CHAPTER XVI.

BY THEIR FRUITS YE SHALL KNOW THEM.

Mr. Yorke went home from that first town-meeting, and opened his

Bolingbroke to look for a sedative. He found this: “The incivilities I

meet with from opposite parties have been so far from rendering me 163

violent or sour to any, that I think myself obliged to them all. Some

have cured me of fears, by showing me how impotent the world is;

others have cured me of hope, by showing how precarious popular

friendships are. All have cured me of surprise.”

Mr. Yorke readjusted his glasses, and read the passages a second time;

but it was not the sedative he wanted. There was something the matter

with Bolingbroke; his was a worldly and selfish philosophy; and it

was, moreover, a discouraging one; for the reader wished to believe

that it was possible to awaken and keep alive in the popular mind an

enthusiasm for justice. Mr. Yorke was not aware that in this warfare

he had drawn nearer to God, and that what he missed in his old

favorite was that final, heavenly motive which, running like a golden

chain through the simplest human actions, strings them into jewels,

lacking which the noblest human thoughts and deeds crumble like sand

on the sea-shore.

Closing his book with a feeling of disappointment, his thought glanced

down to later times, and he remembered a noble sentiment uttered by

one whom he admired, indeed, but half-unwillingly--one of the purest

and most heroic men of our time, a man who lacks nothing but faith.

“With God, one is a majority!” said Wendell Phillips.

The thought came down on Mr. Yorke’s heart like a hammer upon an

anvil, and sent sparks up into his eyes and brain.

“I take back all that I have said against that man,” he exclaimed,

starting up and walking to and fro. “A man who has a vision of

absolute honesty cannot help being impatient of policy. Strong

conviction never is, never can be, tolerant.” He ran his fingers

through his hair as he paced the room, and combed it up on end. He

would have liked to go directly back to the town-hall, and perhaps

would have done so but for the probability that it was now dark and

empty.

“It is not pleasant to be insulted by such people,” he muttered; “but

it would be still less pleasant to think that the rascals could

silence me. I will be heard at the next meeting,

‘Though hell itself should gape,

And bid me hold my peace.’”

It was some time before Mr. Yorke had the opportunity he desired,

though scarcely a day passed in which he did not speak some word for

the truth. There was no other town-meeting that summer. The people

contented themselves with the weekly scandalous battery of the

_Seaton Herald_, and with a small domestic persecution. A few pious

church-members were especially active. This was a kind of missionary

labor which suited them well, for it gave the pretext of zeal to their

bigotry and uncharitableness. If a lady could have persuaded her Irish

servant-girl to eat meat on Friday, she would have gloried in the

triumph.

“I will not eat of flesh on the day when the flesh of Jesus Christ was

hacked and mangled for the sins of the world,” said one faithful girl.

“But nobody knows on what day of the week he died,” the mistress

urged. “That is one of the lies of your priests. Now, Bridget”--laying

a gold half-eagle on the table--“this money shall be yours if you will

eat that piece of meat.”

The servant looked at her mistress with that dignity which a scorn of

meanness can give to the lowliest. “Mrs. Blank,” she said, “you remind

me of the devil tempting our Saviour when he was fasting.”

The temptation and the occasion were trivial, but they called out the 164

spirit of the martyrs.

Cold weather seemed to cool the zeal of the Know-Nothings; but with

another spring it kindled again, making the Catholic school its

principal point of attack. Anonymous letters were written to the

teacher, threatening her if she did not give it up. The _Herald_

contained, week after week, insulting and scarcely veiled references

to her; and the children could not go through the streets unmolested.

But no notice was taken of these annoyances, and the school prospered

in spite of them. The children came unfailingly, not, perhaps, without

fear, but certainly without yielding to fear. They were deeply

impressed by the position in which they found themselves. All their

childish gayety deserted them. They gathered and talked quietly,

instead of playing; they drew shyly away without answering when the

Protestant children attacked them. “Keep out of their way, and never

answer back,” was the charge constantly repeated in the ears of these

little confessors of the faith, and they obeyed it perfectly. Dear

children! may they never lose in later years that faith by which they

suffered so early in life. Herewith, one who watched and admired their

constancy sends them loving greeting.

When the first examination for prizes took place in this school, Mr.

Yorke was present, and made an address; and when it was over, he and

Father Rasle walked away together.

“I am obliged to go away, to be gone a month,” the priest said. “I

must go to-night. But I do not like to leave my flock to the wolves.

There is no help for it, though. The bishop wishes to see me at

Brayon, and I must visit the Indians on Oldtown Island.”

“I advise you, sir, to go as quietly as you can, and let no one see

you go or know that you are going,” Mr. Yorke said.

Father Rasle looked surprised. “Why, you do not imagine that any

person would molest me?”

“I do not imagine, but I am sure that the Know-Nothings would do

anything,” was the reply. “It is not safe to give them an opportunity

for mischief.”

Still the priest looked incredulous.

“I cannot see why they should touch me,” he said. “I have done nothing

to provoke them. They insult us, they tell lies, and I do not resent

it. Do you know the stories that have been brought to me this week? I

find them amusing.” He laughed pleasantly. “See how they represent the

church! A Catholic man, they say, wanted to steal a hundred dollars.

Now, to take so much at once would be a mortal sin; but to steal ten

cents would be only a venial sin. So my brave Catholic steals ten

cents, and, after a week, ten cents more, and so on, till he has the

hundred dollars. By this means, he secures his money, and is guilty

only of a thousand venial sins, which he gets forgiveness for by

giving the priest fifty dollars. That is one of Mr. John Conway’s

stories. Here is another that was published in the _Herald_, with my

name and the others in full. You know that Mrs. Mary O’Conner’s

husband lately died in California. Well, the _Herald_ says that the

poor widow came to me, weeping and lamenting that she had not even the

consolation of seeing her husband’s grave; and I told her that, for

thirty dollars, I would have him buried here. She had saved thirty

dollars, earned by washing, and she brought it to me. Three days

after, I told her that her husband’s body had been miraculously

brought, and I pointed out the spot where it was buried, down here 165

behind the church. But I warned her that she must not dig there, as it

would be a sacrilege, and that, if she did, the body would disappear.

Here’s another: Patrick Mulligan confesses some sin to me, and, for a

penance, I tell him to give himself twenty-five blows with the

discipline. Patrick goes home, gets ready for his penance, and

suddenly remembers that he has no discipline. It is late at night. He

puts his head out the window, and sees that Mrs. Mahony, next door,

has forgotten to take in her clothes-line, and a fine new clothes-line

it is. Pat blesses the saints, creeps down-stairs, steals the

clothes-line, and, going back, cuts it up into a beautiful discipline.

After he has piously beaten himself, he burns the cord all up, that he

may not be known as a thief, goes to bed with a clear conscience, and

sleeps the sleep of the just.

“Now, sir,” the priest concluded, “it is not likely that I am to be

attacked for such stories as that. Of course, no sensible person

believes them; or, if people should doubt, they can easily find out

the truth.”

“The truth, my dear sir, is precisely what they do not wish to find

out,” Mr. Yorke replied. “They want to be exasperated, and, since you

will not afford them a pretext, they will welcome any lie, and no

questions asked. Moreover, you are not to think that such slanders

originate with the low only, and influence only the low. I came upon a

book the other day written by Catherine Beecher. You have heard of the

Beechers, of course? The title was _Truth Stranger than Fiction: a

Narrative_, she calls it, _of Recent Transactions involving Inquiries

in regard to the principles of Honor, Truth, and Justice which obtain

in a distinguished American University_. That university is in

Connecticut; and the affair was one which created a good deal of stir

among the Protestant clergy a few years ago. Miss Beecher seems to

prove clearly in her book that certain eminent doctors of divinity,

and professors, with ladies of their families, ruined the reputation

of a distinguished and innocent woman. But what does Miss Beecher

herself do, in the preface to this very book wherein she appears as

the champion of ‘honor, truth, and justice,’ spelt with capital

letters? She goes out of her way to speak of the Catholic clergy, and

asserts that, since their ministrations are efficacious, no matter

what their characters may be, ‘there is no special necessity, on this

account, to limit admissions to this office to those only who are

virtuous and devout.’ Now, the sentence is artfully worded to evade

the charge of slander; but almost all non-Catholics interpret it, as

the writer wished they should, to mean that, in ordaining a Catholic

priest, it is not considered of any consequence whether he is a man of

good character or not. It has been so interpreted by every person whom

I have asked to read it. I give you another instance: Doctor Martin

took upon himself to send Edith some anti-Catholic books, which I

returned to him without letting her see them. I glanced into one, and

found it divided into paragraphs, each containing a charge against

your church, illustrated by an anecdote. I read one paragraph, headed

_A Church without a Holy Ghost_. Of course, you were charged with not

believing in sanctification; and the anecdote was of a man who became

a Protestant after having been a Catholic forty years. When his new

teachers told him of the Holy Ghost, he exclaimed, ‘Holy Ghost! What

is that? I have been in the Catholic Church forty years, and I never 166

heard of a Holy Ghost.’ Now, sir, this, of course, seems to you

idiotic; but a Protestant doctor of divinity keeps such books, and

gives them to people to read, and repeats such falsehoods in his

sermons. You see what you have to expect.”

“Shall I, then, publish a card denying the truth of these stories?”

Father Rasle asked, with an expression of face which showed his

distaste for the task.

“No one will read it if you do,” was the reply. “You must leave all to

time. At present, for you to be accused is to be condemned. Who was

it--Montesquieu?--who says, ‘If you are accused of having stolen the

towers of Notre Dame, bolt at once’? That is your case. Whatever they

may charge you with, consider yourself convicted.”

They had by this time reached the priest’s house, a little cottage

close to the corner of the two streets. Mr. Yorke declining an

invitation to enter, they leaned on the gate a few minutes to finish

their talk.

“You must not judge our country by what you see here,” Mr. Yorke said.

“What you complain of is merely the abuse of a good gift. A priest of

your church has expressed himself very well concerning these

difficulties. ‘It always pains me, in such periods,’ he says, ‘to hear

men express doubt concerning our institutions. As for me, I would

rather suffer from the license of freedom than the oppression of

authority. War is better than a false peace; riot better than

servitude; heresy better than indifference. But none of these things,’

he adds, ‘is to my liking. And may the good God preserve us from them

all!’ That was Father John, an American priest.”

“Ah! I know him,” Father Rasle said brightly. “I happened to travel

once in his company. We were in a steamboat, and some minister entered

into controversy with him. Catholic Christianity degrades the man, the

minister said. The Catholic cannot hold any communication with God. If

he should be cast away on a desert island, he would be without God.

All must come to him through the church. He has in himself no power to

reflect the divine motions. ‘You mistake,’ says Father John; ‘and I

can show by a familiar figure; Suppose that every man in the world

should insist that his timepiece was correct, and should refuse to

regulate it by any other. Of course, the chronometers would all wag

their several ways, no two alike, and there would be a ceaseless

wrangling as to what was the time of day, and every man would think

that he carried the sun in his pocket. To the dogs with the meridian

and the almanac! my watch is right! That is Protestantism. Now, the

Catholic has his spiritual dial also; but since he knows that it is a

fallible instrument, he keeps it regulated by the great clock of the

church. The consequence is truth and harmony. Every Catholic

conscience ticks alike; and, when the meridian-gun of the great

regulator is fired, every man says, ‘It’s twelve o’clock. Amen!’”

Mr. Yorke’s warning was well-timed, for the event proved that Father

Rasle would scarcely have been allowed to leave the town without

molestation had it been known that he was going. No one knew it,

however, but the priest’s housekeeper, Mr. Yorke, and the man who

drove him over to Brayon that night.

