,

but we shall meet again on high. The longest life is but brief. How

happy we shall be to meet again far from this wretched world, which I

should not regret were it not for leaving you. [P2 added period missing

in orig] Every day it gives less room to God: the impious and the

hypocritical are fearfully multiplying. This is a sad age! If the very

thought of leaving those we love were not so painful to the heart, ah!

how sweet it would be to soar away from so much wickedness to the pure

radiance of heaven. Why cannot I carry you with me, my poor darling?

Oh! how glad I should then be to go.... But, no; it is not the will

of God. He wishes me to precede you, alone. So be it. When in yonder

world, I shall pray for you!... And now, let us give up all worldly

things to those who have a longer time to live. As for me, I must cease

to labor, and henceforth think of nothing but God and my salvation....”

The following morning, I sent Louis word of what had taken place. He

hastened to see us that afternoon. When he saw our dear Victor, he

was exceedingly affected. My husband had changed every way within a

fortnight, without my being conscious of it, having been constantly

with him.

“Oh! how glad I am to see you!” said he to Louis. “Well, well, we shall

not meet many times more, ... here below, I mean, but we shall meet

again in heaven never more to separate.”

Louis burst into tears.

“You great child!” continued he. “If it were not for my sweet Agnes

there, I would beg you to congratulate me: I am going home to God! But

the idea of leaving that dear soul, who has made me so happy, hangs

like a cloud between me and heaven. Oh! you will, you will watch over

her as I would myself, will you not?”

“Yes; as your very self, I solemnly promise you,” cried Louis. Then,

falling on his knees beside the bed, he said: “My friend, assure me

once more that you forgive me. It is I who have killed you!”

Victor drew him towards him, and embraced him. Louis then begged my

forgiveness also. I could not answer him, but I held out my hand, which

he respectfully kissed.

“One favor more,” said Louis: “I hope you will not leave us so soon as

you suppose, but it is better to make the request now, as I can do it

to-day without troubling you: give me your blessing!”

Victor excused himself, but Louis insisted so long that he yielded.

Victor then extended his hand over his friend’s head: “O my God!” said

he, “I am only a sinner, with no right to bless in thy name; but I have

given my heart to thee, and I also love this soul to whom thou has

permitted me to do some good. Watch over him!... Make him happy here

below, or, if it is thy will he should suffer, grant him the necessary

courage to find joy in sorrow itself.”

This scene was deeply affecting. For some time we remained silent.

Victor, unwilling to leave us so painfully impressed, began to smile

and say the liveliest things he could imagine. Addressing Louis, he

said:

“How are your love affairs? You cannot imagine how I long for your

union with a woman so calculated to make you happy. The more I think of

it, the more I am convinced that Mlle. Smithson is the very person.”

Louis replied with a sigh. He related what had taken place at the great

dinner, and the wrong impression Mr. Smithson had derived from the

_curé’s_ imprudence. He also told us of Albert’s arrival, and gave a

brief account of their interview.

“This man’s unexpected appearance has caused me sincere pain,” he

said. “It has excited a thousand fears only too well grounded. Is it

because I think him capable of destroying my most cherished hopes?...

No; not if it depends merely on him. His meaningless face, his affected

and pretentious manners, and his vacant mind, are not calculated to

fascinate Mlle. Eugénie. Her nature is entirely different from his. His

defects must shock her. But the man, from what I am told, has the luck

of being in his aunt’s good graces. Who knows but Mme. Smithson herself

induced him to come, with the positive intention of giving him her

daughter’s hand in marriage?...”

“It is possible,” said Victor, “but you have one good cause for hope in

spite of everything. You acknowledge yourself that such a man cannot

please Mlle. Eugénie. Now, she is a woman with a mind of her own, and

her parents are very indulgent to her. These two reasons induce me to

believe she will never marry him.”

“She is different from most women,” replied Louis. “Her filial

devotion may lead her to accept the husband her parents propose....

Ah! if she loved me, I should not be alarmed on that score. For an

instant, I thought she did; but the longer I study things calmly, the

more inclined I am to believe I was lulled by a sweet illusion.... She

does not love me yet. It is possible she might, had things remained as

they were. Everything will take a new turn now. This young relative’s

arrival will absorb her attention, and how do I know but she will even

end by taking him for what he pretends to be—a grave, thoughtful man?”

“I have no fears on that point,” said Victor. “If this intruder is

the superficial person you suppose—and he is, I believe—he will not

deceive a person so observing as Mlle. Smithson.”

“He is her cousin.... Every one in the house treats him with great

affection.... Mlle. Eugénie is young and without experience, ... and

the man in question does not lack a certain ability.... He has already

annoyed me in more than one way.”

“Is it possible! How?”

