The next morning the Abbé Guillemette, a priest of that quarter, came

across the corpses, and, noticing that they wore a religious habit,

made inquiry into the circumstances of the assassination. He caused

the sacred remains to be immediately collected, and taken to the house

of the brethren in the Rue du Moulin-des-Prés. There a professor from

Arcueil, M. d’Arsac, identified the bodies, indicated the name of

each, and claimed for them the respect due to martyrs in a holy cause.

At the same time, M. Durand, curé of Arcueil, and M. Eugène Lavenant,

the Mayor, were informed of the death of the Dominicans, their friends

and their companions in the hour of danger. They both came together to

ask for the remains of the victims, and removed them to Arcueil. It

was desired to bury them within the enclosure of the school, where

Father Rousselin awaited them, with Jacques de La Perrière, and the 620

pupils who had remained faithful to the house. But it would have been

necessary to submit to long formalities, and the bodies were so

dreadfully bruised that there was no time even to make them coffins.

The hearse, followed by a great crowd of people deeply agitated with

grief and anger, was driven to the common cemetery. There the martyrs

lie side by side in one grave, with no shroud but their blood-stained

vestments.

This undistinguished tomb ought not to be the last resting-place of

the martyrs of Arcueil. Father Captier and his companions will sleep

in the shadow of the school which their labor founded and their blood

renders henceforth illustrious. Not only the religious who were the

brethren of the victims, and the pupils who were their children, but

all who care for religion and country, will come to pray at their

sepulchre, and meditate upon the lessons of their death.

[120] The following is a list of the prisoners:

_In the Fort of Bicêtre_.--Father Captier, prior of the

school of Arcueil; Bourard, chaplain; Delhorme, regent of

studies; Cotrault, procurator; Rousselin, censor;

Chatagneret, professor--all professed religious of the Third

(Teaching) Order of St. Dominic, except F. Bourard, who

belonged to the Order of Preaching Friars; MM. Voland,

Gauquelin, L’Abbé Grancolas, Edouard Bertrand, Rézillot,

Petit, and Gauvin, assistant masters; MM. Aimé Gros, Marce,

Cathala, Joseph Cheminal, Dintroz, Simon Brouho, Duché,

Bussi, Schepens, Delaitre (father and son), and Paul Lair,

servants of the school. _In the Prison of Saint Lazare._--Mother

Aloysia Ducos, superior of the Sisters of St. Martha;

Sisters Elisabeth Poirier, Louise Marie Carriquiry, Louis de

Gonzague Dorfin, and Mélanie Gatineaud; Mmes. Angèle Marce,

Marguerite Cathala, Clara Delaitre, and the widow Guégon;

Miles, Gertrude Faas, Catherine Morvan, and Louise Cathala

(aged 8 years).

[121] In point of fact, the school was plundered on

the 25th of May. There was no time to burn it.

[122] To this day the fate of M. Petit is not

positively known. There is reason to believe that he escaped

the first fusillade, but was recaptured by the federals and

shot by them at one of the barricades. It is apparently of

him that the Abbé Lesmayoux speaks in a letter to the

_Univers_.

----------

VEILED.

“Dilectus meus mihi, et ego illi.”[123]--CANT. ii. 16.

No bridegroom mine of change and death:

My orange-flowers shall never fade:

Immortal dews shall gem the wreath

When crowns of earth have all decayed.

No bride am I that plights her troth

With touch of doubt, or trust too fond;

And risks the present, wisely loath

To search too far the veiled beyond.

To me ‘tis but the past is veiled:

The world that mocks with joys that fleet;

The “Egypt” that so long has failed

To make its “troubled waters”[124] sweet:

The world with all its sins and cares,

Its sorrows gained and graces lost;

The garden of a thousand snares,

The barren field of blight and frost.

But shines the future clear as truth:

A few swift years of prayer and peace,

Where hearts may know perennial youth,

And virtues evermore increase:

And then my Lord, my only love,

Shall come, and lift the veil, and say:

“Arise, all fair, my spouse, my dove!

The rain is over--haste, away![125]

“The rain is o’er, the winter gone,

That sun and summer seemed to thee.

If sweet the toilsome journey done,

How sweeter now thy rest shall be!”

[123] “My Beloved is mine, and I am his.”

[124] Jer. ii. 18.

[125] Cant. ii. 10, 11.

----------

A VISIT TO MAMMOTH CAVE. 621

A sleepy and forlorn bachelor, about to set forth on this expedition

_solus_, some special providence sent to our relief a party of gay

young friends, whom we found already assembled in the Louisville depot

of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad. Upon this pleasant rencontre

we did not cease to congratulate ourself, having been previously

warned that the cave is seen to greater advantage by a large party;

the number of lights carried, extra guides, etc., all tending to

enhance picturesque effects, and promote the comfort of the

sight-seers.

Leaving Louisville at the early hour of seven A.M., a very enjoyable

ride lay before us; at first through the celebrated blue grass region

of Kentucky, and afterward skirting the wilder, more picturesque

country, famous, or infamous, as the scene of guerilla warfare during

the war and after. Here these desperadoes, entrenched in some of

nature’s impregnable fortresses, sallied forth at will, cutting the

railroads, stopping trains at all hours of the day and night, and

plundering farms for miles in every direction. But we have changed all

that! The road boasts a tunnel of some extent. Here the young men of

our party perpetrated the time-honored joke of kissing their hands

with a resounding smack, bringing out the roses on the cheeks of our

pretty girls; when we emerge from darkness, each one of them being

fully conscious that she is suspected as the guilty recipient of that

kiss.

At noon we reach a station bearing the imposing name of Cave City;

a close corporation, consisting of one establishment, for the

refreshment of man and beast destined for the Mammoth Cave. A poor

dinner, after the manner of such wayside inns, awaits us, and at two

P.M. we hear the welcome sound, “All aboard stage for the cave!” Two

vehicles, filled inside with ladies, and outside with the adequate

complement of gentlemen and baggage--a nice point, by the way, in

these days of woman’s rights and Saratoga trunks! But, ladies, we warn

you not to undertake the cave without at least one man whom you own or

have a lien on--there are points in the explorations before you when

one man, and perhaps several others, will be convenient to lean on.

With a mighty creaking, a few preliminary false starts, resulting in

some new and jerky experiences to those unaccustomed to the

old-fashioned stages, at last we are fairly off, beginning almost

immediately a winding and gradual ascent. We are told by our sanguine

driver that there had been an attempt to macadamize the road--then

certainly it has been an attempt, and nothing more; on several

occasions we rode over smooth stones so large that it was quite a

relief from the deep ruts which seamed the road on every side.

High hills surround us, luxuriant in the foliage of June; at rare

intervals a farm-house is seen in some distant valley, but there are

few evidences of cultivating the soil, which is doubtless of too

cavernous a nature to repay the farmer his toil.

After riding a distance of three or four miles, the wildness of the 622

scene is increased by huge formations of rocks; many streams murmur in

the distance, and near the only house we approach on the route, a

little maid, hurrying barefoot from the spring, presents a pail of

water for the benefit of the thirsty stagers. There have been sundry

flasks of _eau de vie_ on top, and the gentlemen evince no desire for

the milder fluid, quaffed by the ladies with such avidity.

The half-way point is a platform for shade built across the road, and

here those who wish to explore Osceola, or Indian Cave, take a short

walk down the hill. Not caring to receive any subterra impressions

before the great cavern dawned upon us, we joined the ladies in

picking wild flowers, which are of great beauty and variety in this

region. The exploring party on their return reported Osceola to be

mainly a dugout cave, having some interest, but, like its illustrious

namesake, very dirty! Nearly an hour having been devoted to resting

the horses, we resume the stages, and, the road improving, proceed

with accelerated speed, when a sudden halt causes us to look back--the

second stage has broken down! What is to be done? Nothing but to

squeeze two more ladies in our coach, while we gentlemen resign our

places on top to the rest of the feminines, who really make the

alarming ascent with grace; but after a short walk our gallantry oozes

out at the very tips of our boots, and, one by one, we jump on the

steps to talk, thence clamber to the roof to find seats as best we

may.

After a nine miles’ drive, we approach a long, low frame-building. An

air of quiet and rustic simplicity pervades the spot! This is the

“Cave House.” The apartments to which we are conducted have lost none

of the rusticity of the exterior surroundings, but everything is

scrupulously neat, and there are excellent negro servants in

attendance--desirable features in a hotel. Not less so is savory

broiled chicken, to which we were speedily introduced.

Being all impressed with the idea that about nine extra hours of sleep

were requisite to fit us for the labors of the morrow, we denied

ourselves the pleasures of the large ball-room, whence issued the

strains, evoked by some black musicians, wooing to the giddy mazes of

the dance! Loose flannel suits are kept at the hotel for those who

come unprepared for the cool climate and rough climbing of the cave;

but we found our baseball toggery to be the very thing we wanted, and,

arrayed therein, immediately after an early breakfast assembled on the

wide veranda, which surrounds the house and makes a pleasant

promenade.

The ladies look charming in their picturesque costumes of bright

colors. Being a modest man, we merely mention that our stalwart frame

does credit to the uniform of the “Yellow Garters,” of which glorious

nine we boast ourself a member.

All in high spirits, we descend a thickly wooded ravine to the right

of the house: beautiful ferns and mosses carpet the sides of the

funnel-shaped opening surrounding the mouth of the cave, to the bottom

of which our winding path is gradually leading us, a descent of forty

or fifty feet. Around and above, tall trees stand sentinel on the only

approach to this secret underworld.

Our guide remarks that the present is not the original mouth of the

cave, which is distant a quarter of a mile on the south bank of Green

River. Many, many years ago, the upper crust must have given way, 623

forming this opening into which we are now descending, and filling

with earth and stones that first part of the cavern, now called

“Dickson’s” and rarely visited. The present entrance was discovered,

in 1809, by a hunter running a bear into it. So little was the extent

or value of the cave known, that it was soon afterward sold, with two

hundred acres of land, for forty dollars. A short, sharp turn in the

path brings us facing an archway of rock, over which a silver thread

of water is falling. A cold wind rushes from a dark opening, above

which the condensed atmosphere floats like a veil. With a sort of awe

we descend some rough stone steps, and enter the cave. Already

darkness is becoming visible: our party, numbering twenty-five, are

furnished with lamps, and all with our “pilgrim staves” set forth on

the “short route.”