“I do not think that any precaution was needed,” Father Rasle said to

his companion, as they drove through the dewy woods by starlight. “But

since it was as easy to come away quiet, why, I have. I have no wish 167

or right to throw my life away.”

Mr. Yorke did not know what had happened till Patrick told him the

next morning. The crowd had gathered in the streets, it appeared, and

taken their usual promenade up Irish Lane, with the usual result. No

one came out or answered them, and they could not see a face in the

windows, even. But if the patience of the Irish was not worn out, that

of their persecutors was. Since they could not provoke an attack, they

would make one. From Irish Lane they had marched to the priest’s

house, arming themselves with stones and brickbats.

“There isn’t a whole window left in the house, sir,” said Patrick;

“and there’s a stone lying on Father Rasle’s bed, where it was thrown

through the window, that would have killed him if he had been there,

as they thought he was.”

We trust that certain expressions which Mr. Yorke made use of on

hearing this story will not be remembered against him on the day of

final reckoning. They were not pious expressions, nor mild, nor,

indeed, very polished ones; but they were strong. He put on his hat

with an emphasis which left a large dent in the crown, refused to take

any breakfast, and started for the town.

“What does he mean to do?” cried his wife, wringing her hands. “I must

go after him. Oh! if Carl were here. Girls, it is of no use to oppose

me. I must know what goes on.”

The breakfast was left untouched, and the whole household gathered

about the mother, coaxing and soothing her. Patrick should go down,

they said, and keep his master in view.

“What protection would an Irish Catholic be to him?” cried the lady.

Betsey would go, she declared, standing with arms akimbo and her

fierce head raised. She would like to see the man that would stand in

her way when she was roused!

But, no; Betsey was too pugilistic. If Mr. Yorke were to see her, he

would be irritated. Some one more conciliating and politic was wanted.

Clara cut the matter short by appearing in walking dress. She would go

down and see what the trouble was, and send a messenger home

immediately.

Meantime, Mr. Yorke was in no danger whatever. People were, indeed,

more good-natured than usual after the success of the night before. He

encountered mocking smiles, but no threats. His first visit was to one

of the selectmen. “What are you going to do with the rascals who broke

Father Rasle’s windows, last night?” he demanded, without any ceremony

of greeting.

The man assumed an air of pompous indifference. “I do not propose to

do anything,” he said. “If they were brought before me, as a justice,

I should try them. But I am not called on to take any step in the

matter.”

“Perhaps you were one of them,” Mr. Yorke said bitterly.

The man’s face reddened. “I shall not take any notice of your

insults,” he said. “It is well known that those windows were broken by

a few rowdies who cannot be found out. The town is not responsible for

them. And even if they were known, the feeling of the community is

such that they would not be punished. People are so much excited

against the abuses of popery, and the interference of the priest in

our public schools, that they are willing to see every Catholic driven 168

out of the town.”

If there was ever a moment in Mr. Yorke’s life when he regretted being

a gentleman, it would be safe to say that this was that moment. To

talk with such a man was folly. But if some muscular Christian had

entered the scene opportunely, and applied to the town-officer’s back

a score or so of such logical conclusions as he was fitted to

understand, or had enlightened his cranium by propounding to it an

argument from an unanswerable fist, Mr. Yorke would, doubtless, have

left the office with a smile of serene satisfaction, and a conviction

that the dramatic proprieties had been sustained. No such person

appearing, he went away with anything but an amiable expression.

His next visit was to the Rev. John Conway. The minister had just

finished his breakfast, and came into the room with a comfortable,

deliberate air, rather exasperating to a man who was not only

indignant, but fasting. His guarded look showed that he expected an

attack.

By an effort, Mr. Yorke greeted him courteously, then began: “I come,

sir,” he said, “to ask you to raise your voice and use your influence

to put a stop to such outrages as were committed last night, and bring

the perpetrators of that to punishment.”

Mr. Conway seated himself with dignity, cast down his eyes, puckered

his mouth accurately, put the tips of his right-hand fingers to the

tips of his left-hand fingers in an argumentative manner, and spoke

slowly and solemnly:

“I am sorry that any violence has been done. But when a community

becomes incensed by encroachments which threaten their most sacred

interests, and when they find that the laws are not stringent enough

to afford them security from an insidious foe, we cannot expect that

they will act with that calmness and deliberation which is to be

desired. I deprecate--”

“You are not in your pulpit preaching to blockheads!” Mr. Yorke burst

forth. “I came here to talk common sense.”

A cold glimmer showed under the minister’s lower eyelids, and a flush

went over his face; but he had more self-control than his visitor, or

he had not that sense of outraged justice and decency which, to that

visitor’s mind, made forbearance a vice, consequently he said nothing

for a moment. There was, indeed, no more to be said. Mr. Yorke rose

and went to the door, but stopped there. Though appeal was vain,

warning might not be.

“I warn you, sir,” he said--“I, a Protestant--that your course is not

only dishonest, but impolitic. You are working so as to secure the

final triumph of those you hate, and to bring about your own ruin.

These anti-Catholic mobs are not Protestant, except as they protest

against all religious restraint. They hate Catholicism most, simply

because it is the strongest religion. You ministers think, perhaps,

that you use them; but you mistake. They use you, and they despise

you. They speak you fair now, because you stand between them and the

law and give them a certain respectability. Indeed, their only power

is derived from you. But when they shall have crushed Catholicism, if

they ever do, they will have the same weapons you have placed in their

hands against you. Do not hope that by the course you are taking you

are going to make Baptist, or Congregational, or Methodist

church-members; you are going to make infidels.”

A sense of the utter uselessness of his mission had restored Mr. Yorke 169

to calmness. He spoke firmly, but without any excitement, and, having

ended, left the house, and walked quietly homeward. Clara, coming down

East Street, and looking anxiously right and left, saw him, and dodged

out of sight. With her foot propped on a door-step, she made a

writing-desk of her knee, hastily pencilling a line to her mother.

While she wrote, three several families peeped and wondered at her

through their blinds. She looked about for an Irish boy--saw one, and

sent him with her message.

“Run like the wind till you come in sight of the house,” she charged

him, “but walk slowly up the avenue, or they will think that you bring

bad news, and be frightened.”

“All right, mamma!” Clara had written. “Everybody I meet is as quiet

and innocent-looking as a cat that has been stealing cream. I saw papa

this minute; I am going up to see Hester, and will be back before

dinner.”

Mrs. Yorke kissed and feasted the boy who brought the news; Melicent

searched for old clothes, and sent him home with garments enough to

last him a year, and both nearly cried over him, “Poor little

persecuted dear!” Betsey bestowed on him a pie, and the two Pattens,

having nothing of their own to give, stole each of them a cucumber,

which they slyly slipped into his pocket. People who lived with the

Yorkes always thought as the Yorkes did. There was never more than one

party in their house. Their domestics were partisans, their dependents

adorers.

Edith went out into the garden, and gathered some flowers for the lad,

talking with him meanwhile. It was a calm June day--after a

rain-storm. The sky had started to clear away--got so far that there

was nothing left but a pearly fleck of cloud that just netted the

sunshine--then had forgotten all about itself. A lovely, dreamy

softness overhung the scene, and the drops of rain that lay on every

leaf and flower shone, but did not flash.

The boy gazed at Edith with admiration. Her head was bare, and she

wore a blue dress, with loose sleeves, and a little crisp white ruffle

close around the throat. She stood on tiptoe, and stretched her arms

to reach a branch of red roses. As she caught it, a shower of drops

fell over her head and face. “_Asperges me!_” she whispered.

“Oh! she’s real pretty,” the boy said afterward to his mother. “She

has dimples in her elbows just like baby.”

When the wreath was made, Edith hung it round the child’s neck, his

arms being full, and walked down to the gate with him. “Try to be a

little saint, and not be angry, no matter what may be said to you,”

she said. “If you are afraid, say the ‘We fly to thy patronage, O holy

Mother of God,’ and she will take care of you. Good-by, dear.”

She leaned on the gate, and looked after him. Her cheeks were as red

as the roses she had gathered, and her expression was not, as

formerly, one of sunny calmness. She was as quiet in manner and speech

as ever, but it was the quiet of a strong and vivid nature fully

awake, but not fully satisfied, perplexed, yet self-controlled. So

much had happened to her in the last year! She had been called away

suddenly from childhood, and study, and vague, bright dreams to

confront a positive and quite unexpected reality. Unless she should

make a vow never to marry, then she was to marry Dick Rowan, that was

her conclusion; and having once made up her mind in that respect, she 170

thought as little about it as possible. Perhaps her only definite

thought was that Dick might have waited awhile before speaking, and

let her study more; for study had now become impossible. She wanted to

be in continual motion, to have work and change. A deep and steady

excitement burned in her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Her piety,

instead of being tender and tranquil, had grown impassioned. To die

for the faith, to suffer torments for it, to be in danger, that seemed

to her desirable. She almost regretted that she had home and friends

to bind her. If she were still with Mrs. Rowan, in the little house

that was under that clay-bank, then she would be free, and perhaps

they would kill her. She had scarcely been to Mass that year without

thinking how glorious it would be if a mob would break in and kill

them all. Her imagination hovered ceaselessly over this subject.

Seeing her uncle coming, she waited for him. “We must make up our

minds that we have not seen the worst that they will do, little girl,”

he said. “There is no law.”

She smiled involuntarily.

“Why, are you pleased at that?” he exclaimed.

“There might be a worse fate than dying for one’s faith, Uncle

Charles,” she said, clasping her hands over his arms.

He laughed, and patted her cheek. “Is that your notion?” he asked. “If

it is, remember that I have a word to say about it. I shall fight hard

before you are made a martyr of. I see what you have been

reading--Crashaw’s _St. Theresa_:

‘Farewell, house, and farewell, home:

She’s for the Moors and martyrdom.’

Do I guess and quote rightly, mademoiselle?”

She only smiled in reply. But well she knew that she had been reading

from a deeper book than Crashaw.

A few nights after, the Catholic school-house was blown up with

gunpowder, and left a perfect wreck. “Of course!” said Mr. Yorke.

“The teacher has taken the children into the galleries of the church,”

Patrick said.

“The church will be destroyed, then,” replied his master.

It was not destroyed altogether at once, however, but every window in

it was broken. This was done in broad daylight, just after a summer

sunset.

Mr. Yorke put himself before the mob, entreating them to forbear, even

trying to push back the foremost ones, but without avail. “Don’t

listen to him! His niece is a Catholic,” they cried. “To the church!”

Two or three gentlemen drove up in their buggies, and sat at a safe

distance while the work of destruction went on, and several women

lingered on the outskirts of the crowd. In a neighboring street, out

of sight, Edith Yorke stood with Clara, and listened to the sound of

breaking glass. For a moment, natural indignation overcame piety in

her heart. “Oh! if I were a thousand men on horseback,” she exclaimed.

“I’d like to ride them down, and trample them under foot!” Then the

next moment, “Oh! how wicked I am!”

“You are not wicked!” Clara said angrily. “I won’t have you talk such

nonsense.”

Clara was in that state of mind when she must scold somebody.

Of course the authorities took no notice of this affair. The teacher

had the glass reset, and continued her school. Mr. Yorke wrote to

Father Rasle, advising him not to return to Seaton for a while, and a

lull succeeded.

And now the Yorkes took breath, and felt not quite alone, for Carl was

coming home, and Dick Rowan would soon be there, and Captain Cary was

coming down.

TO BE CONTINUED.