“I told you that at our first interview he immediately expressed a wish

to aid me in the work I had undertaken. I promised to introduce him to

my school that evening. He was so urgent that he excited my suspicions

at once. My fears were only too well founded, as you will see. I had

scarcely been a quarter of an hour in the schoolroom, before he came in

with Mr. Smithson. I am anxious not to exaggerate anything; above all,

I do not wish to calumniate him. It is, therefore, with all sincerity

I tell you that this designing man, at his first visit, so arranged

everything as to take the precedence of me before my scholars. With

his arm passed familiarly through his uncle’s, he entered with a mere

salutation of condescending patronage. Then, after going to the door

with Mr. Smithson, who had business elsewhere, he remained as if to

superintend and direct me, as the master of the house might have done,

had he wished to assert his rights. I repeat it: this fellow only came

there to make the workmen feel that he was, even in my night-school, if

not the master, at least his representative, and I the humble agent.

In fact, without consulting me, he began to give advice to one and

another, making a great deal of noise, and meddling with everything, so

that, thanks to him, nothing was done. He disturbed everybody, and was

of no assistance.

“Of course, the idle and talkative, as well as those disposed to

flattery, took to the new-comer. As to me, I frankly confess he had a

singular effect on my nerves. However, I restrained myself, and said

nothing to him that evening. The next morning, he called on me, and

announced his intention of beginning a series of lessons on political

economy. As you know, I am in the habit of reading aloud every evening

from some good book—a historical incident, an anecdote, or a moral

extract calculated to interest the workmen. To this I join some

familiar explanations and reflections of a moral and even religious

nature. This exercise, as simple as it is beneficial in its results,

was not to his liking. He wished to replace it advantageously, as he

said, by instructions apparently learned, but in reality useless and

even pernicious. Nothing is worse than to waste great words on people

absolutely destitute of elementary knowledge. But the very ignorance

of his audience attracted Albert. He thought he should dazzle them

without much effort, and without running the risk of their finding out

how little he really knows. I listened very coldly to his proposal.

When he left, he gave me a slight glance of spitefulness which was

ominous of evil.

“That night the young man did not appear in the schoolroom, but the

following evening he presented himself. This time he made so much

confusion that I could not conceal my annoyance. He perceived it, and

left the room. I regretted not having, perhaps, restrained my feelings

sufficiently. I followed him into the next room. He received me with

insolent haughtiness, and took my explanations unkindly. When I had

finished, he thus addressed me:

“‘Monsieur, there are some who do good out of love of being useful: to

such I belong. There are others who do it from motives of self-love and

interest: you may know of some.... You have instituted this school; you

direct it in your own way; you wish to be the sole master. What your

reason is for all this I do not know, but I can certify one thing: you

wish to have your workmen to yourself. It is not my practice to intrude

anywhere, even when I have a perfect right. Consequently I withdraw.’

“I stopped him to ask what motive of interest I could have.

“‘O monsieur!’ said he, ‘the name of a philanthropist is not to be

despised. It leads to many things. You know better than I what use you

wish to make of it; it is not for me to tell you. It remains to be seen

if you succeed.’

“He evidently wished to insinuate that I had taken this indirect way

of gaining the esteem of the Smithson family, and perhaps Eugénie’s

affections. I felt my anger rise. I was about to reply in a way I

should have regretted, but he prevented it by going out without giving

me an opportunity.

“At first, I congratulated myself on my victory. I am ashamed to say

that my pride, which I thought I had conquered, again reappeared

in my heart. ‘He is afraid of me!’ I said to myself. ‘He feels my

superiority, and has gone away through mortification.’ Subsequent

reflection convinced me of my mistake. Albert, in withdrawing, was not

vanquished, but really the conqueror. He had successfully achieved

his perfidious design. He was tired of the school, and felt he should

soon cut a sorry figure in it. He sought the means of getting out of

it, which I unwittingly furnished him, so that his very retreat could

be used as a plea against me. All my subsequent observations have

confirmed my suspicions. I have not met him since, but I can see he has

been secretly plotting against me. Mr. Smithson is colder than ever

towards me. As to Mlle. Eugénie, I have met her only once, walking

with Albert. She saw me, and might have spoken, but pretended not to

observe me.... Ah! my dear friend, I am, I confess, down-hearted.

For days, I have seen that my course and my principles excite Mr.

Smithson’s suspicions, but I had some reason to believe I was no longer

indifferent to his daughter. Now she herself has turned, or rather,

has been turned, against me. In a month, she will no longer be able to

endure me.... What shall I do?”

“Keep straight on: continue the work you have begun. If an opportunity

occurs for explanation either with the father or daughter, convince

them that you are an honest man.”

Our poor friend was very gloomy when he left us. We participated in

his sadness, for we did not doubt but this cousin, who had come so

inopportunely, was slyly doing him some ill-turn. We were not wrong in

thinking so. I will relate what had taken place.

As Louis rightly conjectured, Albert had willingly allowed himself to

be excluded from the school. He immediately presented himself in the

_salon_ with an air of discouragement, but triumphing in the bottom of

his heart.