To give some general idea of the outlines of the cave, we cannot do

better than quote the simile of a scientific gentleman who, in writing

on this subject, asks the reader to “imagine the channel of a large

and winndig river, with tributaries at intervals, some of them the

size of the main stream, emptying into the chief river, as, for

instance, the Missouri and Ohio joining the Mississippi; these

tributaries also receiving their support from creeks and rivulets,

some of them quite small and extending but a short distance, while

others are much longer, larger, and more beautiful. Now, it is easy to

imagine these rivers as being under ground, or having a surface

covering of earth and rocks, and that their rugged channels and banks

have long ceased from some cause to be bathed with the waters which in

ages long past flowed so freely along them; in fact, that they are

quite dry, except in a few of the avenues.”

From this illustration it will be seen that we cannot “cut across

country” from one point to another, but must explore each avenue, and

then retrace our steps to the point where we left the main cave.

Necessarily there are many avenues well known to the guides rarely

seen by visitors, because too much time would be consumed in visiting

any but the most interesting. To see the cave at all satisfactorily,

one day should be devoted to the “Short,” another to the “Long Route.”

And from our own experience, we would suggest that these two tramps

should not be made one immediately after the other, but let an

intervening day be devoted to some other of the many minor expeditions

of this region; then you are rested, and fresh for all the day in the

cave of the “Long Route.”

While indulging in these practical and retrospective reflections, we

have left our party in the narrow archway, about seven feet high,

which is just within the mouth, and called the Narrows. Here there was

a slight detention caused by the lamps blowing out: Mat, our black

guide, explains this by saying, “The cave’s breathin’ out.” To explain

which still further means that, the atmosphere of the cave being at

59°, when the exterior air at the mouth is of a higher temperature, a

strong current sets outward; in winter, of course, the current sets

inward: thus the cave breathes once a year. This action is felt a

short distance. Soon we leave behind everything reminding us of the

upper world.

Before the eye has become accustomed to the darkness, a great sense of

disappointment is felt in groping through scenes of such interest with

insufficient light. This feeling, however, gradually wears off, and

the guides burn oiled paper, blue-lights, etc., when we stop to inspect 624

some special marvel.

After leaving the Narrows, we soon enter the Rotunda, the ceiling of

which is one hundred feet high, and its greatest diameter seventy-five

feet. This chamber is said to be immediately under the dining-room of

the hotel. The floor is strewn with the remains of vats, water-pipes,

etc., used by the saltpetre miners in 1812. From the entrance to this

point, wheel-tracks and the impressions made by the feet of oxen used

to cart the saltpetre more than fifty years ago may still be seen. At

the time these indentations were made by the cleft foot of the ox and

the cartwheels, the earth was moist from the recent process of

lixiviation in the saltpetre manufacture, and upon drying had attained

the stony solidity of petrifaction; and the indentations aforesaid are

yet distinct, though they have been walked over by thousands of

visitors for many years. Leaving the Rotunda, we pass huge overhanging

rocks, called Kentucky River Cliffs, and enter the Methodist Church,

where services have been frequently held. The pulpit is formed by a

ledge of rock twenty-five feet high: the logs used as benches were

placed in the church fifty years ago, and are still in a good state of

preservation. In this part of the cave, and in all the avenues near

the entrance, millions of bats make their winter quarters. We saw only

a few flitting about, but were told they returned in the autumn by

hundreds. What wonderful instinct wakens these creatures from a

winter’s sleep, with tidings that the glorious summer is at hand?

Various objects of minor interest are noted, and we pass on to Giant’s

Coffin, an immense rock, forty feet long, twenty wide, eight in

depth--fit sarcophagus for one of the giants of old; but Kentucky has

herself of late years produced an individual who will nearly fill it.

In many parts of the cave, and more particularly in this region, some

striking effects are produced by the efflorescence of black gypsum

upon a surface of white limestone. On the ceiling and walls these

black figures thus produced stand out in bold relief. Quite startling

is a gigantic family group--man, wife, and infant. Another is a very

perfect representation of an ant-eater.

Soon we notice several enclosures, formerly occupied by invalids, who

vainly imagined that this pure and unchanging atmosphere would restore

them to health.

Up to this point walking has been an easy matter, the way quite level,

a path winding among loose stones of some size, and in many places a

smooth, broad avenue offering no obstruction; but when, one by one, we

climb a steep ladder placed against the wall to the right of Giant’s

Coffin, there is a realizing sense of “rocks ahead.”

The Gothic Arcade, which we have now entered, has a flat ceiling,

smooth and white as if it had received a coat of plaster, and leads to

Gothic Chapel--a very beautiful room, yet not purely Gothic in its

style of architecture, the roof being quite flat, supported by

gigantic stalactites, extending so nearly to the floor that they

present the effect of fluted columns and graceful arches. Here was

once performed a marriage ceremony under romantic circumstances. A

young lady, having promised her mother that she would never marry

Snooks “on the face of the earth,” evaded the letter of her contract

by marrying the same in the bowels thereof. Two of the stalactites in

this chapel, called the Pillars of Hercules, are said to be thirty

feet in circumference. These stalactites being peculiar to caves, it

may interest the general reader to note their formation. If water, 625

holding bicarbonate of lime in solution, drop slowly from the ceiling,

exposure to the air allows one part of carbonic acid gas to escape,

the lime is then deposited in the form of proto-carbonate of lime, and

the stalactite, similar to an icicle, is slowly formed; if the deposit

accumulate from below upward, it is termed a stalagmite; sometimes,

meeting in the centre, they become cemented and form a solid column.

An instance of this is given in the illustration of the Devil’s

Arm-Chair. These forms are made more interesting from their variety of

color: if the limestone is pure, the stalactite will be white, or

semi-transparent; if it contain oxide of iron, the result will be a

red or yellow color; black stalactites containing a large proportion

of oxide of iron. Many other things of interest, but too numerous to

mention, are pointed out before we reach Lake Purity, a pool of

shallow water, so perfectly transparent that stalactites are seen at

the bottom. Gothic Arcade terminating a short distance beyond the

lake, we retraced our steps to the ladder by which we had reached this

upper and older portion of the cave, and found ourselves again in the

main cave near the Giant’s Coffin, passing behind which we enter a

narrow crevice, where, half crawling and stooping, a descent is made

to Deserted Chamber. At this point, the water, after it had ceased to

flow out of the mouth into Green River, left the main cave to descend

to the lower regions and Echo River. Here we again leave the regular

route to visit Gorin’s Dome, to us far the most beautiful of the many

so-called domes.

Passing over a small bridge, and ascending a steep ladder, we are, one

by one, assisted by the guide to a point where it is not easy to

retain a foothold; but here is nothing to be seen--we seem to be

against a black wall. “Why, Mat, what did you bring us here for?” But

not so fast. Mat has been preparing blue-lights for an illumination,

and now he directs us to grasp the rock, and, one at a time, peer

through a small opening. What wondrous vision is this! A hundred feet

above is the arched dome, from which depend stalactitic formations and

shafts, of varying size and shape; facing us hangs a curtain-like

mass, terminating abruptly in mid-air. In it you seem to trace the

folds and involutions of drapery veiling this mysterious place from

vision. Far below, more than two hundred feet, unfathomable depths are

revealed by blue-lights thrown down, while shafts, curtain, and dome

are frescoed in colors of pale blue, fawn, rose, and white. This dome

is three hundred feet high, and sixty feet across its widest part;

but, alas! the “lights departed, the vision fled,” and we are forced

to descend from our eyrie. Leaving this sublime spectacle, we return

to the main cave, and, following it around Great Bend, are soon in the

famous Star Chamber. This is an apartment sixty feet in height,

seventy in width, and about five hundred in length, the ceiling

composed of black gypsum, studded with numberless white points, caused

by the efflorescence of Glauber’s salts. This is what we learned of

this remarkable spot after leaving the cave. We now will tell you what

we saw. We were first seated on a narrow ledge of rock forming a bench

on one side of the chamber, the guide taking away our lamps to a

distant mass of rocks, behind which he leaves them, to shed a “dim,

religious light” on the scene. As our eyes become accustomed to the

change, we discover ourselves to be in a deep valley with gray, rugged

sides, of course outside of the cave, else why is the sky above so 626

deeply, darkly blue? those countless stars shining?--shining, did we

say? We vow they twinkled. The Milky Way is there; we will not vouch

for the Dipper, but other constellations are visible, even a comet

blazes across the heavens. The guide retires with his lamp to some

mysterious lower region to produce shadows, and suddenly clouds sweep

across the horizon, a storm is brewing, the stars are almost hidden,

now they are out, utter darkness prevails, until we hear Mat stumbling

about, a faint light is in the east, and a fine artificial sunrise, as

he appears with his lamp. All this may read like child’s play, yet so

complete is the optical delusion that, when the lamps were all

returned to us, the mystery dispelled, we drew a long breath of relief

that we were not really shut up in that lonely defile, looking up

longingly to the stars, but actually several miles underground, and

merely under the influence of Glauber’s salts! Beyond is Proctor’s

Arcade, a natural tunnel, nearly a mile long, a hundred feet wide,

forty in height; the ceilings and sides are smooth and shining,

chiselled out of the solid rock. This tunnel leads past several points

not specially interesting, to Wright’s Rotunda, which is four hundred

feet in diameter. It is astonishing that the ceiling has strength to

sustain itself, being only fifty feet below the surface of the earth;

but no change need be anticipated, for at this point the cave is

perfectly dry. A short distance beyond, several avenues branch off

from the main cave, none worthy of note, except that which leads to

Fairy Grotto, a marvellous collection of stalactites, resembling a

grove of white coral. Here indeed might the fairies have held high

revelry, with glow-worm lamps suspended from each pillar, and fire-flies

flitting from branch to branch.

The Chief City or Temple, situated in the main cave beyond the Rocky

Pass, is rarely visited by strangers now, yet, before the discovery of

the rivers and the wilderness of beauty beyond, it was considered one

of the great features. It is an immense chamber, excelling in size the

cave of Staffa. The floor at different points is covered with piles of

rocks, presenting the appearance of an ancient city in ruins.