----------

THE STIGMATA AND ECSTASIES OF LOUISE LATEAU OF BOIS D’HAINE. 171

Since the days of St. Francis of Assisium, whose life in the

thirteenth century was one constant succession of marvels, the

occasional appearance upon favored individuals of the stigmata,[45]

and the occurrence of ecstatic visions, have excited the deepest

interest in devout minds.

To the eye of faith, these departures from the ordinary laws of

nature, like the miracles which God has vouchsafed in all ages of the

church, have seemed fresh and brilliant illustrations of this divine

power. To the purely scientific mind they have presented inexplicable

phenomena, which, being irreconcilable with natural laws, have been

either openly derided or attributed to pious fraud.

Nor can the physiologist be harshly blamed for scepticism in this

direction, for history teems with the records of epidemics of

religious enthusiasm, in which fanaticism had led its victims to claim

repeated ecstatic visions of God, and to be the recipients of

supernatural revelations. The descriptions transmitted to us of the

Pietists and Illuminati in Germany, of the French and English Shakers,

the Welsh Jumpers, and many others of the sects to which the

Reformation gave birth, abound in instances of these ecstatic

outbreaks.

The visions of Swedenborg, as related in his _Arcana Cœlestia_, and in

the numerous biographies[46] of this extraordinary person, are well

known; and among similar claimants to supernatural experience,

Arnold’s description of John Engelbrecht[47] is one of the most

curious and interesting.

In Hecker’s _Epidemics of the Middle Ages_ is given a full account of

the “Convulsionnaires of St. Médard,” so-called from the cemetery of

St. Médard in Paris, where a noted Jansenist deacon was buried in

1727. The fanatical excitement of his followers first showed itself in

pilgrimages and reported miraculous cures at his grave, to which they

gradually flocked in great numbers, many becoming convulsed with

terrible contortions, jumping, shouting, rolling on the ground,

spinning around with incredible velocity, running their heads against

walls, while others preached fanatical harangues or pretended to be

gifted with _clairvoyance_. For more than fifty years these scandalous

exhibitions continued, Convulsionism growing into a distinct sect in

spite of the efforts of the government to suppress it, until swept out

of existence by the greater excitement of the French Revolution.

In many of these cases, the supposition of intentional fraud was

doubtless well founded; in others, the ecstatics were themselves the

unconscious dupes of their own fanaticism. To appreciate the cautious

scrutiny with which the church, however, sifts pretensions of this

nature in any of her children, the reader need only consult the lives 172

of such saints as have been thus favored.[48]

The psychological condition or state which is somewhat vaguely termed

ecstasy has always possessed peculiar interest both for the theologian

and the physician; and, although numerous definitions of it have been

attempted, it is extremely difficult to convey to the general reader a

clear idea of its distinctive nature. The word itself usually

signifies a condition in which the mind and soul is transferred, or

placed out of its usual state.

St. Augustine called it “a transport, by which the soul is separated

and, as it were, removed to a distance from the bodily senses,” and,

following this definition, Ambrose Paré, the father of French surgery,

terms it “a reverie with rapture of the mind, as if the soul were

parted from the body.” St. Bonaventure, the contemporary and

biographer of St. Francis of Assisium, says that ecstasy “is an

elevation of the soul to that source of divine love which surpasses

human understanding, an elevation by which it is separated from the

exterior man.” St. Thomas Aquinas, Cardinal Bona, and other

theological writers give similar definitions; while among medical

authorities, Briquet, J. Franck, Bérard, Thomas King Chambers,

Guislain of Brussels, Clymer, Gratiolet, and many others describe its

symptoms and discuss its pathological relations.

Well-marked ecstasy and the stigmata have but seldom been united in

the same individual, and still more rarely have these extraordinary

manifestations been subjected to the searching tests of science.

It will not, then, be amiss to present the readers of this magazine

with a brief description of the most notable illustration in recent

times of these marvellous phenomena, as the case has acquired a

European celebrity, attracting the scrutiny of many savants, and

forming the subject of an interesting memoir[49] by a professor in the

Belgian University of Louvain. From his description of the facts,

which he was officially appointed to investigate in their scientific

bearings, we shall condense the following account.

In the rich and industrial province of Hainault, in Belgium, is

situated the village of Bois d’Haine, about midway between the towns

of Charleroi and Mons. It is mainly composed of cottages occupied by

workmen in the neighboring manufactories; and in one of the poorest of

these Louise Lateau, the subject of this notice, was born January 30,

1850.

She is the youngest of three children, all daughters; and their

parents were poor working people, strong and ordinarily healthy, and

never subject to any nervous hæmorrhagic disease. The mother is still

living and in good health; the father died during an epidemic of

small-pox at the age of twenty-eight. Louise, then two and a half

months old, contracted this disease from her father, but made a rapid

recovery. The family continued to struggle on in poverty, the

children’s food being poor and scant--“plusque frugal,” says Dr.

Lefebvre--but they nevertheless grew up robust and healthy. When only

eight, Louise was placed in the temporary care of a poor old woman in

the neighborhood, while the latter’s son was engaged in outdoor work.

A little later she was sent to school for five months, learning her 173

catechism and a little reading and writing. In her twelfth year,

having made her first communion, she entered the service of her

great-aunt, who lived at Manage, near Bois d’Haine, in a certain

degree of comfort. In this position she displayed great activity and

devotion to her duties, giving herself up day and night to the service

of her relative, who died in a year or two. She then entered the

service of a respectable lady in Brussels, where she remained only

seven months on account of an illness, the nature of which is not

described; after this she obtained another place in Manage, where, as

before, she left behind her the reputation of devoted courage, of

patient toil, humble and quiet piety, and charity for the poor.

About the beginning of 1867, she became more feeble in health without

being exactly ill or obliged to suspend her customary work. She lost

appetite and color, suffered from severe neuralgic pains in the head,

and her skin assumed the greenish-white hue that always indicates

impoverishment of the blood. This had been aggravated by a severe

attack of quinsy; and on several occasions, during the early part of

April of this year, she spat blood, the source of which (whether from

lungs or stomach) could not be decided.

For an entire month she now became constantly weaker, taking almost

nothing during this time but water and the medicines prescribed for

her. The exhaustion increased to such a degree that her death was

thought imminent, and on the 15th of April the last sacraments were

administered. She now suddenly improved, and so rapidly that, on the

21st of April, she was able to walk to Mass at the parish church,

three-quarters of a mile distant. This apparently remarkable cure was

the first incident that attracted public notice to her case; crowds of

people coming to see her as an object of curiosity.

This period may be viewed as her turning point from girlhood into a

woman; and, at her then age of eighteen, she is described as being

slightly below the middle height, with full face, very little color, a

fine delicate skin, light hair, clear, soft blue eyes, a small mouth,

and very white well-shaped teeth.

Her expression is intelligent and agreeable, and her general health is

good, and free from any scrofulous or other constitutional taint. She

has always worked hard, and exhibited considerable physical endurance.

Mentally she is represented as unemotional, lacking in imagination, by

no means bright, but of good, strong common sense, artless,

straightforward, and devoid of enthusiasm. Her education is limited,

although she has improved the elementary instruction received during

her brief school term, speaking French with ease and some degree of

purity, reading with difficulty, and writing very little, and

incorrectly at that. Her moral character is honest, simple,

transparent. Dr. Lefebvre and others, who questioned her about her

ecstatic visions, repeatedly tried to test her sincerity, but never

succeeded in making her contradict herself or tend in the least degree

to exaggeration: nor could she ever be induced by her young friends to

discuss her stigmata or visions, upon which she was equally reticent

with her friends and her family. Of a naturally gay and happy

disposition, she has shown in various circumstances much patience,

determination, and courage. Amidst many domestic anxieties and

troubles, often losing her rest day and night during the illness of 174

her relatives, and falsely accused by her mother (who seems to have

been a person of difficult temper) of being the cause of all the

family’s misfortunes, she remained invariably calm and cheerful.

Another of her most striking traits was her charity for the poor;

“poor herself, she loved to relieve the poor,” and many instances are

narrated of her devotion to the sick and helpless during the cholera

that raged at Bois d’Haine in 1866. From her infancy almost she was

exceptionally devout, and her piety was always practical, and devoid

of affectation and display. In her interior and religious life, as in

her domestic duties, she was simple, earnest, and discreet.

A recollection of these details of her character and antecedents is

necessary for the proper appreciation of the phenomena now to be

described. These are of two distinct kinds, having no connection but

their accidental association in the same individual; and that they may

be more clearly understood, they will be considered separately, first

the stigmata, then the ecstatic trances, and, thirdly, the nature of

the evidence upon which the extraordinary facts rest.

I.--THE STIGMATA.

The first occurrence of the bleeding was noticed by Louise on Friday,

the 24th of April, 1868, when she saw blood issuing from a spot on the

left side of the chest. With her habitual reserve, she mentioned it to

no one. The next day it recurred at the same spot; and she, then also

observed blood on the top of each foot. She now confided it to her

director, who, although thinking the circumstance extraordinary,

reassured her and bade her keep the facts to herself. During the night

preceding the second Friday following, May 8, blood oozed from the

left side and from both feet, and toward nine o’clock in the morning

it flowed freely from the back and palm of each hand. At this juncture

it seemed impossible longer to keep the matter secret, and her

confessor directed Louise to consult a physician.

Recognizing the medical character of the case, the periodical

bleeding, and the ecstatic trances which subsequently occurred, the

religious authorities felt constrained to place its investigation in

the hands of a medical expert, and for this purpose called in the aid

of Dr. Lefebvre. A more judicious choice could not have been made, as

this gentleman had long devoted himself to the study of nervous

affections, and had passed fifteen years in medical charge of two

hospitals for the insane, and in lecturing upon mental diseases in the

University of Louvain.

Of the minuteness of his examination, and of his credibility as a

witness, each reader can judge for himself.

If, during the course of the week, from Saturday to Thursday morning,

the hands and feet be examined, the following facts are revealed: On

the back of each hand there is an oval patch about half an inch (two

and a half centimetres) long, of a more rosy hue than the rest of the

skin, dry and glistening on the surface. On the palm of each hand a

similar oval patch was seen, equally red, and corresponding exactly

with the site of that on the back. On the sole and back of each foot

are found similar marks, having the form of a parallelogram with

rounded angles, nearly three-quarters of an inch (three centimetres)

in length.

On examining these spots with a magnifying-glass of twenty diameters,

the epidermis (or superficial layer of the skin) is found to be thin 175

but unbroken, and through it the cutis (or true skin) can readily be

seen.

The latter looks perfectly natural, except that the papillæ, or little

elevations in which terminate the nerves of touch, are slightly

atrophied and flattened, this giving rise to the glistening appearance

of the surface. When any one of the stigmata has not bled for a week

or two, the reddish discoloration disappears, and the papillæ resume

their normal appearance. No permanent marks remain upon the forehead;

and, except on Friday, the bleeding points cannot there be

distinguished. From a natural feeling of delicacy, the chest was only

examined during the ecstasy.

The first symptoms announcing the approaching bleeding usually appear

about noon on Thursday. Upon each of the rosy spots on the hands and

feet, a _bleb_, or little bladder, is seen to rise and slowly develop.

This exactly corresponds, when fully formed, with the size of the

patch; and is filled with a transparent serous fluid, sometimes of a

reddish tint in those on the soles of the feet and the palms of the

hands. The bleb consists of the epidermis detached and elevated from

the true skin by the accumulating serous fluid. No swelling or redness

is seen in the zone of skin immediately surrounding the bleb.