“You have returned early this evening,” said Eugénie. “Are you tired of

the school already?”

“I am not tired of it, but they can no longer endure me there.”

“Have you made yourself insupportable?” asked Eugénie. She really did

not love her cousin, and under the appearance of teasing him, as is

the way with young people, she told him some pretty plain truths as

often as she could. Mr. Smithson was reading a newspaper. Hearing what

Eugénie and Albert said, he looked up, and said to his nephew, in his

usual grave tone:

“What has happened?”

“I have been dismissed from the school.”

“Impossible!” said Eugénie.

Albert was astonished at the persistency with which his cousin defended

Louis. He felt his hatred redouble against the engineer.

“You may well think it impossible,” said he, in an insinuating tone....

“Really, if this gentleman has a right to figure in the school he has

founded with my uncle’s aid, I, his nephew, and almost a child of the

house, have a right to take a part in it also. But such is not the

opinion of our imperious co-laborer. There is a certain routine about

his instructions that I mildly criticised. For example, he tries,

however awkward it may be, to give a religious turn to everything,

which I, though a great friend to religion, find ridiculous.”

In this underhand way, Albert skilfully aroused his uncle’s anger and

distrust. Mr. Smithson murmured to himself, with that voice of the soul

inaudible to others: “I thought so: he is fanatical and ambitious. My

nephew, fool as he is, has found it out, and has unmasked him! That is

why the other has got rid of him.”

Albert partly guessed what was passing in his uncle’s mind, and saw he

had made a good hit. He ended his recriminations in these terms: “The

little advice of a humble nature I gave him; my course so different

from his, and, I may say without vanity, better....”

Here Eugénie burst into a loud laugh.

“Eugénie,” said Mr. Smithson gravely, “what your cousin is saying

merits attention. You are far too giddy this evening.”

Eugénie never resisted her father, except in a case of absolute

necessity; she became silent, and appeared to take no further interest

in the conversation.

“At last,” said Albert, “I clearly saw this gentleman wished to have

his school to himself, so much at home does he feel even there.... He

rudely ... made me feel that ... I was in the way. I withdrew, but not

without letting him know, in my turn, that I regarded his course as it

merited.”

“There was no quarrel between you?” inquired Mr. Smithson, who had a

horror of contention.

“No, uncle.”

Mme. Smithson thereupon proceeded to console her nephew as well as

she could. The remainder of the evening passed in an uncomfortable

manner. Each of the four persons in the room was absorbed in serious

reflection without wishing it to be obvious, and all felt that they

would not like to communicate what was passing in their hearts. This

caused a want of ease which became more and more awkward as it grew

more perceptible in spite of the efforts each made to conceal it. The

two who were the most troubled, however, were Mme. Smithson and Albert.

The latter no longer doubted Eugénie’s love for the engineer. He ought

to have seen that, as usual, she merely took the side of the oppressed.

As to Mr. Smithson, it was quite different. A few days previous, he

merely suspected Louis might be fanatical and ambitious, and linked

with the _curé_ to undermine his authority among the workmen. Now he

began to be sure of it. He even went so far as to suspect his daughter

of favoring Louis’ designs. This Catholic league, established in his

own house and at his own hearth, filled him with a terror and anger as

lively as they were ridiculous.

CHAPTER XXI.

CALUMNY.

The next morning, before any one was up, Albert went in search of

Fanny, with whom he had the following conversation:

“You have caused me a useless journey,” said he. “Eugénie loves the

engineer.”

“I do not believe it,” replied the servant, either because she did not,

or because she wished to console Albert.

“It is of no use to contradict me. I have kept my eyes open, and

drawn my own conclusions. I have a better opportunity than you for

observation. I tell you she loves him! If you cannot devise some scheme

for driving him from her mind, I shall set out to-morrow for the

capital.”

“Here is what I call hitting the nail on the head.... I thought of

something yesterday exactly to the point.”

It was Albert’s turn to be incredulous. He shrugged his shoulders as a

sign of doubt.

“I tell you I can satisfy your demand,” repeated Fanny slowly. “Listen!

In a manufactory, everything is talked about. The engineer has for

some time frequented a house apparently through charity, but it is my

opinion another motive takes him there. There is a young girl in the

house—the prettiest, handsomest girl to be seen, they say, for ten

leagues around. Besides, she is well behaved, intelligent, and even

pious; only, she is pitifully poor.”

“Tell me how he became acquainted with the family.”

“The father is a drunkard; the mother an idle, malicious creature who

is employed here. The engineer looks after her. This woman was probably

the cause of his going to the house. They are extremely destitute.”

“And the girl: what does she do?”