Three miles beyond Chief City, the main cave is terminated abruptly by

rocks fallen from above, which, if they could be removed, would no

doubt open communication with a cavern similar to the one we have been

exploring. So many wonders, viewed in a few hours, leave the mind in a

chaotic state, and the weary explorer is now ready to return to the

creature comforts of the hotel, there to ruminate, and, if he can,

arrange in some sort of order, in his “memory’s mansion,” sights and

sensations so new and strange. In returning to the upper world, the

appearance of the mouth is very beautiful. To eyes so long accustomed

to darkness, the light is a subdued radiance, a fairy land in the

distance, until we emerge from the cave into the outer world, which

seems, since we left it, to have been dyed in millions of rainbow

hues; everything, the leaves, the trees, shone and sparkled in the

blessed light! But--the air! the pure atmosphere we have been

breathing all the morning, renders the senses painfully conscious of

the decomposition of vegetable matter, causing such a feeling of

oppression that fainting may be the consequence if issuing from the

entrance is not made a matter of easy stages.

As a result of the wise maxim, “Early to bed and early to rise,” we 627

find ourselves on the following morning breakfasting in our cave

dress, and prepared before nine o’clock for the “Long Route.”

We now feel quite at home in the under-world, and, should any stranger

join our party, he would doubtless be much impressed by our manner of

going over the familiar ground; evidently we know all about this;

nothing can impress us now but “fresh fields and pastures new.” On

this day we are to realize something of the geography of the cave,

therefore a word on the subject of its formation.

Green River, only a few hundred yards from the entrance of the cave,

has evidently cut out the channel through which it runs. On either

side, its rugged banks tower above the water three hundred feet, and

this the only valley of the plain, proving conclusively that the river

has excavated its bed to the present level by the chemical and

mechanical agency of water. The avenues of the cave, no doubt, were

cut through in the same manner, the lowest and last formed being Echo

and Roaring rivers, which are now on a level with Green River, and

with which they have subterraneous communication.[126] As Green River

deepens the valley through which it passes, the rivers in the cave

will also continue to descend, until the avenues through which they

now flow shall become as dry as Marion Avenue, which, in ages past,

must have been the most beautiful of subterranean rivers.

Limestone, or carbonate of lime, which constitutes the strata of rocks

through which the cave runs, is soluble in water when it combines with

an additional proportion of carbonic acid, and is changed into the

bicarbonate of lime.

In this way the process of excavation continued until communication

with running water was established, and the mechanical agency made to

assist the chemical. Another disintegrating power is the

crystallization of sulphate of lime, known also under the names of

gypsum, plaster-of-Paris, alabaster, etc. The force of gypsum in the

act of crystallizing is equal to that of water in freezing, and, when

it occurs between ledges of rock, they are fractured in every

direction. Many instances of this may be seen.

As to the mechanical agencies in the excavation of the cave, they are

instanced in the transportation of gravel, clay, and sand from one

part to another. By observing the points at which they are deposited,

and the order in which they come, it is possible to tell the direction

in which the water formerly ran in many of the avenues, and the

rapidity of its motion. But enough of technicalities--the entrance to

the “Long Route” is before us in the crevice before mentioned,

situated behind Giant’s Coffin.

The first new name which strikes upon the ear is that of Wooden

Bowl--an apartment deriving its name from the fact of a bowl being

found here, such a one as was used by the Indians. Various traditions

of this race meet the explorer in other parts of the cave; among

others, that of a mummified female and child found in Gothic Avenue,

in 1815, said to have been sent to the Antiquarian Society of

Worcester, Massachusetts, and to be still there in a dilapidated

condition; another still more remarkable mummy is said to have been 628

exhumed in one of the neighboring small caves, and sent to Cincinnati,

where it was burnt in the museum many years ago.

If such discoveries were really made, it is a matter of profound

regret that these relics of an unknown past should have been removed

from their resting-places, where they were secure from the ravages of

time, and would, at the present day, greatly enhance the interest of

Mammoth Cave.

We descend the Steps of Time, which is an unpleasant reminder to those

of us who already feel stiff in the joints, and enter Martha’s Palace,

not so palatial as its name implies, but near by is a spring of clear

water, which all hail with pleasure. Side-Saddle Pit and Minerva’s

Dome are soon passed, and we reach Bottomless Pit. Do not shudder!

there is no necessity of descending, and there is bottom at the

distance of one hundred and seventy-five feet. It was not until the

year 1838 that it was supposed possible to bridge this fearful chasm;

it was then crossed by Stephen, the celebrated black guide, who is

identified with most of the discoveries. We now cross on a substantial

wooden structure, known as the Bridge of Sighs. This leads to the

Revellers’ Hall, and, judging from the number of empty and broken

bottles on the floor of this wild-looking room, all visitors have done

their part to perpetuate the name. A low archway, the Valley of

Humility, leads to Scotchman’s Trap, a circular opening, through which

you descend a flight of stone steps. Directly over the opening hangs a

huge flat rock, which would, should it fall, completely close the

avenue to the river. The number of slight, slippery ladders we have

descended gives a very realizing sense that we are getting down, down,

deep into the bowels of the earth.

We now enter a narrow avenue serpentining through the solid rock for

fifty yards, varying in width from eighteen inches to three feet, in

height from four to eight feet. This passage has evidently been cut

through by the mechanical agency of water. Any lady or gentleman

weighing three hundred pounds had better not attempt Fat Man’s Misery,

for he may sigh in vain for “this too solid flesh to melt,” and this

remarkably solid rock will not yield a hair’s-breadth to anything less

than water charged with carbonic acid. Such squeezing and groaning,

broken backs, etc.! but these are forgotten when we emerge in Great

Relief. The avenue which leads thence to River Styx is River Hall, but

we leave this for the present, and on our right enter Bacon Chamber,

where may be seen a fine collection of limestone _hams_ depending

from the ceiling. After walking three-fourths of a mile in Sparks’

Avenue, we reach Mammoth Dome, the largest in the cave; it is two

hundred and fifty feet in height. Climbing over immense shelving

rocks, whose jagged sides and yawning crevices offer slight foothold

and a very unpleasant prospect in case of a fall, we reach the top of

a terrace forty feet from the base, where the view is taken. A grand,

solemn spectacle it is! At the left extremity are five large pillars,

called Corinthian Columns. A vast, solitary waste stretches out before

the eye on every side; gloomy recesses and yawning abysses,

illuminated by the weird blue-lights, form a sublime picture. One can

only fancy it to be the primal state of chaos. The descent from the

terrace of rocks is even more perilous than the ascent, but, once in

the avenue, we return quickly to River Hall. Our attention is now

drawn to a body of water forty feet below, called Dead Sea, a gloomy 629

spot, deserving its name. Passing on, the distant roar of invisible

waterfalls strikes the ear, and at the foot of the slope we are

descending lies the River Styx:

“Where the dark rock o’erhangs the infernal lake,

And mingling streams eternal murmurs make.”

This river is one hundred and fifty yards long, from fifteen to forty

in width, and in depth varies from thirty to forty feet. It has a

subterranean communication with other rivers of the cave, and, when

they rise to a great height, an open communication with all of them.

The Natural Bridge spans River Styx about thirty feet above it.

The next body of water we approach is quite peaceful, and, the ceiling

being ninety feet above the surface, one loses the cavernous sensation

of the gloomy overhanging rocks. Lake Lethe is one hundred and fifty

yards long, and, being crossed in boats not large enough to convey all

of the party at once, some of our number embark, with Charon himself

at the helm. All are hushed by the solemnity of the scene, the lamps

shed a dim light upon the rippling water and phantom boat, which

silently glides outward and on around a projecting angle of rock, when

it is lost to vision. For those who wait upon the shore the return of

the boat, this is a solemn moment; we felt ourself a ghost, doomed to

wander a hundred years ere Charon would ferry us over Avernus! After a

brief interval of this musing, a faint light appears from behind the

rock which before intercepted our view. Charon with his solitary lamp

in the prow of the boat is returning; soon we also embark, but not

before we had drunk of the waters of Lethe, that all experience of the

upper world might be forgotten, for now we enter into dream life. Our

friends who had preceded us formed a picturesque group waiting as we

neared the shore. The bright dresses, the lights throwing fitful gleam

and shadow into the darkness beyond, and our own gliding motion, form

a picture not soon forgotten. Upon disembarking we enter Great Walk,

extending from the Lake to Echo River, the floor of which is covered

with yellow sand. Reaching the river, we all embark in a large boat,

and soon find ourselves in a very contracted space, the rocks overhead

being only three feet above the surface of the water. Stooping under

the narrow archway for fifteen or twenty feet, we finally emerge into

the open river, with the ceiling about fifteen feet above. At some

points the river is two hundred feet wide, in depth it varies from ten

to thirty feet. The water is now transparently clear, rocks can be

seen twenty feet below, and the boat seems passing through the air.

The illusion is heightened by the fact of our guide using no oars

here, propelling the boat by a staff applied at intervals to the

ceiling or side walls. We avoided looking at him, that we might still

fancy ourself wafted over these mysterious waters by some invisible

agency. Here is no feeling of danger, only a dreamy, delicious content

to float on thus for ever into the “Silent Land.”

An occasional song to wake the far-famed echoes is the only sound to

disturb the stillness and the unutterable thoughts which fill the

soul. Echo River is an idyl! Alas! that it should be so short--yet

three-quarters of a mile of bliss should compensate poor human nature

for many ills. Some of the gentlemen, in the adventurous spirit of

youth, made their passage through a rugged avenue called Purgatory;

from their description of which we prefer journeying to paradise by

the river. Landing on the farther banks, we enter Silliman’s Avenue, 630

extending a mile and a half to the Pass of El Ghor, the walls and

ceilings of which, being of recent formation, are rugged and

water-worn. Here is Cascade Hall, a circular chamber with vaulted

ceiling, from which falls a stream of sparkling water, disappearing

through a pit in the floor. The avenue leading to Roaring River takes

its rise in this hall.

The Infernal Region is an irregular down-hill passage, the floor

covered with wet clay. Such essentially and persistently sticky mud

was probably never known above ground. The scrambling, slipping,

miring, ejaculating crowd made an amusing scene. Our black guide, Mat,

is a character, rarely relaxing into a smile, but displays a grim

humor by saying “Sot her up,” when some heavier slush than usual

reveals the fact that somebody is down. Now, sotting her up is not

nearly as easy as sotting her down. In some places the water is

ankle-deep. Here the gentlemen pick up the ladies, and carry the fair

creatures to dry ground. Several laughable incidents were the

consequence of this manœuvre. One gentleman, feeling the mud slipping

under his feet, fancied himself in a quicksand, and hurriedly set his

wife down in the water to rescue himself. Another, a bashful young

swain, felt a delicacy about the manner of picking up his young lady,

so carried her under one arm, her heels on a line with her head. What

a funny picture those little dangling boots presented! Alas! for the

uncertainty of human events. When we started out fresh in the morning,

we had observed the secret pride with which that young woman

contemplated her jaunty tasselled boots, the neatest fit in the party,

and amply displayed by her short dress.