The bleeding nearly always begins between midnight and one A.M. on

Friday, and it does not occur in all the stigmata at once, but in each

successively and in no regular order. Most commonly the flow begins

from the side of the chest, then in succession from the stigmata on

the hands, feet, and forehead. A rent occurs in the raised cuticle,

which is sometimes longitudinal, sometimes crucial or triangular: the

serous fluid then escapes, and is immediately followed by blood,

which oozes from the exposed papillæ. Usually the flow of blood

detaches and washes away the shreds of epidermis, and the bleeding

surface is left uncovered; but sometimes on the palms of the hands and

the soles of the feet, where the epidermis is thicker, the blood

collects and clots in the bleb.

At each of his Friday visits, Dr. Lefebvre examined the stigma on the

chest, which lay in the space between the fifth and sixth ribs,

external to and a little below the centre of the left breast.[50]

At the first examination, which was made August 30, 1868, the bleeding

point showed no trace of a previous vesicle; the cuticle was not

detached, nor was the skin discolored, and the blood was seen to ooze

from three little points almost imperceptible to the naked eye, and

about one centimetre apart. In three subsequent examinations a vesicle

had formed like those on the hands and feet; it had burst, and the

blood oozed from a circular spot of the raw skin nearly a quarter of

an inch in diameter.

Upon four different occasions, blood was observed to be flowing from

the head. It was difficult to ascertain the condition of the skin

under the hair; but on the forehead no vesicle appeared, nor was there

any apparent change in the color of the skin. The blood was seen to

issue from twelve or fifteen minute points arranged in circular form

upon the forehead. A bandage, of the breadth of two fingers, passing

around the head equidistant from the eyebrows and the roots of the

hair, would include the bleeding zone, which is slightly puffy and

painful upon pressure. On examining these points with a magnifying 176

lens, most of them looked like minute cuts in the skin, of triangular

shape, as if made by the bite of microscopic leeches: others were

semilunar in shape, and some quite irregular.

The quantity of blood that flows through the stigmata each Friday is

variable. During the first months of the flow and before the

commencement of the ecstatic attack, it was abundant, and often lasted

twenty-four hours--from midnight to midnight--and it was estimated

that as much as one litre, or seven-eighths of a quart, was discharged

from the nine wounds. An exact estimate of the amount was difficult,

from the fact that most of the blood was absorbed by the cloths about

the chest and limbs. But, as the result of his personal observations,

Dr. Lefebvre states that at his first visit, August 30, 1868, both the

duration and the quantity of the flow had already begun to diminish:

beginning at midnight, it stopped about four or five o’clock the next

afternoon; yet he counted on that day fourteen large linen cloths (the

largest being twenty inches by eight, and the smallest twenty inches

by six) completely saturated. Besides this, the left foot was still

enveloped during the ecstasy, and there was a pool of blood on the

floor as large as two hands. He thinks he rather understates the

amount of blood then lost if he estimates it at two hundred and fifty

grammes (a half-pint). This, however, he gives as the mean quantity

lost, it being sometimes more and sometimes less.

Sometimes the bleeding ceased about midday, and two Fridays passed

without any hæmorrhage, the ecstasy occurring as usual. On one of

these occasions the stigmata remained unchanged, but on the other the

usual vesicle formed, yielding a serous discharge of a delicate rose

tint, but no blood. After this the usual bleeding resumed its regular

course every Friday, and the bloody chaplet on the forehead, which at

first appeared exceptionally, was now displayed each week.

The blood, which was carefully examined, had neither the scarlet tint

of arterial nor the dark purple hue of venous blood, but was of a

violet red color, like that of the capillaries or minute vessels which

unite the veins and arteries. It was of natural consistence, and

clotted readily upon the cloths and upon the edges of the wound. With

two of his colleagues who were expert in microscopy, Dr. Hairion,

professor of hygiene and dermatology (the theory of skin diseases),

and Dr. Van Kempen, professor of anatomy, Dr. Lefebvre made several

careful microscopic examinations of the blood, which showed a

perfectly transparent plasma or blood fluid, with the red and white

corpuscles of ordinary blood in proper proportion.

The stigmata are manifestly painful; for, although the girl was

extremely reluctant to speak of it, Dr. Lefebvre was satisfied, by

careful observation of her attitudes and expression before the

ecstasies began, that she suffered acutely.

The bleeding stopped at different hours, as has been stated. On the

following day--Saturday--the stigmata were quite dry, with little

scales of dried blood here and there on their surface. Not a trace of

suppuration ever occurred from the wounds; and the girl, who a few

hours ago had much difficulty in using her hands or in standing on her

feet, is busily engaged with her morning household duties, or walking

a mile and a half to her devotions at the parish church.

II.--THE ECSTATIC TRANCES. 177

The weekly ecstasies of Louise Lateau began on Friday, July 17, 1868,

thirteen weeks after the bleeding was first noticed, although the

curate of Bois d’Haine, M. Niels, had noticed before this some

fugitive attacks of unconsciousness. He discreetly avoided speaking of

them, however, and was careful not to discuss them even with Louise

herself. No details of these transient attacks, which generally

occurred during some of the great religious festivals of the previous

year, are given by Dr. Lefebvre, as he had no satisfactory evidence of

them, and was unwilling to trust the observations of others. The

marked ecstatic trances recurred every Friday after the date

mentioned, generally about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, and

ended about six in the afternoon, although sometimes lasting an hour

longer. Their duration is therefore from ten to eleven hours without

interruption; and they generally begin while the subject is occupied

with her devotions, although sometimes when she is in the midst of

conversation, and occasionally while engaged at her work.

On Friday morning, Louise is accustomed to pass the time in prayer,

the tender and bleeding condition of the wounds on her hands rendering

work impossible. Her prayers are of the simplest character, consisting

generally of the rosary. Seated on her chair, her hands wrapped in the

cloths, and her manner calm and serene, suddenly her eyes become

fixed, immovable, and the trance has begun. From his notes made on the

spot, upon one of these occasions, Dr. Lefebvre transcribes the

following description: “It is half-past seven in the morning. I have

been talking to Louise upon common topics, about her occupations, her

education, her health. She has answered my questions simply,

precisely, laconically. Her appearance is quiet and tranquil, her

color natural, her skin cool, and the pulse seventy-two in the minute.

After a while her conversation flags, and she answers more slowly. I

suddenly notice that she has become immovable, her eyes fixed and

turned upward, and a little toward the right. The ecstasy has begun.”

It is worth observing that the instant the eyes become fixed in

contemplation, the ecstatic state has commenced; after this the girl

answers no questions, and is quite insensible to external influences.

Dr. Imbert-Goubeyre, professor in the medical school of

Clermont-Ferrand, has also witnessed the commencement of the ecstasy

under like circumstances. His description is unnecessary.

Lastly, the ecstasy may begin while she is at her daily work. On

August 13, 1869, Mgr. d’Herbomez, the venerable Bishop of British

Columbia, went to see Louise Lateau, reaching her house about eight

o’clock in the morning. She was at work on her sewing-machine,

although her hands and feet were bleeding freely, and the blood

trickled down from her forehead, cheeks, and neck upon the machine,

which she evidently worked with the utmost pain. While the prelate was

speaking to her, the noise of the machine suddenly stopped, for she

had at once passed into the trance. A number of distinguished

ecclesiastics, among them Professor Hallez of the Seminary of Tournay,

have witnessed a similar onset of the attacks.

When once established, the course of the attack is thus described.

During most of the trance, the girl sits on the edge of her chair, as

motionless as a statue, with the body bent slightly forward; the 178

bleeding hands enveloped in cloths and resting upon her knees, the

eyes wide open and rigidly fixed as described. The expression of the

face is that of rapt attention, and she seems lost in the

contemplation of some distant object. Her expression and attitude

frequently change, the features sometimes relaxing, the eyes becoming

moist, and a smile of happiness lighting up the mouth. Sometimes the

lids droop and nearly veil the eyes, the brow contracts, and tears

roll slowly down the cheeks: at times again she grows pale, her face

wears an expression of the greatest terror, while she starts up with a

suppressed cry. The body sometimes slowly rotates, and the eyes move,

as if following some invisible procession. At other times she rises

and moves forward, standing on tiptoe with her hands stretched out,

and either clasped or hanging open like the figures of the _Orantes_

of the catacombs; while her lips move, her breathing is rapid and

panting, her features light up, and her face, which before the ecstasy

is quite plain, is transfigured with an ideal beauty. If to this be

added the sight of her stigmata: her head encircled with its bloody

chaplet, whence the red current drops along her temples and cheeks,

her small white hands stamped with a mysterious wound from which

bloody lines emerge like rays--and this strange spectacle surrounded

by people of all conditions, who are absorbed in respectful attention

and interest--some idea may be gained of what Dr. Lefebvre often

witnessed at Bois d’Haine.

About half-past one o’clock, she usually falls on her knees, with her

hands joined and her body bent forward, while her face wears an

expression of the profoundest contemplation. She remains in this

attitude about half an hour, then rises and resumes her seat. About

two o’clock the scene changes. She first leans a little forward, then

rises--slowly at first, then more quickly--and, as if by some sudden

movement of projection, falls with her face to the ground. In this

position she lies upon her chest, the head resting upon the left arm,

her eyes closed, her mouth half-open, her lower limbs stretched out

and covered to the heels by her dress. At three o’clock she makes a

sudden movement: her arms are extended at right angles with the body

in cross-like fashion, while the feet are crossed, the right instep

resting on the sole of the left. She maintains this position until

about five o’clock, when she suddenly starts up on her knees in the

attitude of prayer. After a few minutes of profound absorption, she

resumes her chair.

The ecstasy lasts until about six or seven o’clock, the attitude and

expression of face varying according to the mental impressions, when

it terminates in an appalling scene: The arms fall helpless alongside

of the body, the head drops forward on the chest, the eyes close, the

nose becomes pinched, while the face assumes the pallor of death: at

the same time the hands become icy cold, the pulse is quite

imperceptible, a cold sweat covers the body, and the death-rattle

seems to be heard in the throat. This condition lasts about fifteen

minutes, when she revives. The bodily heat rises, the pulse returns,

the cheeks regain their color, but for some minutes more there hangs

an indefinable expression of ecstasy about the face. Suddenly the

eyelids open, the features relax, the eyes look familiarly at

surrounding objects, and the ecstasy is over.

If the different phases of the paroxysm be carefully watched, it is

evident that the intellect, far from being dormant, is very active; 179

although the girl is quite unconscious of what is passing around her,

she remembers perfectly all her subjective sensations. Although

extremely reluctant to discuss the subject, she was ordered by her

spiritual directors to answer Dr. Lefebvre’s questions, which she

did--briefly, but distinctly--to the following effect:

When her ecstasy begins, she says she finds herself suddenly plunged

into a vast flood of light; figures more or less distinct soon appear,

and several scenes of the Passion then pass successively before her.

These she minutely but briefly describes--with the appearance of the

Saviour, his garments, wounds, crown of thorns, and cross. He never

addresses her a word or even looks at her. She describes with the same

clearness and precision the characters that surround him--the

apostles, the holy women, and the Jews.

Dr. Lefebvre has given a lucid exposition of the state of the

different organs during the several stages of the ecstasy, as well as

of the chief points of interest of the paroxysm. During the first

period--from eight o’clock in the morning until two in the

afternoon--Louise remains sitting in her chair, and her organic and

functional condition changes but little. The skin is cool; the face

retains its usual color; respiration is regular, and so calm that

close attention is needed to note the chest movement; the pulse is

soft and regular, beating about seventy-five in the minute.

Occasionally the heart-beats are more rapid or slower than usual, and

the face flushes or becomes suddenly pale: these functional

modifications accord with the play of the features, and are evidently

the result of the varying impressions of the mind.