“She has been very well brought up at an aunt’s in town. The aunt died

recently, and so suddenly that she was unable to make her will, as she

intended, in favor of her niece. The latter has therefore returned

home, to find nothing but wretchedness. I must confess, however, that

she has behaved admirably.... All these details are correct, I assure

you.... What is no less true, Mlle. Eugénie knows all the poor families

that the engineer visits except this one. It is my conviction that

he loves this girl, and intends marrying her some day.... There is no

need of making people out worse than they are. There are some good

things in this M. Louis. All his family are very wealthy. He will not

be poor long, and is at liberty to marry a woman who has nothing, if he

pleases.”

“Well,” said Albert, “I will reflect on what you have told me. It seems

to me, with this information, I can greatly modify my fair cousin’s

feelings towards her protégé.”

Before another hour, Albert had gathered full particulars with regard

to the subject, and matured his plans. That very afternoon, he asked

Eugénie to allow him to accompany her in her rounds among the poor.

“Willingly,” said she. “I have not been to see them for some time. I

was just thinking I ought to go to-day.”

They set out together. The day was delightful. Eugénie, lively and

witty as usual, took most of the conversation upon herself. Albert had

on a dignified air of offence which he wished his cousin to perceive;

but she did not notice it, or pretended not. Twenty times he was on

the point of alluding to what had taken place the evening before, and

as often refrained. Conceited as he was, Albert could not help it—he

was not at his ease in Eugénie’s society. Her unvarying frankness, her

intelligence, and the vivacity that never forsook her, all these rare

qualities rendered him continually diffident in her presence.

At some distance from the manufactory, the road divided. One part

turned towards the highway that led to the village; the other followed

a gentle declivity to the river half hidden among the willows, rushes,

and flowers that make that part of the bank so delightful.

“What a charming view!” said Albert. “Let us go down this way a short

distance. We can afterwards return to the highway.”

Eugénie allowed herself to be guided by his wish. When within a hundred

steps from the shore, they came to a hut by the wayside, between two

large trees, picturesque in appearance, but indicative of poverty. It

looked like a forsaken nest in a thicket.

Albert had made particular inquiries, and knew the hut was inhabited by

the Vinceneau family—the one, it will be recollected, that Louis took

charge of unknown to Eugénie.

“Are there not some of your poor people here whom you ought to visit?”

asked Albert, in the most innocent manner.

“No; I have no idea who lives in this cottage.”

“I saw M. Louis coming out of it the other day.”

“He probably came here on business. I know all the families he visits;

none of them lives here.”

While thus talking, Albert approached the hut, and, before Eugénie

could prevent him, entered. She followed.

Mère Vinceneau was at home that day, in one of her fits of idleness and

ill-humor. She at once recognized Eugénie, whom she did not like. She

had, as I have already remarked, a general antipathy against the rich.

“What have you come here for?” said she.

“We do not wish to disturb you in the least,” said Eugénie, whose

curiosity was now roused. “My cousin and I merely wish to rest

ourselves. Perhaps you could give us some milk.”

“I have none.”

Mère Vinceneau was a tall, spare woman, with a forbidding countenance,

and covered with rags. Had it not been for her crabbed face, she would

certainly have excited compassion. However, Eugénie’s sympathies were

awakened at the sight of her wretched condition.

“You seem very destitute, my good woman,” said she. “Can I be of any

service to you?”

La Vinceneau softened a little at this gracious offer. “Thank you,” she

said. “It is true we are badly off, while some people have too much....

Nevertheless, I ought not to complain. We have one friend.... You

know him well—M. Louis, the engineer of your mill. What a kind heart

he has! There is one who loves the poor! If the rich only resembled

him!...”

“Do you live here alone?”

“No; I have a husband employed at the tile-works, and a daughter who

goes out as a seamstress in the village. She is coming now.”

A slight cloud came over Eugénie’s face. It became still darker when

Madeleine Vinceneau entered. Madeleine was not merely beautiful: she

was dazzling. Poorly but neatly clad, she came forward with a dignity

and grace that inspired astonishment as well as respect. Her large

black eyes, her pale, refined face, her smiling lips, and her whole

appearance, had an air of aristocratic distinction.

“What a lovely creature!” was Eugénie’s first thought. Then another

presented itself: “Perhaps Louis loves her.” She shuddered. A feeling

of displeasure and sadness came over her: “I must be in love with

him myself without being aware of it, to be so jealous,” she said to

herself. This doubt was natural. Eugénie determined to solve it. Such

is our nature. We can never see so clearly what is passing in the

depths of our hearts as in a tempest.

Eugénie began to question the girl discreetly. She wished to ascertain

if her nature was as angelic as her exterior. She was soon satisfied

on this point. Madeleine was innocence itself, and as good as she

was innocent. She confirmed all her mother had said, and in her turn

praised Louis with an ingenuousness that assured Eugénie she did not

love him. “But he—is he as indifferent to her?...” was Eugénie’s

thought as she left the house. She could not get rid of the painful

suspicion, consequently she was in rather a gloomy mood. Albert noticed

it, but refrained from saying anything. One unguarded word would have

counteracted the happy effect of his perfidious scheme. But he was

triumphant when he returned to his room. “I have dealt my rival a

severe blow,” said he to himself—“a blow he can hardly recover from;

for he will not suspect its source, and Eugénie will never mention it

to him. Even if she wished to, how could they have any explanation?