We are now quite willing to climb the Hill of Fatigue, leading to dry

ground. Among many names and objects of interest we shall only mention

Ole Bull’s Concert-Room, where the great violinist performed, on his

first tour through the United States. The Pass of El Ghor, two miles

in length, is one of the most picturesque avenues in the cave, its

narrow and lofty sides changing into every variety of uncouth,

fantastic shapes; again, the hanging rocks overhead suggest the idea

of imminent danger, but we are assured by the guide that no rocks have

fallen during his time, a period of thirty years.[127]

This pass finally communicates with a large body of water, the “Mystic

River,” which has not been explored by visitors. Ascending a very

high, steep ladder, we enter Martha’s Vineyard, twenty feet above the

Pass of El Ghor. Here a stalagmite, extending from the floor to the

ceiling, forms the stem of a _grapevine_, from which all over the

walls and ceiling depend bunches of black _grapes_--nodules of

carbonate of lime, colored with the black oxide of iron--and here the

vintage never fails, for is there not sulphur at hand?

An avenue directly over Martha’s Vineyard, which we did not explore,

is said to contain a miniature chapel of stalactites, in a dark room

adjoining which, without ornament of any kind, is a grave hewn out of

the rock. This was considered so suggestive by a Catholic priest that

he named it the Holy Sepulchre.

The next place of great and general interest is Washington Hall, where

were unpacked the hampers carried by the extra guide, detailed for that

purpose. Keen appetites were brought to bear upon the liberal luncheon 631

supplied by the proprietor of the hotel. Some of the party had added

champagne, so we filled generous bumpers to the genii of the cave.

After an hour spent in rest and refreshment, we leave Washington Hall,

and, passing through Snow-Ball Room, covered with nodules of white

gypsum, enter Cleveland Cabinet, an avenue two miles in length, and so

beautiful that the sight of it alone would fully repay for the fatigue

and time devoted to the cave.

It is a perfect arch of fifty feet span, averaging the height of ten

feet in the centre. Thus every part may be viewed with ease. From

summit to base is a dazzling expanse of alabaster bloom--a grand

conservatory where the Snow Flora moulds her _flowers_ ere she

transports them to the upper world and endows them with a soul. Here

are clusters of pale white roses sprinkled with diamond dew, waiting

only the enchantress’ wand to convert them into a coronal for some

fair bride; again, a perfect cross of flowers, which may yet be the

only companion of a rare soul entombed. Stately lilies, nodding

tulips, graceful fern shapes, are showered in endless profusion on

these fairy walls. Here and there are little niches lined with

flowers, a feathery veil of rock bloom hanging over the entrance. We

peep in curiously, but no Peri is there. This seems truly the

“Enchanted Palace of Sleep,” but the princess is too deeply hidden for

mortal eyes to discover.

Lingeringly we leave this wondrous scene. At the very end is pointed

out the last rose of summer, resting against the ceiling; it is of

snowy whiteness, about eight inches in diameter, and is really the

last to be seen in the avenue. A short distance beyond is Rocky

Mountain, one hundred feet high, composed of large rocks which have

evidently fallen from above. On top of the mountain is a stalagmite

called Cleopatra’s Needle--why a needle, and wherefore Cleopatra’s, I

am unable to explain. We are now nearing the end of the cave, and to

the weary of our band the mountain seems an insurmountable obstacle,

therefore only the more adventurous scale the heights, and, passing

Dismal Hollow, a gorge seventy feet deep and one hundred wide, enter

Crogan Hall, which constitutes the end of the “Long Route.” It is

covered with stalactites, very hard and white, fragments of which are

worked into ornaments.

This part of the cave is evidently near the surface of the earth, and

from the comparative abundance of animal life it is probable there is

an open communication at some point not far distant. The rat found

here differs from its Norway brother in that it is a size larger; the

head and eyes, which are black and lustrous, resemble those of a

rabbit, while its soft fur is of a bluish gray and white. Crickets and

lizards are numerous; they are sluggish in their movements, and the

cricket never chirps. Why should he, indeed, having neither hearth nor

tea-kettle to inspire him? All these animals, although provided with

large eyes, seem quite blind when first caught. The fish found in the

various rivers are of the class known as viviparous; they have

rudiments of eyes, but no optic nerve. There are also eyeless

crawfish; both these and the eyeless fish are nearly white.

At certain seasons ordinary fish, crawfish, and frogs are washed into

the rivers of the cave from Green River, the inference being that they

also in due course of time lose the power of vision.

At the end of Crogan Hall we are said to be nine miles from the mouth

of the cave, and somewhere under ground near Cave City. Here is the 632

Maelstrom, a frightful pit, one hundred and seventy-five feet deep,

and twenty wide. It has been explored by two or three adventurous

spirits, the first of whom was a son of the late George D. Prentice.

It is needless to describe our return, which was over the ground

already explored; devoting less time, of course, to the examination of

wonders, and not at all tired, for exercise in this exhilarating

atmosphere is unlike that of the upper world. We finally reach the

entrance, and emerge--into darkness again--for it is nine

P.M., and only a few twinkling stars remind us that we are not still

underground.

I shall not do more than mention Proctor and Diamond Caves, which we

explored on the following day, but they excel in stalactitic formation

and well repay a visit. They are on the direct route to Glasgow, a

station three miles nearer than that of Cave City, and where there has

been recently built a comfortable hotel on the site of the ancient

“Bell’s Tavern,” well known to Kentuckians in former days. Those who

have never visited Mammoth Cave will scarcely credit the assertion of

the guides that two hundred and fifty miles of travel are necessary to

see all of the known avenues of the cave. When we add to this the

statement that new discoveries are constantly being made which reveal

the fact that there is still a wilderness of cave untrodden by the

foot of man, speculation passes all bounds.

None but a soul absolutely impervious to the impressions of the

sublime and beautiful handiwork of the world’s great Architect, can

fail to realize the highest expectations in an exploration of this

greatest of caves now known.

[126] The cave should be visited in summer and early fall

months; at other seasons, the waters of the cave being

influenced by all the movements of Green River, a sudden

rise in the latter will, in a few hours, cut off

communication with the largest and by far the most

interesting portion of the cave.

[127] “Old Mat” is now off duty, but may still be seen about

the hotel. He thinks he knows more about the cave than any

man living, and still better qualified than the younger

guides to exhibit its wonders!

----------

OUR EPIPHANY.

What though we cannot, with the star-led kings,

Adore the swaddled Babe of Bethlehem!

Behold, as sweet a Benediction[128] brings

A new Epiphany denied to them.

The Mary Mystical ‘tis ours to see

Still from his crib the little Jesus take,

And show him to us on her altar-knee,

And sing to him to bless us for her sake.

Shall we the while be kneeling giftless there?

In loving faith a richer gold shall please,

A costlier incense in the humblest prayer,

Nor less the myrrh of penitence than these:

And there between us holy Priesthood stands,

Our own Saint Joseph, with the chosen hands.

[128] Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament.

----------

THE COSMIC PHILOSOPHY.[129] 633

Herbert Spencer has often been alluded to in our pages, and one of his

works, that on _Biology_, has been specially noticed by us. He is

usually classed with the positivists, and we have ourselves so classed

him; but he protests against this classification, and, after studying

carefully, or as carefully as our patience would permit, the volume

before us, we confess the classification appears to be inexact, and

even unjust to the positivists. There are considerable differences

between his philosophy and the _Philosophie Positive_ as we find it

set forth by M. E. Littré, its greatest living chief; for, as set

forth by its founder, M. Auguste Comte, in his own works, we would

rather not speak, for, to confess the truth, we have never had the

patience to read them so as to master their doctrines. Yet, as far as

we do know the system, it differs on several points, and much to its

advantage, from the cosmic philosophy set forth in Mr. Spencer’s

_First Principles_, especially as to the relativity of knowledge and

the theory of evolution. It is the product of a higher order of mind

than Mr. Spencer can boast, and of a mind originally trained in a

better school.

Mr. Herbert Spencer is a man of considerable native ability, of

respectable attainments in what is called modern science, and a fair

representative of contemporary English thought and mental tendencies;

but he has made a sad mistake in attempting to be a philosopher, for

he lacks entirely the _ingegno filosofico_, and we have not discovered

a single trace of a philosophic principle, thought, or conception in

any or all of his several works. He is or might be a physicist, or

what old Ralph Cudworth terms a _physiologer_, perhaps not much

inferior to old Leucippus or Democritus, but he has not in him the

makings of a philosopher, and his cosmic theories are not even

plausible to a philosophic mind.

“In the kingdom of the blind, the one-eyed is king.” The not

inconsiderable reputation Mr. Herbert Spencer seems to have acquired

is probably due not to his merits so much as to the low state into

which philosophical studies have fallen in the Anglo-Saxon world, and

the tendency to anti-Christian and anti-religious theories and

speculations which Protestantism, when it begins to examine its own

foundation and to account for itself, everywhere encourages. The party

we meet here and in England, with “advanced views” as they are called,

and which every day grows in numbers and strength, welcomes with

enthusiasm any and every writer who helps or promises to help them to

explain the problem of the universe on physical principles, without

recurring to the supernatural or the fact of creation. The party,

profoundly ignorant of Christian theology and philosophy, and devoted

to the study of physical facts and phenomena alone, have persuaded

themselves that Christianity is unscientific, and that it tends to

degrade men, to enfeeble reason, and to prevent the free expansion of 634

thought; and they regard as their benefactor whoever is able to

strengthen their cosmic or atheistic tendency. Such a man they esteem

Mr. Herbert Spencer. He is apparently just the man to be accepted as

the chief of the sect, or the philosopher of negation. Its adherents

wish not for their leader an avowed atheist or pantheist, for the

world is not just yet advanced enough for that, but they do wish one

who is skilful in disguising his atheism or pantheism in the forms and

terms of science; and who can do this more successfully than Herbert

Spencer?