From midday on Thursday, when she dines more sparingly than usual,

until eight o’clock on the Saturday morning, she tastes absolutely no

food or drink of any kind. She feels no need of either, and her

stomach would not retain it if taken; for, several times, when ordered

by her physician to take certain nourishment on Fridays, it has been

swallowed without resistance, but at once rejected. In spite of this

complete abstinence from drink, the tongue was always moist: the great

excretions of the body were suspended. Careful attention was directed

to the condition of the nervous system, and especially to sensation

and motion. To the touch, no tension or spasmodic contraction is

perceptible in any of the muscles, and the girl executes no movements

but those required for the action of the scenes at which she assists.

Thus, at times, she sits up straight, her hands either clasped or

hanging loosely, her lips relaxing into a smile, or her face drawn

into a frown. If her limbs be moved by a bystander, the result varies;

sometimes they preserve the position given, as, when her arms are

lifted up, they may retain the new position for nine or ten minutes,

and then slowly relapse to their former place. But, if she is lifted

to a standing position, great muscular relaxation is evident, and as

soon as the support is withdrawn she falls back into her chair. One

peculiarity should here be noted: if any effort be made to change her

position during prosternation, when the arms are extended and the feet

crossed upon each other, a decided resistance is perceptible, and the

extremities immediately resume their position.

The exercise of the special senses is completely suspended, as was

tested by experiment. The eyes are widely open, the pupils dilated,

the lids quite immovable, except when the conjunctiva[51] is touched, 180

which produces a slight winking or contraction of the lids. A bright

light or other object may be suddenly passed without effect before the

eyes, which gaze vacantly into space.

The sense of hearing is equally blunted, and insensible to ordinary

sounds. On several occasions, a person standing behind her has shouted

loudly into her ears without exciting the least evidence of being

heard. Except upon the conjunctiva, as mentioned, general sensibility

seems to be completely in abeyance. Numerous experiments were made to

test this fact.

For instance, the mucous membranes of the nose and ears were

repeatedly tickled with a feather without exciting any reflex

contraction; a strong solution of ammonia held under the nose produced

no effect. The skin, being less sensitive than the mucous membranes,

was pricked with a needle, and a pin thrust through a fold of skin on

the hands and forearm; the point of a penknife was also driven into

the skin until it bled freely, without producing the faintest muscular

contraction or indication of sensibility.

A still more decisive test was made with an electro-magnetic

battery,[52] the electrodes of which were placed on the front of the

forearm where the skin is very thin and sensitive, and the strongest

possible current passed through the muscles for more than a minute by

the watch without eliciting the least evidence of pain, and the

electric brush was equally powerless. The poles were likewise applied

to different parts of the face, and violent and prolonged contractions

of the facial muscles induced, but without the slightest winking or

other sign of sensibility or suffering.

Such is the condition of the organic functions during the first part

of the ecstasy, but some modifications are observed during the second.

Thus, while lying prostrate on the floor, the pulse becomes almost

imperceptible, and an ordinary observer would fail to detect it at

all, although Dr. Lefebvre was sure it never ceased to beat fully. Its

frequency was at the same time greatly increased; so that, when it

could be counted, it often rose to 120 or 130 in the minute. The

movements of respiration now become more and more feeble, and the

closest attention is needed to make sure that they exist, the

rhythmical motion of the little shawl that covers her shoulders being

often the only appreciable evidence that they are not totally

suspended.

Another remarkable fact, which is contrary to the general physical

rule, is that the rate of the pulse and that of respiration are

directly in an inverse proportion; both Dr. Lefebvre and Dr.

Imbert-Goubeyre having proved that, while the pulse rose from 90 to

130 per minute, the respirations (normally averaging 20 to 25) sink to

18 or even 10 in the same period. In proportion as the pulse and

breathing become feeble, the skin loses its natural temperature, and

is bathed in a cold sweat. As was stated, reaction occurs in ten or

fifteen minutes; the pulse regains its force and normal frequency,

respiration increases, and the natural standard of bodily heat is

restored. The ecstatic thus passes at once from her trance into her

ordinary life without any intermediate stage of transition. No

headache, stiffness of the joints, or other discomfort is complained

of; the intellect is perfectly clear, the expression serene, the face 181

calm, and the body active. At this moment the pulse has been found

regular, soft, and from 72 to 75 per minute; respiration of natural

strength, and 22 per minute, and the skin perfectly natural.

III.--THE QUESTION OF CREDIBILITY.

The suspicion of fraud seems never to have been entertained by the

people who surrounded Louise Lateau. Her straightforward character,

her simple and unostentatious piety, and her heroic acts of charity to

the poor seemed to them the antithesis of hypocrisy. Of the likelihood

of intentional deception each reader will judge for himself from the

sketch we have given of her history. Dr. Lefebvre, however,

acknowledges without hesitation that when he first visited her he was

sure a pious fraud was being attempted which the eye of science would

at once detect. Considering that he knew nothing of her and her

antecedents, this suspicion, he says, “was natural, legitimate,

necessary even; but it soon disappeared in presence of the facts.”

If only the stigmatization be considered, the supposition is

untenable, when it is remembered that she was constantly watched by

her friends, neighbors, and visitors. How, under such circumstances,

could she possibly buy and use the blisters, caustics, or other means

of producing the bleeding wounds? But, granting she had all these at

her command, how could the ignorant peasant girl--even though aided by

two or three accomplices--produce a result which the physician with

all the resources of science cannot effect? For it involved the

necessity of causing a bloody discharge from nine or ten points of the

body, and of sustaining this for a half-day or even longer under the

very eyes of witnesses who prevented any repeated irritation of the

bleeding surfaces. But when the ecstatic trance is borne in mind, the

impossibility of imposture is still more evident. How can we conceive

that a young girl, brought up in the hardships of manual work,

deprived of all instruction, who has read nothing, and seen nothing,

could each week, during an entire day, play the part of a consummate

actress; that she could simulate not only the abolition of sight and

hearing, but complete insensibility to the most exquisitely painful

tests; that she could control functions which are essentially beyond

the power of the will, as circulation, bodily temperature,

respiration; or that she could suspend those excretions which are at

once the most humiliating and the most irresistible evidence of human

weakness!

If, then, the problem at Bois d’Haine presented only one

difficulty--the stigmatization or the ecstasy--it would be next to

impossible to explain it on the supposition of fraud. But this

difficulty is incomparably greater when we consider these two

extraordinary facts in association. To suppose that both the ecstasy

and stigmatization were fraudulent would involve the manifest

contradiction of admitting that the hæmorrhage, which required a

frequent movement to sustain it for ten, fifteen, or twenty hours,

could be maintained during the prolonged immobility of the trance. No

one, however dextrous, could play this double _rôle_ for eighteen

months[53] without detection, although constantly examined by all

kinds of people--many of them filled with scientific distrust, and

among them more than one hundred physicians. As an example of the 182

uncertainty of her privacy, Dr. Lefebvre states (in a note) that, on

the 11th February, 1870, he was unexpectedly passing through the

neighborhood, and, as it chanced to be on Friday, he thought he would

stop and see Louise. He knocked at the door--was at once admitted, and

went straight to her little room without stopping to speak to the

family. It was a quarter to four in the afternoon, and she was

completely alone, lying prostrate on the floor, with her arms extended

as described, and insensible to all that was passing around her. The

bleeding limbs were wrapped in the usual cloths, of which he counted

nine. The blood which trickled from her forehead was dried; and,

lifting up her little white cap, he noticed the circle of bleeding

points on her forehead, which presented the usual appearance. The feet

had not been bleeding; on the right hand the flow was just stopping,

while on the left the blood was still distinctly flowing from both

stigmata. Having ascertained these points, he quietly left the cottage

without her having been aware of his visit.

As a general answer to the objection of insincerity, Dr. Lefebvre

appeals to both moral and physical proofs. As the most convincing of

the former class, he cites the general good repute of Louise, which

was never doubted, even by those who most resolutely questioned the

nature of the phenomena she presented: her brave and humble life, her

contempt for presents or money, her simplicity and avoidance of all

parade; her extreme anxiety to conceal the first evidence of the

stigmata even from her own family. If, as occasionally happened, money

or presents of any kind were offered to her mother or sisters, their

wounded pride was unmistakable; and when the Archbishop of Malines,

after a long examination of Louise, once asked the family if they had

no request to make of him, they only entreated that they might be

relieved of visitors and left undisturbed.

To meet the physical objections raised to the theory of the stigmata,

he tried the effects produced by cupping, caustics, and various

blistering agents. The first of these has little or no force; for,

besides the difficulty of exhausting the air under a cup upon the hard

and uneven surface of the back of the hand, it is necessary to cut the

skin to make the blood flow, and, when the amount drawn to the surface

flows out, the bleeding ceases at once.

Caustics produce a destruction of the skin at the point to which they

are applied, and after five or six days an eschar is detached, leaving

a sore but not a bleeding surface; or, if bleeding exceptionally

occurs, it ceases very soon, and the healing process is slow and

always followed by an indelible scar. This in no respect accorded with

the facts observed.

The blistering hypothesis seems less improbable, as this class of

irritants produce a special form of inflammation of the skin, during

which the epidermis is raised from the derm by an exudation of serous

fluid. As this process much more resembled the vesicles that preceded

the stigmatic bleedings, it was examined with greater care. The

characteristic odor of cantharides or ammonia was never perceived, nor

could the peculiar spangles of the Spanish-fly ever be detected with a

magnifying lens. Litmus paper, moistened and applied to the wounds,

gave no evidence of the application of acids. In addition to this,

there was no inflamed areola around the stigmata, as is common around

the edge of blistered surfaces, and their development was not

simultaneous, but successive; and more than once, in Dr. Lefebvre’s 183

presence, the ampulla or vesicle ruptured spontaneously, and the flow

of blood instantly began in its usual quantity.

When, however, the vesicle produced by a blister is ruptured, the raw

skin is exposed, but never under any circumstances emits a flow of

blood. To prove this in the most conclusive manner, the following

experiments were instituted:

On Friday, Nov. 27, 1868, Dr. Lefebvre, who usually adopted the wise

precaution of taking with him two or three of his colleagues or other

respectable physicians on his visits to Bois d’Haine, in the presence

of Drs. Lecrinier and Séverin, applied strong aqua ammonia to a spot

about half an inch in diameter upon the back of the left hand,

alongside of the stigma, which was then bleeding freely. A narrow

strip of sound skin was purposely left between the two. In about

twelve minutes a well-developed circular vesicle was obtained, filled

with transparent serum. On the hypothesis of fraud, this should have

burst spontaneously; but, as it did not do so, it was ruptured and the

cuticle torn off, thus exposing two raw surfaces side by side, upon

the same hand, and involving the same tissues. The two spots were

carefully watched; the stigma continued to bleed freely for two hours

and a half longer, while the blistered surface during this period did

not yield a single drop of blood. For a half hour it exuded a little

colorless serum, after which its surface dried up; on rubbing it with

a coarse towel, a little rose-colored serum escaped and soaked into

the cloth, but ceased the instant the friction was stopped.

The second experiment, which was still more decisive, was by means of

what he calls “the glove test” (_l’épreuve des gants_).