They never meet except in the presence of others. Before such an

explanation takes place, I must find other means of completing his

ruin.... I have begun well, and must bring things to a crisis....”

All this occurred the day before Louis came to see us. Mère Vinceneau

told him of the visit a short time after. He suspected there was

some scheme of Albert’s at the bottom of it, and dwelt on the means

he should use to defeat his calculations. Meanwhile, his enemy was

contriving a new plot destined to cause him still greater embarrassment.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE EMPIRE.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

THE imperial form of government has sprung up in France within seventy

years, and been only slightly modified by the different administrations

that have succeeded each other. And yet nothing could be more at

variance with the traditions, customs, and genius of the nation. This

_régime_ is of foreign origin. It is the recrudescence of the conquest

of Gaul by Julius Cæsar. It has subjected us again to a yoke analogous

to the condition we were in after Gaul lost its independence. The veil

that blinded us to its real nature has fallen off in the shock of

momentous events. It is important to reassert a truth that will now be

better comprehended. The historians of the Revolution have endeavored

to show that the revolutionary movement of 1789 was purely French,

and the result of national necessity; but the very violence that

accompanied it proves the contrary. Natural developments are effected

peacefully. Louis XVI., so far from resisting the torrent, seconded

it, and abandoned himself to it. Nothing shows so fully what an effort

was necessary for the triumph of the Revolution as the impossibility

of its succeeding by regular means and the assent of the country. It

took France by assault. It profited by circumstances, but this does

not change the nature of its deeds or the character of its success. We

do not deny that this pagan and Cæsarean tradition might have found

its way into France with the monarchy, but it is certain that, however

restrained it had been by Christian principles, it all at once broke

through its bounds. Half the members of the Constituent Assembly

belonged to the legal profession. Imbued with the absolutist teachings

of Roman law, they energetically sought to apply them. The Revolution

recalls ancient Greco-Roman days; there is nothing Christian about it.

What is the sovereignty of the people but the very principle that laid

the foundation of despotism in Greece? The title of “citizen” implies

that all Frenchmen belong to the same city or town. This rising _en

masse_, and the notion that every Frenchman is a soldier, are wholly

pagan. The legislative corps—that means the people make their own

laws, only they do so by proxy. What! the people not exercise their

special prerogative! In ancient times, though the people only amounted

to a few thousand voters, they never fully enjoyed the legislative

power. Besides, in consequence of the institution of slavery, every

shade of democracy was equivalent to an aristocracy. The legislators of

1789 only recognized the slavery of citizens with respect to the state,

which induced them to create a power strong enough to counterbalance

and represent their ten millions of constituents.

Their proscriptions, denunciations, conspiracies, and struggles

recall the time of Marius and Sylla. It is worthy of notice that

in the revolutionary documents the heroes of Athens and Rome

replace the saints of the calendar. This imitation is extremely

amusing. A religion utterly pagan follows. A Pantheon is opened to

modern divinities, and great men deified. Catholicism undergoes a

persecution unsurpassed by the persecutions of the emperors of the

first three centuries. It alone is excluded from the Pantheon. Under

the empire, this imitation is so striking that it is impossible to

mistake it. The Napoleonic era recalls that of the Cæsars. In this

new civilization, or ancient civilization revived, new terms are

necessary to express the changes made. Political language is modified.

First we have consuls, then tribunes, then a senate, and at last an

emperor. The senatus-consultum keeps pace with the plebiscitum. The

subdued provinces are governed by prefects. The judges are merely

Napoleon’s delegates. The whole of this organization is of foreign,

not French, origin. Our history presents no parallel to it. And the

reality corresponds with the appearances: it is the engrafting of

absolute power on the sovereignty of the people. For the emperor never

disguised the source of his authority. He always assumed to be the

representative of the people. Like Augustus and Tiberius, he derived

the imperial inviolability from the tribunitian character with which he

was invested. The empire had its _noblesse_, but a _noblesse_ of titles

and decorations similar to that of the Lower Empire. All independence

was denied this _noblesse_. The army was likewise organized after

the manner of the Roman legion. There were no longer any local

distinctions. Each regiment was composed of a confused mixture of the

various French peoples. The officers even did not belong to their

regiments. They knew, in their nomadic life, only the will of Cæsar, on

whom alone they depended, and who transported them from one regiment to

another, and from one place to another. Passive instruments, they had

no will of their own. Therefore, they were ready for anything.