Mr. Spencer divides his book into two parts. In Part I. he treats of

what he calls “The Unknowable”; in Part II. he treats of what he calls

“The Knowable.” Under the head of “The Unknowable” he seeks the

relation of science and religion, to ascertain the ultimate verity or

ideas of each, and to show the ground on which they meet and are

reconciled. He asserts that all knowledge is relative, is knowledge of

phenomena alone, which are nothing outside of their relation to

consciousness, itself phenomenal, and to a Something underlying them,

and of which they are the appearances or which they manifest. We are

compelled to admit, he says, this Something, because the phenomena

cannot be thought without it; and as we can assign no limit to these

manifestations, we are compelled to assert this Something, Power,

Being, or Reality is infinite. But this Infinite Something which is

the reality of the cosmos is absolutely unknowable and even

unthinkable. How, then, can it be asserted?

Every religion seeks the solution of the problem of the universe, the

explanation of the great cosmic mystery that surrounds us on all

sides, and all religions agree that the solution is in this infinite

Reality or Something, which is absolutely unknowable, absolutely

inscrutable. The ultimate religious ideas or highest and most

comprehensive generalizations of religious conceptions are, first, the

assertion of this incognizable and incogitable Something; and, second,

that the solution of the problem exceeds all human powers.

Science deals with the same cosmic problem, and, rising by

generalization to generalization of the cosmic phenomena up to the

higher and broadest possible, is compelled to admit the same Infinite

Something, and to admit that it is not cognizable nor cogitable.

Consequently, the ultimate scientific ideas are identical with the

ultimate religious ideas. Both religion and science are fused

together, and reconciled without any compromise, and the old feud

between them extinguished, in the bosom of the Infinite Unknowable.

“He makes a solitude, and calls it peace.”

As we have no predisposition to accept the new system of philosophy,

we cannot find this conclusion perfectly satisfactory. The cosmists

object to the Comteans or positivists that they absorb the cosmos in

man and society; the cosmists, on the other hand, seem to us to absorb

man and society in the cosmos, and subject them to the same physical

law Mr. Emerson does when he asserts the identity of gratitude and

gravitation. By asserting that only phenomena are cognizable, and

subjecting man to the common cosmic law, they include him in the

cosmic phenomena, and make him simply an appearance or manifestation

of the unknowable, without any real or substantive existence of his

own. We thus lose in the infinite variety of the cosmic phenomena both

the thinking subject and the object thought. The soul is a cosmic 635

appearance.

Furthermore, by declaring the phenomenal cannot be thought in and by

itself without the Infinite Something that underlies it as its ground

or reality, and then declaring that something to be unknowable,

unthinkable even, the new system declares that there is no knowable,

and consequently no science or knowledge at all. The new system of

philosophy, then, reconciles science and religion only in a universal

negation, that is, by really denying both. This can hardly satisfy

either a scientist or a Christian.

In the second part, Mr. Spencer defines philosophy to us, as near as

we can come at his sense, to be the unification of the several

religions and several sciences in their respective or special

generalizations in a generalization that comprehends them all.

Generalization with him means the elimination of the _differentia_,

or abstraction. He therefore, in making philosophy a generalization,

makes it an abstraction, and, so to speak, the abstraction of all

particular abstractions. But abstractions in themselves are nullities,

and consequently philosophy is a nullity, and science and religion are

nullities. Mr. Spencer maintains that we have “symbolic conceptions,”

in which nothing is conceived--symbols which symbolize nothing. Is his

“new system of philosophy” anything but a generalization and

unification of these “symbolic conceptions”?

Mr. Spencer starts with the assumption that all religions, including

atheism, have a verity in common as well as an error. The verity must

be that in which they all agree; the error, in their differences, or

in the matters in which they do not agree. Eliminate the differences

and take what is common to them all, and you will have the universal

verity which they all assert. But what verity is common to truth and

falsehood, to theism and atheism? The verity common to religion and

science, that the solution of the cosmic mystery is unknowable? But

that is not a verity; it is a mere negation, and all truth is

affirmative.

Atheism is not a religion, but the negation of all religion. Exclude

that, take all religions from fetichism to Christianity inclusive;

eliminate the _differentia_, and take what they all agree in asserting.

Be it so. All religions, without a single exception, however rude or

however polished, agree in asserting the supernatural, and that, if

the cosmic mystery is inexplicable by human means, it is explicable by

supernatural means. A true application of Mr. Spencer’s rule, the

_consensus hominum_, would assert as the common verity the supernatural,

that is, the supercosmic, which is precisely what the cosmic

philosophy denies and is invented to deny. Mr. Spencer does not appear

to be master of his own tools.

All religions concede that the cosmic mystery is inexplicable by our

unassisted powers, by secondary causes, or by physical laws; but none

of them admits that it is absolutely inexplicable, for each religion

professes to be its explanation. Mr. Spencer is wrong in asserting

that all are seeking to solve the cosmic mystery; for each proposes

itself as its solution, and it is only as such that it claims to be or

can be called a religion. The question for the philosopher is, Do any

of these religions give us a solution which reason, in the freest and

fullest exercise of its powers, can accept, and, if so, which one is

it?

Mr. Spencer tells us, p. 32: “Respecting the origin of the universe,

three verbally intelligible suppositions may be made. We may assert

that it is self-existent, or that it is self-created, or that it is 636

created by an external agency.” The second supposition he rejects as

the pantheistic hypothesis, which is a mistake, for no pantheist or

anybody else asserts that the universe creates itself. The pantheist

denies that it is created at all; and the philosopher denies that it

creates itself; for, since to create is to act, self-creation would

require the universe to act before it existed. The third supposition,

which the author calls “the theistical hypothesis,” he denies, because

it explains nothing, and is useless. He explains it to mean that the

universe is produced by an artificer, after the manner of a human

artificer in producing a piece of furniture from materials furnished

to his hand. “But whence come the materials?” The question might be

pertinent if asked of Plato or Aristotle, neither of whom was a

theist; but not when asked of a Christian theologian, who holds that

God creates or created all things from nothing, that is, without

pre-existing materials, by “the sole word of his power.”

The first supposition, the self-existence of the universe, the author

denies, not because the universe is manifestly contingent and must

have had a beginning, and therefore a cause or creator; but because

self-existence is absolutely inconceivable, an impossible idea. He

says, p. 35: “The hypothesis of the creation of the universe by an

external agency is quite useless; it commits us to an infinite series

of such agencies, and then leaves us where it found us.” “Those who

cannot conceive of the self-existence of the universe, and therefore

assume a creator as the source of the universe, take it for granted

that they can conceive a self-existent creator. The mystery of the

great fact surrounding them on every side they transfer to an alleged

source of this great fact, and then suppose they have solved the

mystery. But they delude themselves, as was proved in the outset of

the argument. _Self-existence_ is _rigorously inconceivable_, and this

holds true whatever be the nature of the object [subject] of which it

is predicated. Whoever argues that the atheistical hypothesis is

untenable because it involves the impossible idea of self-existence,

must perforce admit that the theistical hypothesis is untenable if it

contains the same impossible idea.” But who ever argued that the

atheistical hypothesis is untenable because it involves the idea of

self-existence? Atheism is denied because it asserts the

self-existence of that which cannot be, and is known not to be,

self-existent.

But it is evident that the author rejects alike self-existence and

creation; that the cosmos is self-existent, or that it is created by

an independent, self-existent, and supercosmic creator. How, then, can

he assert the existence of the cosmos, real or phenomenal, at all? The

cosmos either exists or it does not. If it does not, that ends the

matter. If it does, it must be either created or self-existent; for

the author rejects an infinite series as absurd, and self-creation as

only an absurd form of expressing self-existence. But as the author

denies self-existence, whatever the subject of which it is predicated,

and also the fact of creation, it follows rigorously, if he is right,

that the cosmos does not exist. The author cannot take refuge in his

favorite _nescio_, or say we do not know the origin of the cosmos,

for he has positively denied it every possible origin, and therefore

has by implication denied it all existence. A moment ago, we showed

that he denied by implication all science or knowledge, and now we see 637

that, if held rigorously to his system as he explains it, he denies

all existence, and, by implication at least, asserts absolute

nihilism. Surely there is no occasion to apply to his new system of

philosophy the _reductio ad absurdum_.

The author is necessarily led to the assertion that at least nothing

is knowable by his doctrine, that all knowledge is relative. The

Comtists restrict, in theory, all knowledge to sensible things, their

mutual relations, dependencies, and the conditions and laws of their

development and progress; but they at least admit that these may be

objects of science and positively known. But our cosmic philosopher

denies this, and asserts the relativity of all knowledge. We know and

can know only the relative that is, only what is relative to the

absolute, and relative to our own consciousness. In this he follows

Sir William Hamilton, J. Stuart Mill, and the late Dr. Mansel,

Anglican Dean of St. Paul’s. But relative knowledge is simply no

knowledge, because in it nothing is known. The relative is not

cognizable nor cogitable in and by itself, because it in and by

itself, or prescinded from that to which it is relative, does not

exist, and is simply nothing. What neither is nor exists is not

cognizable nor cogitable. The relativity of all knowledge, then, is

simply the denial of all knowledge. It is idle, then, for Mr. Spencer

to talk of science. His science is only a laborious ignorance.

Mr. Spencer labors hard to prove the relativity of all knowledge. He

either proves it or he does not. If he does not, he has no right to

assert it; if he does, he disproves it at the same time. If the proof

is not absolute, it does not prove it; if it is absolute, then it is

not true that all knowledge is relative; for the proof must be

absolutely known, or it cannot be alleged. We either know that all

knowledge is relative, or we do not. If we do not, no more need be

said; if we do know it, then it is false, because the knowledge of the

relativity of knowledge is itself not relative. The assertion of the

relativity of all knowledge, therefore, contradicts and refutes

itself. No man can doubt that he doubts, or that doubt is doubt, and

therefore universal doubt or universal scepticism is impossible, and

not even assertable. The same argument applies to the pretence that

all knowledge is relative.

The relativists are misled by their dealing with the abstract and not

the concrete. They regard all that is or exists either as relative or

absolute. But both absolute and relative are abstract conceptions, and

formed by abstraction from the concrete intuitively presented or

apprehended. They exist, as St. Thomas tells us, only _in mente, cum

fundamento in re_. There are no abstractions in nature or the cosmos,

and there is and can be neither abstract science nor science of

abstractions, for abstractions, prescinded from their concretes, are

simply nullities. The absolute is, we grant, unknowable, and so also

is the relative, for neither has any existence in nature, or _a parte

rei_. They are both generalizations, and nature never generalizes.

Whatever exists, exists _in concreto_, not _in genere_. Hence, the _ens

in genere_ of Rosmini is no _ens reale_, but simply _ens possibile_,

like the _reine Seyn_ of Hegel, which is the equivalent of _das

Nichtseyn_; for the possible is only the ability of the real.