On Wednesday, February 3, 1869, Dr. Lecrinier, M. Niels, the curate of

Bois d’Haine, and M. Bussin visited the cottage, and took with them a

pair of thick, strong, well-stitched leather gauntlets. After

carefully examining her hands, and satisfying themselves that no

vesicle or abnormal redness existed, they asked Louise to put on the

gloves, which fitted her exactly. A strong wristband being then

wrapped five times around the wrist, so as not to leave the smallest

interspace between the glove and the skin, it was tied in a double

knot, the ends cut short, covered with melted sealing-wax, and

impressed on each side with a special seal. To prevent the wax from

scaling off from friction or any chance blow, the seals were enclosed

in little bags (_bourses en toile_). The gloves were the same for both

hands, except that on the right glove the thumb and forefinger were

cut short to allow the girl to continue her usual sewing. On the next

Friday morning, before seven o’clock, Dr. Lefebvre met by appointment

at the cottage Mgr. Pouceur, vicar-general of the diocese of Tournay,

and two well-known Belgian physicians, Drs. Moulaert, of Bruges, and

Mussely, of Deguze. After each one had satisfied himself of the

integrity of the seals, and that it was impossible to slip an

instrument of any kind between the glove and the skin, the strings

were cut and the gloves removed.

They were full of blood, which also covered the hands. When this was

washed off, the stigmata were found just the same as on other Fridays;

on the palm and back of each hand the epidermis had been detached; it

was torn, and the surface of the skin left raw, and each of the

stigmatic spots continued to bleed as usual. Of the feet, which had

not been subjected to any test, the right was bleeding freely, while 184

the left was dry.

Lest some subtle doubter might object to this experiment that, by some

indiscretion on the part of the examiners, the girl might perhaps have

discovered their intention, and applied her secret irritant to the

hands before their arrival, Dr. Lefebvre resolved to repeat the test

with still more conclusive precautions.

The gloves were therefore again applied on a Tuesday with the same

care as before, and the next day were removed for a few moments, and

the hands found in a perfectly healthy and natural state; they were

then re-applied as before. On Friday morning, they were taken off

before a new set of witnesses, when the stigmata of both hands were

found bleeding freely as usual.

In his appendix, Dr. Lefebvre states that this glove test was

suggested by Mgr. Pouceur, who superintended the theological part of

the inquiry at the request of the Bishop of Tournay, and to whose tact

and intelligent liberality he pays the highest compliment.

These experiments, and the inferences that they logically involve,

convinced Dr. Lefebvre that the hypothesis of fraud in the production

of the stigmata was untenable.

It would be easy to show by similar proofs that the ecstatic trances

could not have been feigned. But for our purpose it will suffice to

recall the reader’s attention to the numerous trials that were made to

test the subject’s sensibility to external impressions. Those made

with the electric current alone are decisive upon this point, for it

may fairly be said that the strongest and most resolute man could not

possibly resist some exhibition of feeling while a powerful magnetic

battery was contorting his muscles.

In a subsequent part of his volume, Dr. Lefebvre enters into an

exhaustive medical study of the facts observed, the discussion of

which would be out of place in this magazine. He shows conclusively

that, although they have some points in common, the ecstatic trances

essentially differ from hysteria, catalepsy, and other allied

disorders of the nervous system; while animal magnetism in its various

subdivisions of “Braidism,” hypnotism, and electro-biology is equally

powerless with somnambulism or the theory of spiritualism to unravel

the phenomena presented by this simple peasant girl of Bois d’Haine.

The reader who desires to pursue this inquiry is referred to Dr.

Lefebvre’s work (pp. 162 _et seq._) and to Fournier’s article

entitled “Cas rares” in the fourth volume of the _Dictionnaire des

Sciences Médicales_, which is replete with curious information upon

the subject of the stigmata.

So convincing are the statements of Dr. Lefebvre, who never descends

into the advocate or mistakes his own theories for facts, that the

case he narrates has been accepted in good faith, and republished

within the present year by two of the leading journals[54] of this

country and England.

In one of these, Dr. Day, of London, discusses the probable cause of

the phenomena with considerable liberality, while the learned Clymer

contents himself with reporting the extraordinary facts.

[45] It is scarcely necessary to explain to Catholic readers

that this expression is applied to the marks of the five

wounds upon our Lord’s body, as described in the Gospel, and

illustrated in all representations of the crucifixion.

[46] Among others, White’s _Life and Writings of Emmanuel

Swedenborg_. 1867.

[47] _Observations, etc., upon Insanity._ London. 1806.

Cited by Clymer.

[48] See among others, Salvatori’s _Life of Veronico

Giuliani_, pp. 100-108, and the exhaustive _Christliche

Mystik_ of Görres, in which is given a full account of

Maria Mörl, the “Ecstatic of the Tyrol.”

[49] _Louise Lateau de Bois d’Haine: sa Vie; ses Extases; ses

Stigmates. Etude Médicale._ Par le Dr. F. Lefebvre,

Professeur de Pathologie Générale et de Thérapeutique.

Louvain. 1870. 12mo, pp. 360.

[50] For the unprofessional reader, it may be proper to state

that this point is just external to the usual position of

the apex of the heart.

[51] The thin, transparent membrane that covers the eyeball, and

is reflected upon the inner surface of the lids. It is one

of the most delicate and sensitive portions of the body.

[52] This test is often applied for the detection of feigned

convulsions, etc., by criminals and other malingerers; its

efficacy will be appreciated by any one who has tried to

hold the poles of a powerful battery.

[53] That is, from July, 1868, to April, 1870, when Dr.

Lefebvre’s book was published. In a subsequent letter dated

January 13, 1871, to Dr. Day, of London, he states that her

condition is in all respects unchanged.

[54] _The Journal of Psychological Medicine_, New York,

Oct., 1870. _Macmillan’s Magazine_, London, April, 1871.

----------

THE LEGENDS OF OISIN, BARD OF ERIN. 185

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

INTRODUCTORY.

Among the mountains and on the wild shores of Western Ireland are

still recited, in the Gaelic, to eager listeners legends relating to

Fionn Mac Cumbal and his son Oisin, known to the English reader

chiefly under the names of Fingal and Ossian. Some of these

“rhapsodies” have been recently published, with an English version, by

the Irish “Ossianic Society,” and others by Mr. Hawkins Simpson, in a

valuable volume called _Oisin, the Bard of Ireland_. Many poems on the

same subject are included also in _The Dean of Lismore’s Book_, a work

consisting of ancient Gaelic poetry, selected from a MS. collection

made about A.D. 1514, by Sir James MacGregor, Dean of Lismore, an

island in Argyllshire. The early Irish settlements in Western Scotland are

largely referred to by the chroniclers and archæologists of Scotland.

W. F. Skene, Esq., in his learned Introduction to the Dean’s book,

informs us (though for Scotland, also, he claims Ossianic poetry)

that, during the four centuries in which the great Celtic house of the

“Lord of the Isles” held sway, there existed “not only a close

political connection between the Western Highlands and Islands and

Ireland, but the literary influence was equally close and strong; the

Irish sennachies and bards were heads of a school which included the

Western Highlands, and the Highland sennachies were either of Irish

descent, or, if of native origin, resorted to bardic schools in

Ireland for instruction in the language and accomplishments of their

art.” ... “The oldest of the Gaelic MSS. preserved in the library of

the Faculty of Advocates belongs to this period. They are all written

in the Irish character; the language is the written language of

Ireland; and they contain numerous specimens of the poetry of these

Irish masters.”

Among the Ossianic poems still chanted in Ireland, not a few consist

of dialogues between Oisin and Saint Patrick. They descend from a very

remote antiquity, though they have been much modified in the course of

ages. The bard, last of his race and clan, is represented as the guest

of Saint Patrick in one of his convents. He accepts the Christian

faith, though with misgivings, for he fears that he is thus false to

the friends of his youth, and now and then his wrath blazes out

against the monks, who have no faith in the chiefs of Inisfail. The

saint beguiles his outbreaks by praying him to sing the old glories of

the land.

Fionn, the father of Oisin, was the great commander of the Irish

Feine, a standing army elected from all parts of the country, and

invested with privileges which made it almost a kingdom within a

kingdom. Individually, he belonged to the Feine of Leinster, the

celebrated “Baoigne Clan.” Alarmed by the regal attributes assumed by

Fionn, all the provincial kings of Ireland banded themselves together

against him, and the battle of Gahbra, near Tara, in Meath, was

fought, A.D. 286. In that battle almost all the chiefs of both sides

perished, including Oscar, Oisin’s son, who commanded the Feine. Oscar

is always represented as the gentlest, not less than the bravest of

the Feine--the Hector of the Irish Troy.

Fionn and Oisin flourished, despite these poetic disputations, nearly

two centuries before the time of Saint Patrick! Some have supposed,

accordingly, that the Patrick of the Ossianic poems was some precursor

of the Irish apostle. But the chronological discrepancy would probably

have proved no counterweight to the strength of that instinct which

made the national imagination insist on connecting the heroic with the

saintly period of Ireland. A theme full of pathos and interest was

presented by the blind old warrior bard, divided between his devotion

to his father and his son on the one hand, and his reverence, on the

other, for the teachers of the better faith--between old affections

and new convictions--patriotic recollections and religious hopes.

I.

THE CONTENTION OF OISIN WITH PATRICK.[55]

[FROM ANCIENT IRISH SOURCES.]

When Patrick the faith to Oisin had preached,

He believed, and in just ways trod;

Yet oft for old days he grieved, and thus

Stormed oft at the saint of God.

“Woe, woe, for the priestly tribe this hour 186

On the Feine Hill have sway!

Glad am I that scarce their shapes I see;

Half-blind am I this day.

“Woe, woe, thou Palace of Cruachan!

Thy sceptre is down and thy sword,

The chase goes over thy grassy roof,

And the monk in thy courts is lord!

“Thou man with the mitre and vestments broad,

And the bearing of grave command,

Rejoice that Diarmid this day is dust!

Right heavy was his clinched hand!

“Thou man with the bell! I rede thee well,

Were Diorraing living this day,

Thy book he would take, and thy bell would break

On the base of yon pillar gray!

“Thou man with miraculous crosier-staff,

Though puissant thou art, and tall,

Were Goll but here, he would dash thy gear

In twain on thy convent wall!

“Were Conan living, the bald-head shrill,

With the flail of his scoff and gibe,

He would break thy neck, and thy convent wreck,

And lash from the land thy tribe!

“But one of our chiefs thy head had spared--

My Oscar--my son--my child:

He was storm in the foray, and fire in the fight,

But in peace he was maiden-mild.”

Then Patrick answered: “Old man, old man,

That pagan realm lies low.

This day Christ ruleth. Forget thy chiefs,

And thy deeds gone by forego!

“High feast thou hast on the festal days,

And cakes on the days of fast--”

“Thou liest, thou priest, for in wrath and scorn

Thy cakes to the dogs I cast!”

“Old man, thou hearest our Christian hymns: 187

Such strains thou hadst never heard--”

“Thou liest, thou priest! for in Letter Lee wood

I have listened its famed blackbird!

“I have heard the music of meeting swords,

And the grating of barks on the strand,

And the shout from the breasts of the men of help

That leaped from the decks to land.

“Twelve hounds had my sire, with throats like bells,

Loud echoed on lake and bay:

By this hand, they lacked but the baptism rite

To chant with thy monks this day!”

Oisin’s white head on his breast dropt down,

Till his hair and his beard, made one,

Shone out like the spine of a frosty hill

Far seen in the wintry sun.

“One question, O Patrick! I ask of thee,

Thou king of the saved and the shriven:

My sire, and his chiefs, have they their place

In thy city, star-built, of heaven?”

“Oisin, old chief of the shining sword,

That questionest of the soul,

That city they tread not who lived for war:

Their realm is a realm of dole.”

“By this head, thou liest, thou son of Calphurn!

In heaven I would scorn to bide,

If my father and Oscar were exiled men,

And no friend at my side.”

“That city, old man, is the city of peace:

Loud anthems, not widows’ wail--”

“It is not in bellowings chiefs take joy,

But in songs of the wars of Fail!