Formerly, the army could not be employed against the nation. It

represented the different social elements, and enjoyed the independence

natural to these elements. The officers retained their independence,

for they served at their own expense from a sense of duty. The

administration, the bar, and the army under the empire depended on one

individual. Neither local customs, nor municipal corporations, nor

right of property could withstand this despotism. A universal levelling

under the name of equality smoothed away every obstacle before Cæsar.

What rank could stand before the formidable title of the sovereignty of

the people? This Cæsarean power found no embodiment in one of French

origin. It fell to an Italian, a Roman, to one who rivalled Plutarch’s

heroes. This Italian assumed control of the Revolution without ceasing

to be Italian, or rather Roman; for Roman he was, a cosmopolite.

His aim was to restore the Roman Empire, or the Empire of the West.

The French nation was to be the means of universal conquest, as the

Gauls in the hands of his predecessors, the Cæsars. Of old France he

preserved no vestige. And he carried into Italy his achievements in

France. He extended the Revolution to Spain. There was nothing French

in a single characteristic of his genius. And his race have obstinately

pursued the imperial career which he opened. His nephew, like himself,

a mixture of astuteness, violence, boundless ambition, utopianism,

literary tastes, and fatalism, renewed the glory of the empire. Louis

Napoleon also belonged to all lands. Italian, Swiss, German, English,

American—he had something of them all. He spoke all languages as well

as the French, and his French was that of a refugee. During his reign,

he assembled around him none but foreigners. His apartments were never

clear of the outlandish people he had become acquainted with in his

wanderings. He loved to converse with them, to tell them his plans. And

these adventurers enjoyed being with him. They found him as utopian

as ever, as unchanged in his notions, and the phenomenon interested

them. No Frenchman of note consented to serve him. France was given up

to foreigners. They penetrated everywhere, and took possession of the

country. Imperial cosmopolitanism attracted them, and sheltered them,

and overloaded them with favors. French policy became English, Italian,

American. The denationalization of France was effected by the laws,

public schools, new manners, and the transformation of Paris into an

European capital of pleasures and the arts: France disappeared. This

system was overthrown when, arrived at the highest pitch of madness,

Louis Napoleon, after effecting the unity of Italy, so powerfully aided

King William in setting up the new Empire of Germany as a rival to

France. He sacrificed France to the triumph of the imperial idea in

Italy and Germany.

The Bonaparte family is completely destitute of patriotism. Its

cosmopolitan character is constantly asserting itself. Louis Napoleon’s

foreign policy was essentially anti-French. His constant desire

to effect the unity of Italy and that of Germany was the wish of

an alien. Our interior legislation became no less opposed to the

national character. What is the civil code but the systematization of

principles laid down in the Digest? The right of property restricted

by the legislator, family rights suppressed for the benefit of Cæsar,

and property, as well as individuals, placed under administrative

direction—all this is Bonapartism as well as Cæsarism. Outside of

the central power, there was no authority possessing any freedom of

action in France. No municipal body was safe from dissolution. No

corporation was allowed to stand alone. Obedience became the lot of the

French; which does not imply order and unanimity, for the government,

with contradictory aims, and without any real permanence, imposed

laws that were contradictory and impracticable. The distinguishing

feature of Bonapartism is the union of liberal theories with absolute

power. In spite of universal suffrage and deliberative assemblies,

despotism increased and was strengthened. It even relied on the

opposing and controlling influences it created. The senate and the

legislative corps were subservient to the empire, and sustained it.

The idea of equality and liberty constantly held out by high imperial

functionaries contributed to the popularity of the Napoleons. Under the

late _régime_, Prince Jerome Napoleon was charged with representing

the democratic side of the imperial government. But we know now,

by the revelations of the papers found, that his opinions always

coincided with the emperor’s. This was what may be called playing

into each other’s hands. The tip of the ear shows itself in those

liberal speeches which were apparently most hostile to the government

in such a way that no one who knows how to read can fail to perceive

it. Under his forcible language is concealed a faint, half-expressed,

vague opinion, but which is clearly and positively opposed to the

rights of assemblies. What enthusiastic liberalism did not M. de

Persigny manifest! According to him, provincial liberty was upheld by

the _préfets_, whom he styled, on one occasion, the fathers of the

departments. This sally caused much laughter, but M. de Persigny did

not laugh. This same minister bethought himself of some conflicting

elements that had evaded the superintending eye of Cæsar. It occurred

to him to place his master officially at the head of the secret

societies, and he transformed free-masonry into an imperial institution.

The despotism that has weighed on France for seventy years is

unknown to the rest of Europe. We do not say that other nations

have not undergone various degrees of despotism, but the despotism

of a dictatorship founded on the sovereignty of the people is a

privilege France alone has enjoyed. A dictatorship, that institution

of republican Rome, has been known here since 1789. Successive

governments have been set up in the name of the people; they have

all been ephemeral; they have acknowledged no other will but their

own—at least, in the beginning. The dictatorship is renewed every ten

years. At Rome, before the empire, it has been calculated that every

three years and a half a dictatorship was established, which lasted

six months or thereabouts. Our situation, therefore, is preferable.