Now, because the abstract absolute is unknowable, unthinkable even, it

by no means follows that the concrete, real and necessary being,

cannot be both thought and known, or that things cannot be both thought 638

and known in their relations to it, without reducing it to the

category of the relative. Sir William Hamilton says the absolute is

the unconditioned, and is incogitable, because our thought necessarily

conditions it. This would be true if the absolute is an abstraction or

mental conception, but is false and absurd if applied to real,

necessary, infinite, and self-existent being, which, as independent of

us and all relation, is and must be the same whether we think it or

not. The thought does not impose its own conditions and limitations on

the object; certainly not when the object is real and necessary being,

and in every respect independent of it. We cannot, of course, think

infinite being infinitely or adequately, but it does not follow that

we cannot think it, though finitely and inadequately. The human mind,

being finite, cannot comprehend infinite being; but, nevertheless, it

may and does apprehend it, or else Mr. Spencer could not assert the

Infinite Something, which he says we are compelled to admit underlies

the cosmic phenomena and is manifested in them. The human mind can

apprehend more than it can comprehend, and nothing that is

apprehensible, though incomprehensible, is unthinkable or unknowable,

except in Mr. Spencer’s _New System of Philosophy_.

Sir William Hamilton says, in defending the relativity of all

knowledge: “Only relations are cogitable. Relation is cogitable only

in correlation, and the relation between correlatives is reciprocal,

each is relative to the other. Thought is dual, and embraces at once

subject and object in their mutual opposition and limitation.” This

merely begs the question. Besides, it is not true. Relations are

themselves cogitable only in the related; correlatives connote each

other, so that the one cannot be thought without thinking the other;

but not therefore are all relations reciprocal, as the relation

between phenomenon and noumenon, cause and effect, creator and

creation. Here are two terms and a relation between them, but no

reciprocity. When we think cause and effect, we do not think them as

mutually opposing and limiting each other. The effect cannot oppose or

limit the cause, or the creature the creator, for the creature depends

on the creator and is nothing without his creative act, and the effect

is nothing without the cause which produces and sustains it. The

creature depends on the creator, but not the creator on the creature;

the effect depends on the cause, but not the cause on the effect.

There may, then, be relation without reciprocity.

It is true, Mr. Spencer denies creation, and relegates all causative

power to the dark region of the unknowable, and calls the origin of

the universe in the creative act of being or God “an hypothesis,” and

rejects it with ill-concealed scorn; yet creation is not “an

hypothesis,” but a scientific fact, and a necessary principle of all

science. Without it the cosmos would not be cognizable, for it would

have no dialectic constitution. It could not even be thought, for

every thought is a judgment, and no judgment is possible where there

is no copula that joins the predicate to the subject. Rejecting

creation, the author cannot assert the relation of cause and effect;

rejecting cause and effect, he cannot assert even the cosmic

phenomena. They are not able to stand on their own bottom, and

therefore not at all, unless the Something of which they are, as he

says, manifestations, is a cause producing and sustaining them. We

submit, then, that Mr. Spencer’s doctrine of the unknowable, and the 639

relativity of all knowledge, estops him from asserting anything as

knowable, for it really denies all the knowable and all the

real--_omne scibile et omne reale_.

The second part of Mr. Spencer’s work on “The Knowable” we might well

omit, but as it is that in which he claims to be original, and in

which he supposes he has made most valuable contributions to the

philosophy of the cosmos, an omission to examine it might seem

ungracious. Besides, the inventors of new systems of philosophy must

not be held too rigidly to the logical consequences of their own

doctrines, _non omnia possumus_. It is impossible for the founder to

foresee all that his doctrine involves, and it is but fair, if he

really has said anything new that is true, that it should be

recognized, and he receive due credit for it, even if it is an anomaly

in his general system of philosophy. We proceed, therefore, to

consider Part II.

In this second part, the author professes to treat the knowable, not

indeed in its several details, but in its first principles, or

ultimate generalizations. The generalization of a group of phenomena

is science; the generalization of the several groups of phenomena

observable in the cosmos constitutes the several special sciences; and

the combination of these special sciences into one higher and more

comprehensive generalization, which embraces them all, is philosophy.

In constructing philosophy, the author, be it observed, like the coral

insect, begins below and works upward, and bases the universal on the

particular.

The great point, or novelty, in this second part, however, is

unquestionably, as the author claims, the doctrine of Evolution. By

evolution, the author does not understand evolving or unfolding, as do

ordinary mortals; but the aggregation or contraction and diffusion,

according to certain laws which he has determined, of matter, motion,

and force. Evolution consists, therefore, of two processes,

contraction and diffusion, and is either simple or compound. Simple

evolution is where concentration and diffusion follow each other

alternately; compound evolution is where the two processes go on

simultaneously in the same subject, which may be said to be growing

and decaying, or living and dying, at one and the same time.

Minerals, plants, and animals, including man, are all formed by the

evolution of matter, motion, and force. The elimination or loss of

motion, mechanical, chemical, or electrical, is followed by the

concentration of matter and force, which may assume the form of a

pebble, a diamond, a nettle, a rose, an oak, a jelly-fish, a tadpole,

a monkey, a man. Life is simply the product of “the mechanical,

chemical, and electrical arrangement of particles of matter.” The

concentration of motion is followed by a diffusion or dispersion of

matter and force, and the disappearance of the several groups of

phenomena we have just named; but as matter is indestructible, and as

there is always the same quantity of motion and force, they disappear

only to reappear in new groups or transformations. The diffusion of

the mineral may be the birth of the plant; of the plant, the birth of

the animal; of the ape, may be a new concentration which gives birth

to man. Nothing is lost. The cosmos is a ceaseless evolution; is, so

to speak, in a state of perpetual flux and reflux, in which diffusion

of one group of phenomena is followed by the birth of another, in

endless rotation, or life from death, and death from life. Dissolution 640

follows concentration “in eternal alternation,” or both go on

together. This is not a new doctrine, but substantially the doctrine

of a school of Greek philosophers, warred against both by Plato and

Aristotle, that all things are in a state of ceaseless motion, of

growth and decay, in which corruption proceeds from generation, and

generation from corruption, in which death is born of life, and life

is born of death. Our cosmic philosophers only repeat the long since

exploded errors of the old cosmists. But pass over this.

The author is treating of the knowable. We ask him, then, how he

contrives to know that there is any such evolution as he asserts? He

assumes that matter, motion, and force are the constituent elements of

the cosmos; but he can neither know it nor prove it, since he

maintains that what matter is, or what motion is, or what force is, is

unknown and unknowable. He denies the relation of cause and effect, or

at least that it is cognizable; how, then, can he assert the cosmic

phenomena are only concentrations and diffusions of matter, motion,

and force? A certain elimination of motion and a corresponding

concentration of matter and force produces the rose, another produces

an ape, another produces a man, says the author of this new system of

philosophy. Does he know that he is only a certain concentration of

matter and force, resulting from a certain diffusion or loss of

motion? Can he not only think, but prove it? But all proof, all

demonstration, as all reasoning, nay, sensible intuition itself,

depends on the principle of cause and effect; for, unless we can

assert that the sensation within is _caused_ by some object without

that affects the sensible organism, we can assert nothing outside of

us, not even a phenomenon or external appearance. How does the author

know, or can he know, that he differs from the ape only in the

different combination of matter, motion, and force?

Mr. Spencer, in his work on _Biology_, asserts that life results from

the mechanical, chemical, and electrical arrangement of the particles

of matter. If this were so, it would, on the author’s own principles,

explain nothing. It would be only saying that a certain group of

phenomena is accompanied by another group, which we call life, but not

that there is any causal relation between them. That the supposed

arrangement of the particles of matter originates the life Mr. Spencer

cannot assert without the intuition of cause and causes he either

denies or banishes to the unknowable. Analytical chemistry resolves,

we are told, the diamond into certain gases; but is synthetic

chemistry able to recombine the gases so as to produce a diamond?

Professor Huxley finds, he thinks, the physical basis of life in

protoplasm. Protoplasm is not itself life, according to him, but its

basis. How does he know, since he denies causality, that life is or

can be developed from protoplasm? Protoplasm, chemically analyzed, is

resolved into certain well-known gases; but it is admitted that

synthetic chemistry is unable to recombine them and reproduce

protoplasm. Evidently, as in the case of the diamond, there is in the

production of protoplasm some element which even analytic chemistry

fails to detect. No synthetic chemistry can obtain the protoplasm from

protein, and there is no instance in which life, feeling, thought and

reason, are known, or can be proved, to result from dead matter, or

from any possible combinations of matter, motion, and force. If it

could so result, the fact could not be proved, and would remain for 641

ever in the unknowable.

The new philosophy resolves all the cosmic phenomena into the

concentration and diffusion of the unknowable elements called matter,

motion, and force. The quantities of these elements remain always the

same, but they are in a state of constant evolution, and all the

cosmic phenomena result from this evolution, and are simply changes or

transformations of the same force. Now, the evolution either has had a

beginning or it has not. If it has not, we must assume an infinite

series of evolutions, or concentrations and diffusions; but an

infinite series is absurd, and the author himself denies it. Then it

must have had a beginning; but no phenomenon can begin to exist

without a cause independent of the phenomenon, or the _causatum_. But

the author denies the cause in denying the origin of the cosmos in

creation, or its production by a supercosmic creator. We are sadly at

loss, then, to conceive how he contrives, consistently with his new

system, to assert either the law of evolution, or even evolution

itself. Will he tell us how he does it?

We need not follow the author through the alleged facts and

illustrations by which he seeks to explain and sustain his system of

evolution; because evolution is not assertable on his own principles,

nor is it provable _aliunde_ by any possible deductions or inductions

of science. So far from being science, it is not even an admissible

hypothesis; because it contradicts and refutes itself. Mr. Spencer has

attempted to construct a system of philosophy or explication of the

cosmic phenomena, and the law of their production or transformation,

without recurrence to any metaphysical principles, and from physical

principles alone, or by the generalization of the physical phenomena

as they appear to the human consciousness in space and time, and has

necessarily failed; because the physical principles themselves, and

consequently the physical phenomena, are inexplicable and

inconceivable even, without the principles discarded as metaphysical.

The author’s whole theory of evolution depends on the assumed fact of

the indestructibility of matter, the continuity of motion, and the

persistence of force, not one of which can be asserted without the

ideal intuition of being, substance, and cause, all three metaphysical

principles, and as such relegated by the author to the region of the

unknowable. The indestructibility of matter can be deduced or induced

from no possible observation of sensible phenomena. The continuity of

motion or the persistence of force is no fact of consciousness. Mr.