“Are the men in the streets like Baoigne’s chiefs?

Great-hearted like us are they?

Do they stretch to the poor the ungrudging hand,

Or turn they their heads away?

“Thou man with the chant, and thou man with the creed, 188

This thing I demand of thee:

My dog, may he pass through the gates of heaven?

May my wolf-hound enter free?”

“Old man, not the buzzing gnat may pass,

Nor sunbeam look in unbidden:

The King there sceptred knows all, sees all:

From him there is nothing hidden.”

“It never was thus with Fionn, our king!

In largess our Fionn delighted:

The hosts of the earth came in, and went forth

Unquestioned, and uninvited!”

“Thy words are the words of madness, old man,

Thy chieftains had might one day;

Yet a moment of heaven is three times worth

The warriors of Eire for aye!”

Then Oisin uplifted his old white head:

Like lightning from the hoary skies

A flash went forth ‘neath the shaggy roofs

Low-bent o’er his sightless eyes:

“Though my life sinks down, and I sit in the dust,

Blind warrior and gray-haired man,

Mine were they of old, thou priest overbold,

Those chiefs of Baoigne’s clan!”

And he cried, while a spasm his huge frame shook,

“Dim shadows like men before me,

My father was Fionn, and Oscar my son,

Though to-day ye stand vaunting it o’er me!”

Thus raged Oisin--’mid the fold of Christ,

Still roaming old deserts wide

In the storm of thought, like a lion old,

Though lamblike at last he died.

[55] The substance of this poem will be found among the

translations of the Irish Ossianic Society.

----------

LUCAS GARCIA. 189

FROM THE SPANISH OF FERNAN CABALLERO.

III.

Lucas, who could neither do nor remedy anything, suffered fearfully

from the presence of his sister so near him. Happily, in two days the

general left for Sevilla.

But from the hour when she met her brother and he refused to recognize

her, Lucia’s existence was changed. To her, in the flowery butterfly

life into which, at seventeen, she had been almost forced by

circumstances, the encounter with Lucas had been like the striking of

a bark indolently voyaging, without patron and without compass, to the

breath of light and laughing breezes, against the first rock of firm

land: the shock had been terrible. In perplexity she asked herself,

“Where am I? Whither am I going? Who is this that flatters and

shelters me? Who he that rejects me?” In terror she gazed around her:

all seemed new and strange, all odious and reprehensible. In her

memory--oh! that she had consulted it before!--she found the words her

brother had said to her at parting: “Never turn from the right path,

though it be steep and sown with thorns. Always look straight before

you, for he that does not do this never knows where he will stop.”

Lucia’s wretchedness was augmented by the seeming impossibility of

escape from the position in which she found herself. Could she turn

back without either encouragement and support, while, by continuing in

sin, she would have both? Her natural want of energy made it the more

difficult for her to return to the right path, with no help but his

who never fails those who seek him with faith and without fear or

faltering. The tears she shed tarnished her beauty, and the sorrow

that preyed on her heart robbed her manners--hitherto so gay and

caressing--of their charm. All this at first annoyed Gallardo, then

offended, and finished by exasperating him. Violent scenes took place

between the lovers; these introduced discord; and discord, when once

it has burst its primitive embankments, filters through whatever

others may be raised to contain it.

When the general was recalled to Madrid, expecting to be employed, and

thinking that his stay would not be long, he resolved to leave Lucia

in Sevilla. She allowed him to go without opposition, for so weary was

she of the life she led that any change seemed preferable. She was,

besides, very far from possessing the brazen and insolent courage that

women of her condition are wont to acquire, and that causes so many of

them, when they have ceased to be objects of passion, to be dreaded by

the men around whom they have coiled themselves like horrible snakes;

making miserable Laocoons of the victims, who often marry them through

fear, where before they would not do it for love, and thus render the

latter part of their career as ridiculous as the beginning was

scandalous.

A worthy manner, truly, in which to fill up a man’s existence!

The stay at court, however, of the _young_ general, as the papers

styled Gallardo, was prolonged. He alternated in various combinations 190

of second-class political intrigues, and allowed himself to be made

the conceited tool of one of them, under the full persuasion that he

had become the imposing leader of a party.

The general now began to think, with excellent reason, very sound

judgment, and profound calculation, that it was time for him to be

more considerate. The reader will pardon us the expression, which, in

his case, meant to enter upon a life of usefulness and devotion to the

interests of the country--without sacrificing his own, it will be

understood. Influenced by these grave considerations, our young leader

subscribed to newspapers, bought books and read some of them, though

he soon forgot precisely which he had read and which not; wrote a

memorial on river navigation, and another upon the _Renta del

Excusado_;[56] made short speeches as a preparation for longer ones,

which succeeded very well and met with the entire approbation of his

hearers; and, in the time it takes to say a devout _amen_,

exchanged the rakish air of the young blood for the pompous tone of

the prominent and influential citizen.

Our friend, as may be seen, had reached his apogee: in confirmation of

which--among other sacrifices made to seriousness--he had procured a

good cook, and loosened the lacings of his stays.

Nevertheless--since there is a difference between a serious man and a

moral one--our hero maintained a sort of toned-down dissoluteness

behind the scenes, where he and his intimates entertained themselves

in conversations tissued with a variety of subjects, such as the

discourse _A_ and the scandal _B_; the concordat and the theatre royal;

the ministry and the _danseuse_; the bishop and the prima donna; the

crown and cards; erected a throne to Tauromaquia; proposed an

apotheosis of industry; and passed a vote of censure upon the luxury

of novenas.

“Look here, _little one_!” said to him just such another “_little

one_” at a breakfast party--where champagne was made to represent the

tone of good society that the greater part of the guests lacked--“what

has become of _La Lucia_?”

“She was not very well, and I left her in Sevilla,” responded the

hero.

“Doesn’t it strike you that she is losing her varnish?”

“At twenty-one, man?”

“It is not singular,” remarked the elegant son of a capitalist (the

youth had been educated in France). “At that age, one who lives fast

is _sur le retour_.”[57]

“The existence of _camellias_ is like that of roses,” quickly added

another, whose Christian name of Bonifacio they were in the habit of

contracting into _Boni_.

Having constituted himself an inseparable copy of the engrafted

Parisian, and not wishing to fall behind his model in anything,

_Boni_ never allowed the capitalist to express an idea without

instantly reproducing it in different words, always endeavoring to

surpass the original in elegant Gallicisms; in scepticism of the most

material, and cynicism of the most approved kind, and in extreme

affectation of the fashionable foreign mannerism.

“You ought to place this Lucia _dis_-lucent among the number of the

thousand-and-one Didos,” said the would-be Gaul.

“Lay her aside with last year’s _modes fanées_,”[58] the copy hastened

to add.

“I cannot do that,” said the general. 191

“Stale Spanish morality!’” exclaimed the capitalist, bursting into a

laugh. “Does the fair creature expect to find an Amadeus of Gaul in a

general of the age of enlightenment?”

“Or a Pastor Fido in one who aspires to become a father to his

country?” put in _Boni_.

“The fact is,” replied our friend, “that in my connection with Lucia

there have been exceptional circumstances.”

“Tell them to us, little one,” said his intimate. “The romantic tale

will flavor the coffee.”

The general related all the preliminaries and particulars of his

relations with Lucia.

“Don’t you see, general,” said the imitator of the tone Parisian,

“that it was all a farce, very well got up, by those _fourbes rustics_

to set you on; alarm you; interest you in the girl, and oblige you to

take her?”

“That it was all an intrigue of _las étage_?” added the copy of the

copy.

“_Apropos_ of impositions,” said the capitalist, “I must tell you what

happened to me yesterday. A fellow came into my office--”

“Don’t omit,” said _Boni_, “that you were counting an immense sum of

money at the time, for that is what heightens the joke.”

“He asked me,” continued Creseus, “if I would lend him two doubloons.

I told him that it cost me the greatest pain to be obliged to refuse,

but that I had not sixpence by me.”

“If I had not wished to give, I would have sought another reply,” said

an old general--uncle to ours--who had lost a leg in the battle of

Bailen.

“General,” replied the narrator, “among us, _I have not_ is

synonymous with _I will not_; even sucking-babes understand it.”

“A synonym which Huertas has omitted, but which is known in these

days, even in the Batuecas,” chimed the repeater.

“It could not have existed when he composed his work,” said the

general.

“The fellow,” proceeded the narrator, “begged and implored, lowering

his demand to the most insignificant sum. I was as inexorable as

destiny.” And the millionaire cast around him a look worthy of Cato.

“He was, then, in real need, and not an impostor?” questioned the old

general.

“O sir!--general rule--every one that asks is an impostor.”

“Unless he is an intimate friend,” said _Boni_, speaking this time

with unaccustomed personality.

“_Ma foi_,”[59] answered the Gaul_ish_ Spaniard, “I except no one.

Seeing that he was not going to desist, and always with the amiability

and delicacy that must be used in such cases--”

“_Sans doute_, the same as in affairs of honor,” said the bad copy of

a worse original.

“I told him that, since his necessity was so extreme, I would venture

to lend him--not money, for I had none--but something that would be of

more use to him in his circumstances. The imbecile thought, perhaps,

that it was going to be my signature.”

“Your signature! What one might call the only and unique _sanctum

sanctorum_ of the disciples of Mercury. A thing so sacred!”

“My dear _Boni_,” said his friend, “_veuillez ne pas m’interrompre_?[60]

The fellow’s countenance lighted up. I believe, upon my word, that he

had not eaten in three days. Laughing within myself, although my face 192

denoted the gravest sympathy for his situation, I led him to a closet,

took out a case of pistols, which I opened, and, handing him a weapon,

said, as I bowed his dismissal, ‘Here is a remedy for all your

troubles.’ My mendicant turned upon his heel and left; and you may be

sure that I have rid myself of him, _une bonne fois pour toutes_.”[61]

Boni’s mirth was overpowering.

Gallardo and the rest of the Spaniards were silent.

“You must positively put this joke into some paper,” said the

capitalist’s admirer, between his paroxysms of laughter.

“_Mon cher, à quoi bon?_”[62] responded the hero of the anecdote, with

an air of modesty.

“To show people how to get rid of impostors,” answered Boni; “to

furnish a specimen of your humor--to let it be seen that you are as

richly endowed by nature as by fortune--to give circulation to an

entertaining item--and to--”

“And could a paper be found that would print such an iniquity as an

entertaining item!” shouted the old general, no longer able to contain

his wrath. “Is it the mission of the press to propagate such ideas and

sentiments? God help us, sirs, if there is no one left in Spain

capable of a blush! Can the press parade infamy shamelessly, and no

one be found to repudiate the impudence that relates such a scandal in

terms of laudation; or appeal from it to the noble and generous

instincts, and sense of public decorum, of good and true Spaniards?

Have we become as positive as the written law? In former times,

gentlemen, not all gave, but the few that denied did not boast of

their refusal. Charity made men sorry to say no, even to impostors,

and, having said it, they would have been silent about it for shame.

Avarice was looked upon as one of the disgraceful vices which respect

for public opinion required to be kept out of sight.”

“Uncle, for God’s sake!” entreated Gallardo.

“For God’s sake what, nephew?”

“Speak with more moderation.”

“When I do, look towards Antequera for sunrise.”

“Don’t feel apprehensive, general,” said the capitalist, “_Je sais

vivre_.[63] I respect your family, and know how to make allowance for

gray hairs and the ill-humor of advanced age.”

“Yes,” instantly added the speaking shadow, “_carte blanche_ belongs

to ladies, children, and--”

He was going to add _old men_, but a look from the general silenced

him.