It may, however, be questioned if it is the ideal of a Christian

nation. Louis Napoleon became the open apologist of Julius Cæsar:

he took sides against the Gauls and Franks, who were our ancestors.

This audacity excited universal astonishment. The Romans from the

beginning were accustomed to absolute power and anarchy. In the vast

series of revolutions that make up their history, we find no fixed

form of government. The consuls, prætors, and tribunes at Rome, and

in the provinces the proconsuls and governors, exercised unlimited

power. The emperor was only a perpetual dictator. Roman civilization

was absolute power opposed to the liberties of foreign and barbarous

nations who preserved a primitive social organization, and lived under

patriarchal institutions. The Roman historians acknowledge that the

barbarians fought for liberty. The Romans governed the provinces as,

at a later period, the Turks governed the countries they conquered.

Science and literature have depicted their sanguinary course with

brilliant sophistry, and erected it into a system. There is no doubt

that the thousands of jurisconsults who devoted their talents to the

empire never questioned the legitimacy of Cæsarism. They did not even

comprehend German liberty. They often spoke of it with a rare ignorance.

Tacitus sometimes forgets the fidelity with which he has described the

manners of the Germans. He passes this singular judgment on a people

of Thrace whose independent spirit he mentions: _Ne regibus parere

nisi ex libidine soliti_[169]—they obey their kings only according

to their caprice or humor. To us this has no sense. Tacitus sees that

these people obey sometimes, but not always. He does not perceive the

link that connects these two facts. To obey through humor or caprice is

not to obey at all. What is their legal obligation? It is sufficient

to examine their barbarous institutions. The barbarous king is neither

a dictator nor consul: he is like a father. His authority is limited

by other heads of families and by their customs. The tribe obeys, but

only after discussing the point in the assemblies of the nation. The

people obey when the king has received the necessary approval of the

established authorities. There is not, as under the Roman government,

a man who rules, and a nation that obeys. This dualism does not exist

among the barbarians. The king is a part of the nation, as a father

is of his family, which attributes a high dignity to both king and

father, but not great power. Unity of action, in this case, comes by

the concurrence of wills. This concurrence is permanent, and the easier

because nature, through the family ties, softens difference of opinion,

lessens rivalries, and produces men of incontestable authority whose

very birth commands respect. Their laws are less severe and stringent,

but liberty reigns, and society is based on the affections, and not

on the mere predominance of force. Tacitus would be more intelligible

if he said that the people only obeyed after giving their approval

according to forms which custom had established. Strictly speaking,

the word _libido_ might imply either consent or assent. The idea is

somewhat obscure. But there is nothing to authorize a translator to say

the people obeyed their king only through caprice or humor. Tacitus

finds it difficult to comprehend the organization of the tribe, and

does not regard it as of much account. He judges like a Roman who has

a clear notion only of military rule and passive obedience. In spite

of himself, however, he dwells on these barbarians, who inspire him

with a kind of terror. He points out the effects of their patriarchal

institutions from which the liberty of modern nations has sprung. His

books are for us a title of honor. Our ancestors figure therein as

conquered: their features are changed, but not unrecognizable. We love

to find proofs that the traditions of liberty among the French race

preceded the importation of despotism.

Despotism came to us by the way of revolution. This will not surprise

any one. The empire is the highest and most definite form of despotism

among civilized nations. Our enlightenment, or pretended enlightenment,

so far from having any repugnance to it, evidently led to it. Are we

more enlightened than the Greeks and Romans? Are our rulers better

versed in art, law, or literature than the rulers of Athens or Rome?

The idea of despotism has been so infused into the modern mind that

even the extreme partisans of liberty can conceive of nothing but

despotism as the basis of their theories. M. Jules Simon, the worthy

successor of M. Duruy, dreams of subjecting France to the communist

system of Spartan education. And hardly any one ventures to oppose him.

What notions of liberty have children reared by the state? They are

brought up in the official world, imbibe its sentiments and the ideas

of the state, and reproduce them in their public and private life. We

who cannot consent to the suppression of the family are desirous that

children should bear the impress of family influences. The family yoke

is sweet and light; the assimilation of children to their parents is

easy. The liberty of children is guaranteed. Family authority is a

less burdensome restraint than that of the state, and the multitude

of families creates a sort of counterpoise, so that their minds are

not formed by a single will, but develop according to their various

aptitudes. If any one objects that the state teaches no doctrines, we

reply that to teach none is to teach some. In fact, this is really the

source of indifference, or the system of practical atheism. Is not this

the doctrine that is agitating France?