Spencer himself says, to science or the explication of phenomena, the

present must be linked with the past and with the future, and hence he

argues the indestructibility of matter, the continuity of motion, and

the persistence of force; but not one of them is a fact of

consciousness. Consciousness is the recognition of one’s self as

subject in the present act of thought, and looks neither before nor

after, takes cognizance neither of the past nor of the future, and

consequently of no link connecting them with the present.

Indestructibility, continuity, persistence, all of which imply

cognitions of the past and future, are not and cannot be facts of

consciousness, which is cognition only of the present. Matter and

motion, the author says, are derivative, derived from force, which

alone is primitive. The indestructibility of matter and the continuity

of motion depend, then, solely on the persistence of force, and are

apprehensible, therefore, only in apprehending that persistence; but 642

that persistence is not a fact of consciousness. How, then, can it be

asserted, unless force is, and is apprehended as, a persistent

substance? But substance is unknowable.

The author adopts the method of the physicists, the so-called

inductive method, and proceeds from particular phenomena to induce by

generalization their law; but no induction is valid that is not made

by virtue of a general principle, which is not itself inferable from

the phenomenal, and must be given and held by the mind before any

induction is possible. This is the condemnation of the method of the

physicists, for, from phenomena alone, only phenomena can be obtained.

A method without principles is null, and leads only to nullity. The

author does not understand that the reason why the cosmic phenomena

are not cogitable without the assumption of the cosmic reality

underlying them, is because the mind intuitively apprehends them as

dependent on something which they are not, and at the same time, and

in the same intellectual act, intuitively apprehends a reality beyond

them, which by its causative act produces and sustains them. He is

wrong in declaring that the something real is unknowable; it may be

incomprehensible, but, as we have seen, it must be cognizable, or

nothing is cognizable.

That the men who follow in the physical sciences the physical or, as

they say, the inductive method, inducing general conclusions from

particular facts or phenomena, have really advanced those sciences,

and by their untiring labors and exhaustless patience achieved all but

miracles in the application of science to the mechanical and

productive arts from which trade and industry have so largely

profited, we by no means deny; but they have done so because the mind,

in their investigations and inductions, has all along had the

intuition of the ideal principle which legitimates their

generalizations, that of being or substance, and its creative or

causative act, but of which they take no heed, or to which they do not

advert; as St. Augustine says, the mind really has cognition of God in

the idea of the perfect, but does not ordinarily advert to the fact.

They suppose they obtain the law they assert by logical inference from

the phenomena, because they do not observe that the mind has intuition

of the causative or creative act, which is the ideal principle of the

induction. The mind is superior to their philosophy, and they reason

far better than they explain their reasoning. We may apply to them the

advice Lord Mansfield gave to a man of good sense and sound judgment,

but of little legal knowledge, who had been recently appointed a judge

in one of the British colonies: “Give your decisions,” said his

lordship, “without fear or hesitation; but don’t attempt to give your

reasons.” So long as they confine themselves to the proper field of

scientific investigation, they are safe enough; but let them come out

of that field and attempt to explain the philosophy or the principles

of their physical science, and they are pretty sure to make sad work

of it. _Ne sutor ultra crepidam._

Mr. Spencer protests against being regarded as an atheist, for he

denies the self-existence of the universe, and neither affirms nor

denies the existence of God. But _atheist_ means simply _no-theist_,

and, if he does not assert that God is, he certainly is an atheist. It

is not necessary, in order to be an atheist, to make a positive denial

of God. His disciple, Professor John Fiske, who has been lecturing on

the cosmic philosophy before Harvard College, contends that the cosmic 643

philosophy is not atheistical, because it asserts in the unknowable an

infinite power, being, or reality, that underlies the cosmic

phenomena, of which they are the sensible manifestations; yet this

does not relieve it, because what is asserted is not God, and is not

pretended to be the God of theism, but the reality or substance of the

cosmos and indistinguishable from it. It is the real, as the phenomena

are the apparent, cosmos.

The author denies that he is a pantheist, for he denies the hypothesis

of self-creation; but, if he is not a pantheist, it is only because he

does not call the unknowable infinite power or being he asserts as the

reality of the cosmos, that is, the real cosmos, by the name of God,

Deus, or Theos. But asserting that power as the reality or substance

of the cosmic phenomena is precisely what is meant by pantheism.

Pantheism, in its modern form, is the assertion of one only substance,

which is the reality of the cosmic phenomena, and the denial of the

creation of finite substances, which are the real subject of the

cosmic manifestations. Pantheism denies the creation of substances or

second causes, and asserts that all phenomena are simply the

appearances of the one infinite and only substance; and this is

precisely what Mr. Spencer undeniably does. The only difference

between atheism and pantheism is purely verbal. The atheist calls the

reality asserted cosmos or nature, and the pantheist calls it God, but

both assert one and the same thing. The power Mr. Spencer asserts is

simply the _natura naturans_ of Spinoza, and that is nothing the atheist

himself does not accept, and, indeed, assert. Neither asserts, nor

does Mr. Spencer assert, any supercosmic being, or power on which the

cosmos depends, and the power they do assert is as much cosmic as the

phenomena themselves. Mr. Spencer’s protest betrays rare theological

and philosophical ignorance, or is a mere verbal quibble, unworthy a

man who even pretends to be a philosopher.

Mr. Spencer hardly once refers to Christian theology, and, without

ever having studied it, evidently would have us think that he

considers it beneath his attention. Yet he, as evidently, has

constructed his system for the purpose of undermining and disposing of

it once for all. This may be seen in the fact that, when he refers to

religion at all, it is always to some heathen superstition, which he

assumes to be the type or germ of all religion, carefully ignoring the

patriarchal, Hebrew, or Christian religion. He tells us “the earliest

traditions represent rulers as gods or demigods.” This is not true

even of heathenism, which is in fact an apostasy from the patriarchal

or primitive religion, or its corruption. The apotheosis of Romulus,

according to tradition, took place only after his death, and it is

only at a later period that the pagan emperors were held to be gods

during their lifetime. Mr. Spencer’s real or affected ignorance of the

whole order of religious thought is marvellous, and we cannot forbear

saying:

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”

There is no philosophy or science, if God and his creative act are

excluded or ignored, because there is no cosmos left, and neither a

subject to know nor an object to be known.

Mr. Spencer misapprehends the relations of religion and science, and

consequently the conditions of their reconciliation. He says they are

the two opposite poles of one and the same globe. This is a mistake. 644

Religion and science are indeed parts of one whole; but religion,

while it includes science, supplements it by the analogical knowledge

called faith. The truths of faith and of science are always in

dialectic harmony, and between the Christian faith and real science

there is no quarrel, and can be none; for religion only supplies the

defect of science, and puts the mind in possession of the solution of

the problem of man and the universe, not attainable by science.

There is a quarrel only when the scientists, in the name of science,

deny or impugn the supplementary truths of revelation, and which are

at least as certain as any scientific truths or facts are or can be;

or when they reject the great principles of reason itself, which are

the basis of all science. Let the scientists confine themselves, as we

have said, to the study and classification of facts, or the

development and application to them of the undoubted principles of the

intuitive reason, and not attempt to go beyond their province or the

proper field of scientific investigation, and there will be no quarrel

between them and the theologians. The quarrel arises when men like

Spencer, Darwin, Huxley, and others, profoundly ignorant both of

philosophy and of theology, or the teachings of revelation, ignoring

them, despising them, or regarding them with sovereign contempt, put

forth baseless theories and hypotheses incompatible with the truths

alike of reason and faith; and it will continue till they learn that

an unproved and unprovable theory or hypothesis is not science, nor a

scientific explanation of the facts either of the soul or of the

cosmos, and is quite insufficient to warrant a denial of the belief of

the great bulk of mankind from the first man down to our own day. Then

there may be peace between the theologians and the scientists, but not

till then.

We said, or intended to say, that a philosopher is known by his

principles. We add that he is also known by his method. The physical

method is unscientific and illogical; for it seeks through phenomena

to arrive at being, and from particulars to obtain general or

universal conclusions. Induction that is not based on a universal

principle can never attain to anything but the particular.

Generalizations of particulars are only abstractions, and

abstractions, prescinded from their concretes, are nullities, as the

possible, without the real to actualize it, is nothing. There is no

rising from particulars to the universal unless we start with a

universal principle intuitively given. It is impossible to conclude,

by logical inference, substance or being from phenomena. The reality

which Mr. Spencer says we are compelled to assert, though itself

unknowable, as underlying the cosmic phenomena, is no deduction nor

induction from these, but is given intuitively as the ideal or

intelligible in the very act in which the phenomena themselves are

apprehended. Mr. Spencer is wrong in asserting it, as we have said, to

be unknowable, and still more so in asserting it as the subject of the

cosmic phenomena, which is simply pantheism. These phenomena are not

the appearances or manifestations of the Infinite Power or Being which

Mr. Spencer asserts as unknowable, but of the finite and dependent

substances which God, the Infinite Being, creates and upholds as

second causes.

The universal is not contained in the particular, the infinite in the

finite, the identical in the diverse, the immutable in the mutable,

the persistent in the transitory, unity in plurality, or the actual in

the possible, and therefore cannot be concluded from it. The two 645

categories are not obtainable, either from the other, by any possible

logical inference, and therefore must be given intuitively or neither

is cognizable; for, though not reciprocal, they connote, as all

correlatives, each the other, since neither is knowable without the

other. This is the condemnation of the physical or inductive method,

when followed as a method of obtaining the first principles either of

the real or of the knowable. We say only what Bacon himself said. He

said and proved that the inductive method is inapplicable in

philosophy, or out of the sphere of the physical sciences. The great

error has been in attempting to follow it in philosophy, or the

science of the sciences, where it is inapplicable, for no science can

start without first principles.

We feel that some apology is due our readers for soliciting their

attention to anything so absurd as Herbert Spencer’s _New System of

Philosophy_; but they must bear in mind that Mr. Spencer is a

representative man, and has only attempted to bring together and

combine into a systematic whole the anti-Christian, anti-theistical,

and anti-rational theories, hypotheses, and unscientific speculations

which, under the name and forms of science, govern the thought of the

modern non-Catholic world. Mr. Spencer’s book, which is a laborious

effort to give the philosophy or science of nothing, and ends only in

a system of “symbolic conceptions,” in which nothing, according to the

author, is conceived, has, after all, a certain value, as showing that

there is no medium or middle ground between Catholicity and atheism,

as there is none between atheism and nihilism. Mr. Spencer, we should

think, is a man who has read comparatively little, and knows less of

Christian theology or philosophy; he seems to us to be profoundly

ignorant of his own ignorance, as well as of the knowledge other men

have. He is only carrying out the system of Sir William Hamilton, Dr.