“No, nephew, don’t be apprehensive,” said the latter. “The weapons of

a gentleman are for nobler uses than the punishment of insults.”

“Come, let us talk of something else,” said Gallardo’s intimate,

anxious to change the subject, but glad in his heart, as were all the

other guests, of the lesson the braggart had received from so worthy

and authorized an antagonist.

“It is not possible, Gallardo, that you will allow Lucia to be an

irredeemable lien upon you. Let me tell you, my boy, that it would be

a pretty piece of folly on your part to create an obstacle to your

future establishment.”

“I don’t see that--in order to be a deputy, senator, or--”

“Oh! you’re on the wrong tack. Your political ideas absorb all your

thoughts; but I have been told--by one of her friends--that the

daughter of Don Juan de Moneda,[64] the banker, is quite smitten with 193

your person.”

Gallardo straightened himself, and caressed his curled locks.

“Her mother is completely taken with the title of Marquis de Monte

Gallardo, which they say you are about to receive, and her father with

your capacity.”

“We are even there,” said the general, “for I am as much impressed

with his. To buy--”

“But,” proceeded the friend, “he is equally so with your sash and

rent-roll. Here, boy, is an opportunity to settle in life.”

“Really, I hardly know the kind and amiable young lady who has been so

condescending as to think of me!” drawled the extremely flattered

Gallardo, privately resolving to tighten his stays again.

“She is very beautiful,” affirmed his friend, “and you must know that

she rides like a Cossack.”

“Oh! Athenaïs la Moneda has the most elegant figure and complexion--so

pale!--and the fiercest glances” (he meant haughtiest) “of all the

belles of Madrid. She is delicious!” exclaimed the Parisian.

“She has the neck of a swan, with such _serpentine undulating_,” said

Bonifacio, quite at a loss for another comparison.

“The most desirable _parte, ma foi_! Her father is worth forty

millions, and she is the only daughter,” continued the capitalist, who

did not allow his appreciation of beauty to interfere with his

devotion to dollars.

“You ought to improve your opportunity, and marry at once,” advised

the friend. “These girls with forty millions are more capricious than

the wind. They change oftener than weather-cocks, and do just as they

please; for millionaire fathers who know only the Castilian have the

highest consideration for daughters who have learned French from Sue’s

novels, and Italian at the opera.”

“An heiress’s whim is like a flash of lightning. In losing time, you

expose yourself to a--”

“To a deception,” said the capitalist, concluding the sentence.

“To a _disabusement_,” said the copy, thinking, with profound

satisfaction, that he had, for once, surpassed the original.

“What is your opinion of all this?” asked Gallardo of his uncle, with

a laugh, intended to appear jesting, but which betrayed his interior

satisfaction.

“Yes, give us the benefit of your wisdom,” said the capitalist,

covering his ill-humor with a tone of light irony. “In matrimonial as

well as martial councils, the Nestors should be heard.

‘_La face des vieillards est pleine de majesti:

Leur voix sur l’existence a des secrets intimes._’”[65]

“_Une vieux de la vieille_,”[66] confirmed _Boni_, “is a California of

experience; a barometrical and chronometrical counsellor; a universal

grammar bound in gold; a--”

“Hush, _Boni_!” whispered the capitalist in the ear of his friend, who,

less accustomed to champagne than the others, began to feel its

emancipating influence.

Meantime, the old officer stroked his gray moustache in silence.

“Well, what do you think, general!” questioned Gallardo.

“I think that you ought to marry.”

“_C’est clair_,” said the Parisian.

“It is clear,” repeated _Boni_--“as clear as detestable water;

and they think of bringing it into Madrid! Will spend millions to do

it!”

“_Taisez vous, mon cher_,” entreated the model, in a low tone. 194

“I am not in the humor,” replied the copy, in excellent Spanish.

“Of course he ought to marry,” said all the rest.

“Let us understand each other, gentlemen,” said the old general. “I

think, Gallardo, that you ought to marry, not the mushroom of the

millions, but Lucia.”

These words were received with clamorous disapprobation.

“You take advantage of your _rôle_ of Nestor, general,” exclaimed

the capitalist.

“The hero of former times dotes--I would say _radote_. I propose a

vote of censure!” hiccoughed the copy.

“S-s-s, Boni. _Le vous en prie!_[67] Do you want to get another

broadside from the disabled old pontoon? Don’t provoke him, for the

next time neither prudence nor contempt will enable me to keep my

temper,” murmured his patron.

“The general is jesting. A gentleman of his fine delicacy cannot mean

to counsel one, in Gallardo’s position, to marry a woman of light

reputation,” said Gallardo’s friend.

“I do it because I have delicacy--a plant that strikes so deep when

once it has taken root, that neither the silver plough nor the golden

spade which cultivates the field of ideas of the present day can turn

it out. I counsel a man who has done a wrong to repair it. I advise

one who has been the ruin of an honest girl to become her defender.

And the more public he has made her position, the more he is bound to

set her right in the eyes of others. If the future looks smiling, I

counsel it all the more earnestly, that the past may not reproach him.

In my days, gentlemen, marriages were not discussed in semi-public

meetings. The only counsellors were, according to the circumstances,

the heart, the honor, and the conscience. But,” added the old man,

rising, “my sentiments are as much out of harmony with yours, as my

person is out of place in a reunion of gay young men. Gentlemen, I

salute you. Nephew, good-by. Do not ask me to your brilliant wedding

if you marry with the million-heiress of the caprices. If with Lucia,

I will be your groomsman.”

With these words the noble veteran took his leave.

“Style of an epic poem,” said the pseudo-Parisian.

“Tone of an _elegiac lyric_,” stammered the copy. “One would think the

governor had been drinking some kind of palate-skinning Catalan wine,

instead of the excellent, exquisite, delectable, delicious--”

“Enough, _Boni_,” interrupted his friend, indicating to him with his

foot the urgent necessity of more discretion.

“The general has, so to speak, one foot in the grave, and, naturally,

all looks to him _de profundis_ color,” observed Gallardo’s intimate.

“But we live in a positive age, and must conform to the step of its

march; to do otherwise would be to make ourselves antiquated and

ridiculous.”

Days followed days, each one bringing to our hero its business,

novelty, interest, and forgetfulness of those that had preceded it.

Lucia, in the meantime, saw her means of subsistence failing without

informing him; for, with the reawakened sentiments of duty and shame,

came the comprehension of her guilty dependence, and sense of the

double humiliation of soliciting and receiving. She had lived for some

time by the sale of her valuables, but this resource was almost

exhausted.

“What is to become of me?” she questioned, with more of weakness than 195

inquietude, more inertia than anguish, as she sat one day alone, her

head drooping upon her breast. “In forgetting how to work, I have been

like the sailor that forgets in a calm how to handle the ropes. What

shall I do when all is gone? What can he who has brought me to this be

thinking of?”

Her questionings were interrupted by the entrance of the woman of the

house with a letter.

“It is from Madrid,” she said, with a fawning smile. “I’ll bet that

the general tells when he is coming, and confirms the report of his

appointment as captain-general of this province.”

Lucia opened and read the following epistle:

“DEAR LUCIA: Nothing can last for ever. Mature age brings serious

ideas; the life of a man, obligations, circumstances, compromises, and

position, duties, which force us to make, in favor of reason and

morality, sacrifices that are not the less painful because they are

necessary.

“My family has undertaken to negotiate a marriage for me, which will

assure me a certain and brilliant future; and matters have proceeded

so far that I cannot oppose myself to the arrangement without

offending a powerful and respectable family, compromising my own, and

causing grave inconveniences, inconveniences which you would be the

first to deplore.

“I believe that you will understand the necessity of my establishing

myself in life, and will feel neither surprised nor pained. I am

equally persuaded, having noticed for a long time how unhappy you

seemed at my side, and how little pleasure my presence gave you, that

you will not miss me. It may be that another already occupies in your

heart the place that once was mine. If you will be happier with him

than you have been with me, I trust that I have enough philanthropy to

rejoice in your good fortune.

“Adieu. It is likely that we may not meet again; but, believe me, I

shall never forget you; and, if I can serve you in any way, command

me.”

“Well,” asked the woman, eagerly, “does he say anything about coming?”

“No,” answered Lucia, with the tears raining down her cheeks, “he says

that he is not coming.”

Lucia did not feel for Gallardo that which can properly be called

love; but, during four years, her naturally affectionate heart had

attached itself to him, and could not but be wounded by the cold

insensibility with which he had abandoned her.

The harpy’s face, manner, and tone changed at once; for this grief

confirmed her suspicions. Lucia’s lover had cast her off.

“Madam,” she said, “certain exigencies, in which I unfortunately find

myself, have obliged me to introduce a rule into my house, requiring

my boarders to pay in advance. All the rest have agreed to it, and I

trust that you will do the same.”

“No, madam,” replied Lucia, “for I am going away to-morrow, and so

shall have to give you only what is already due.”

The poor forsaken girl went out that night and sold her wardrobe to a

pawnbroker. After satisfying her creditor, she had enough left to pay

some wine-carriers for a ride upon one of their mules as far as Jerez,

and from there she meant to go to Arcos on foot. At dawn, on the

following morning, she passed through the Carmona gate, casting a

long, sad look upon the sleeping city--the city that the Bitis serves

as a page; La Giralda for insignia, and the verdure of its orange 196

groves for adornment; the city that is at once gay as a village maiden

and imposing as a queen; beautiful as a young girl, and full of wisdom

and memories as a matron; graceful as the Andalusian of to-day, and

chaste and noble as the Castilian dame of olden time.

Lucia found herself in Jerez alone and without resource, but, by favor

of her good angel, met Uncle Bartolo at the inn where she alighted.

The visible presence of the former would not have rejoiced her more

than did the sight of this old friend of her family, to whom she told

the whole of her sad story, adding that now she knew not what to do,

since she dared not seek even a servant’s place.

“My daughter,” said the old guerilla, “you grew vain in the fiend’s

own house of _Leona_, and forgot that wings were given to the ant for

its destruction. If you had shown that wretch a repulsive face, he

would not have ventured to do what he did. What motive, will you tell

me, could a _You Sir_ have for playing clucking fox to a little

country girl, but to make of her a mark for shame?

“However,” he continued, seeing that Lucia’s tears began to flow, “far

be it from me to hack at the fallen tree, or double the burden of the

ass that is down. The baptism of repentance opens the fold, and your

repentance is sincere, because you return to poverty, when, if you had

chosen otherwise, profligates would not have been wanting, in the

great city, to complete your ruin. Come with me, and I will talk to

Lucas. It is his duty to take care of you.”

“He will never forgive me, Uncle Bartolo!” exclaimed Lucia sadly. “He

has said that he had no sister, and no one can make him say the

contrary.”

“True,” replied the guerilla, “the Garcia heads are harder than

anvils. I learned that by experience when your father--Heaven rest

him!--married _La Leona_. But this is another thing, for,

notwithstanding that your father did so badly, Lucas has turned out

well. And it is a great deal easier to yoke two that are united by

blood than to unyoke two that the devil has united. We will see, God

helping us, and, in the meantime, you shall come to my house; there is

no great abundance, but good-will is not wanting.”

The next day saw Uncle Bartolo and Lucia travelling along the road

which we described at the commencement of our story; Lucia mounted

upon a little ass, and the agile good old man following on foot. At

nightfall they reached Arcos.

Alas! for the one who, returning to his native place, instead of

experiencing pure happiness, feels his heart torn by grief and shame;

finds his parents dead, the house where he was born the property of

strangers, and sees, in the looks of neighbors, cold disdain instead

of the joyful smile of recognition and welcome!