Our government has been copied from the Cæsarean government. Everywhere

is to be seen a gradation of functionaries who receive their orders

from Paris, and are not opposed by any provincial action capable

of resisting them. It is useless to enumerate all the public or

collective offices in order to show how they are combined under a

single impulsion. No country in Europe has attained to such perfection

of the imperial _régime_. The Roman Empire even has been surpassed,

for we have the advantage of the press, railways, and telegraphs,

which increase the power of the state to an indefinite degree. New

ideas have also arisen to the aid of this despotism. Political economy

declares the loan to be the best of investments. The patrimony of

future generations has been invested in bonds regulated by the present

generation. By successive loans, all individual capital has fallen

into the hands of the state. In a more or less indirect way, the state

has taken possession of all the charitable or other funds created

by associations or individuals. Confiscations are not nominally

practised, but by the ingenuity of our fiscal system, and the skilful

apportionment of the taxes, the whole value of the soil passes into the

fiscal treasury in forty years. This is really a kind of confiscation.

Cæsarism found out how to transform the Chamber of Deputies into a

fiscal instrument. Instead of moderating, limiting, or abolishing the

taxes, the Chamber of Deputies, and especially our recent legislative

corps, have studied how to increase them. All the representatives of

the people have looked upon their constituents as subjects to be taxed

and made use of. The government has had more income from the taxes than

it wanted. This work of communism has been applauded in a thousand

revolutionary papers. In this respect, the republican assemblies have

not differed from the imperial. Whether the deputies were chosen by the

ballot, by the nomination of Parisian committees, or the appointment of

the Minister of the Interior, the state of the case and the result have

been the same.

The organization of our army is entirely Cæsarean. Though levied from

the whole country, it takes cognizance of nothing that is local or

provincial. Individual measures are repressed by the bureaucracy, which

is subservient to Cæsar because it is detached from the soil, and is

influenced only by the hope of promotion.

But the French magistracy at least enjoys independence? It did previous

to 1789. The government did not interpose in the appointment of

magistrates. This system, otherwise very defective, did not err through

servility. The empire, artfully retaining a certain semblance of the

ancient _régime_, was careful not to do so where the independence

of the magistracy was concerned. The emperor nominated all the

magistrates, and made them removable at pleasure. This system did not

suit the Restoration, and immovability was established. Under Louis

Philippe, the magistracy rapidly diminished. The more honest felt

themselves bound by their oath, and refused to serve the royalty of

July. But the Third Empire, by its administrative practices, effaced

the last trace of judiciary independence, and destroyed the permanence

of the office by the prospect of lucrative advancement. Hitherto money

had not seemed to be the aim of the magistrate. The idea of a career to

pursue never entered his head. The magistrate did not have to earn his

livelihood, and he belonged to his native place, where, regarded with

universal respect, he lived on his own fortune, which was the exterior

pledge of his independence. The needy and the ambitious did not seek

such a post. The empire raised the salaries of the magistrates only

to make the office accessible to that class of people who are ready

to obey at whatever cost. Immovability was illusory when the greater

part of the magistrates, desirous only of advancement, went from one

place to another according to the ministerial humor. Besides, the

government asked nothing better than to have in each locality transient

magistrates who were strangers to the people, and only awaited an

opportunity of ascending the ladder of promotion. This allurement was

more efficacious than fear in effecting the change in our judiciary

customs. The justiceship of the peace, which ought to be a kind of

rural and local institution, and which for some time preserved that

character, speedily degenerated. The empire at last ended by bringing

it completely under the yoke of centralism. Instead of being the

independent arbiter of petty quarrels and trivial interests that

required immediate solution because they were not worth the expense

and delay of a suit, the justice of the peace now found himself an

electoral agent, and implicated in politics. He had to be chosen from

the nomadic class of civilians. To prevent all ties with the people,

fees were done away with, and his salary made equal to that of the

judges of the inferior court. The pretext was made that the dignity of

the magistracy did not allow a judge to receive perquisites. The truth

is that there was a very different reason. The justices of the peace,

being natives of the country, and already in possession of a patrimony,

had no eye to the fees. Many of them had scarcely any. On an average,

the perquisites did not amount to more than five or six hundred francs,

and were not always easily collected. A mere income of seven or eight

hundred francs was not sufficient to attract a stranger, especially

when there was no prospect of promotion. The empire sought to bind

the justices of the peace closely to itself, and deprived the office,

practically speaking, of its perpetuity, for the same reason that it

had made the assize judges removable. The justiceship of the peace,

having been made a round of the judiciary ladder, became accessible to

those civilians or agents who only asked to serve the government. Our

judiciary army, as numerous as our administrative army, and composed

of agents nominated directly by the state, had, then, but one course

open to it. Its apparent immovability no longer hid anything. Those

who are familiar with the affairs of the empire know what to think

of a magistracy which takes it upon itself to sound its own praises.

Though founded on very different principles, the French magistracy, by

a sudden deviation, has gone back to the Cæsarean type of Byzantium.