Mansel, and providing a philosophy for the Darwins, the Huxleys, the

Galtons, the Lubbocks, the Tyndalls, _et id omne genus_, and has

succeeded in proving that no advance has been made by the non-Catholic

world on the system of old Epicurus, which is rapidly becoming the

philosophy of the whole world outside of the church, and against which

the Bascoms, the Hodges, and the McCoshes, with honorable intentions

and a few fragments of Catholic theology and philosophy, protest in

vain. This is our apology for devoting so much space to Herbert

Spencer’s inanities.

[129] _First Principles of a New System of Philosophy._ By

Herbert Spencer. Second Edition. New York: Appleton & Co. 1871.

12mo, pp. 559.

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ST. CECILIA’s DAY IN ROME. 646

St. Cecilia is one of the few figures among the representative throng

of virgin-martyrs that strike us at once as the most familiar, the

most lovable, and the most to be exalted. Every one knows the legend

of her life, and the conversion of her husband and his brother,

brought about by her prayers, as also by the miracles she obtained for

their further confirmation in the faith. Her death, in itself a

miracle, needs no retelling, neither does the history of her

wondrously preserved remains, that are now laid in the shrine beneath

the altar of _Santa Cecilia in Trastevere_, a church erected, by her

own wish and behest, on the spot where her palace stood. This church

is a basilica, and has its altar raised many steps above the level of

the mosaic floor of the nave, and the front of the altar turned away

from the people so that the celebrant at Mass stands facing the

congregation, as in many other ancient Roman churches. Under the

altar, on the lower level of the nave, is the shrine of the saint, and

there lies her marble image, small and frail, though it is said to be

life-sized, and reverently and truly copied from the sleeping body,

whose form remained entire and uncorrupted, at least until the last

time it was solemnly uncovered. To the right of the church is a dark

side-chapel, floored with rare mosaic, once the bath-room of the young

and wealthy patrician, and the consecrated spot where heathen cruelty

twice endeavored to put an end to the sweet singer’s life. The actual

bath is said to be within the railings that divide a narrow portion of

the chapel from the rest. There was the first miracle performed, of

her preservation from the boiling water; there also the second, of the

prolongation of her life after the three deadly yet ineffectual

strokes of the unskilful executioner’s sword. One can fancy the young

matron, so childlike in years, so experienced in holiness, lying in

meek and chaste expectation of the embraces of her heavenly

Bridegroom, and of the purified reunion with her earthly and virgin

spouse--while, all the time the wondrous, angel-sustained life lasted,

the Christians, her brethren in the faith, her children through

charity, would be coming and going, silently as to an altar,

rejoicingly as to a saint, and learning, from lips on whom the kiss of

peace of the glorified Jesus was already laid, lessons of fortitude

and love most precious to their faithful souls. We are told, also,

that Urban, the pope, visited her on her glorious death-bed, and, no

doubt, he learnt from her entranced soul more than he could teach it

in its passing hour; learnt, perhaps, things whose sweetness became

strength to him in the hour of his own not far distant martyrdom.

Cecilia, in her short and heavenly life, seems a fitting model for all

women, and especially for young maidens and wives. She was of those

who know well how to put religion before men in its most beautiful

garb and most enthralling form; purity with her was no ice-cold stream

and repellent rocky fastness: it was beauty, it was reward, it was

glory. Crowns of lilies and roses, heavenly perfume, and angelic

companionship were to be its lovely guerdon; and not otherwise should 647

it ever be preached, nor otherwise surrounded, when its precepts are

presented to man. Had we more Cecilias among our Christian women of

to-day, there would be more Valeriani and Tiburtii among our men, and

virtue would be more readily deemed an honor than a yoke; home would

be more of a temple, rather than a mere resting-place; home-life more

of a prayer, rather than a simple idyl. For blamelessness is not

Christian purity; righteousness is not Christian faith. We want the

visible blessings of the church on our daily lives, even as Cecilia

brought into the circle of home the visible, angelic gifts of flowers;

and we know that to those who seek them where Valerian and his brother

sought the heavenly apparition--that is, through faith and

prayer--these blessings, these gifts, these blossoms, these

safeguards, are never denied.

And to pass from these aspirations after a more Christian ideal of

home to the impressions made on an eye-witness by the feast of St.

Cecilia in Rome, we will merely say that this feast had been eagerly

looked forward to, and had always held a special charm over the mind

of the writer of these pages.

On this day, the 22d of November, Mass is said from dawn till noon in

the catacomb chapel, where the martyr was first buried. This chapel is

one of the largest and most interesting in the Catacomb of St.

Callixtus. The distance from the Eternal City to this shrine is not

long, but the old Appian Way that leads from the one to the other is

crowded with memories and monuments, each a history in itself.

The most noticeable of these is very near the catacomb, and is none

other than the mausoleum of Cecilia Metella, the mysterious and

oft-sung pile that Byron has made strangely familiar to us. One cannot

help being struck by the familiarity of the two names, and the

proximity of the two shrines, of the Cecilias of Rome. The proud

mausoleum, stately as a palace, strong as a fortress, built by some

ostentatious patrician, or by some sorrowing husband, for the merely

worldly end of perpetuating the memory of an illustrious house, or of

the domestic virtues of a spouse a little above the common run of

licentious Roman matrons, stands now deserted and unvisited, its real

history lost and forgotten, and a fictitious one attached to it

through the imaginative efforts of a foreign poet. The lonely

sepulchre in an earthen wall, the hidden recess in an underground

chapel--dug out by silent, persecuted men for the proscribed body of a

so-called criminal--remains to this day the pilgrimage of thousands,

the well-remembered and well-loved spot where devout followers of the

faith Cecilia followed come to beg her intercession as they kneel

before the same sacrament, and assist at the same sacrifice, whose

blessings were Cecilia’s only strength. Cecilia Metella, the rich

Roman lady, is unknown save to antiquaries; Cecilia, the

virgin-martyr, is honored all over the world, by all races and all

nations. The wealth of the first has rusted away and is heard of no

more, because its last emblem was a palatial tomb; the riches of the

second have increased a hundred-fold, and have been sown broadcast

over the earth, because their abiding symbol lies in a church built

over her former dwelling; and the harvest her prayers have reaped is

gathered year after year in the riches untold, of virgins crowned with

miraculous flowers, of wives laden with the conversions of those dear

to them, of women of all ages, all ranks, all nations, bearing in 648

their hands the charity born of Cecilia’s death-bed generosity, and in

their hearts the faith of her death-bed professions.

And so, past the stately tomb worthy of Egypt’s solemn magnificence,

the road leads to a small door in a wall, which opens on to a field. A

path fringed with red and purple flowers, the last-born children of a

southern autumn, winds through the field, to the head of a steep but

wide flight of stairs, at the foot of which is the entrance to St.

Callixtus’ Catacomb. The pure air, just mist-veiled in the morning

coolness, shows the landscape around to its utmost advantage; the

omnipresent dome of St. Peter’s basilica clears the line of the blue

horizon; the wide purple plain is crossed here and there by

dust-whitened roads and arched aqueducts, as by the gigantic bones of

a decayed and now powerless monster; the distant hills, darkened at

their base by chestnut woods, and dotted with white villas, as with

the loosened beads of a string of pearls, throw bluer shadows on the

dusky, olive-spotted expanse: and we pause, and wonder whether, after

all, things looked so very unlike this on the dawning day when the

Christians bore the happy Cecilia to her first resting-place. Their

hearts surely must have felt as ours do now, full of joy and

thanksgiving, and, above all, full of peace. There would have been a

silent throng, a quiet gradual gathering of the future martyrs around

the narrow grave of their blessed-forerunner; for in those days no one

knew how soon he or she might be called from the altar to the stake,

and summoned to carry the unconsumed sacrament within his bosom to the

tribunal of an unjust and ignorant judge.

The avenues of the perplexing labyrinth of the catacomb are

all guarded by the government on this day of St. Cecilia’s, so that no

one may stray from the one chapel where service is going on. Close to

the entrance is the small recess where the saint was laid in her first

sleep. It is low and reaches far back into the damp earth-wall; myrtle

and bay-leaves are strewn over its floor, and flowers and little

oil-lamps are spread about like stars. As each person leaves the

chapel, he takes away a leaf or flower as a holy remembrance. Two

altars are erected, one close to the martyr’s grave, just beneath a

Byzantine fresco head of our divine Lord, the other on the opposite

side of the chapel. The space, small enough for a modern congregation,

though large for a catacomb chapel, is so crowded that it is difficult

for the priests to pass in and out from the altars to the temporary

sacristy, and the worshippers almost lean upon them when they stand to

say the “Judica me, Deus.” No noise is heard, save the murmured words

of the Mass and the tinkling of the elevation-bell. Foreigners are

there with fair-haired boys serving the Mass of some favorite friend

and accompanying chaplain; Romans are there with their intense, if not

deep, southern devotion; rich and poor, prince and beggar, student and

peasant, are alike crowding the virgin-martyr’s shrine. A few hundred

years ago, this was the church’s cradle, and patrician and slave came

to be baptized together and wear for one day the white robes that

to-morrow twilight would see red with blood on the deserted sand of

the gladiator’s amphitheatre. The priest who said Mass in those days

hardly knew, when he came to the consecration, whether the hand of the

pagan soldiery might not be upon him before the communion; the mother 649

who knelt in tears, half of natural sorrow, half of heavenly joy, and

thought of the fair young boy she had but yesterday given back to God

on the scaffold, did not know whether tomorrow’s dawn might not find

her herself prostrate and headless on the same place of execution.

Partings then were seldom for long, and, even when the Christians

parted with our Lord on the hidden altars, they knew they would meet

him soon again at the right hand of his Father. Not unfrequently, the

Blessed Sacrament was kept in a silver vessel made in the shape of a

dove, and one cannot help thinking how sweet a union must have existed

between this custom and the idea of the protection and the teaching

the Holy Spirit was to afford to his spouse, the church. “When the

Spirit of truth cometh,” Jesus had said, “he shall teach you all

things.” And so the Dove of heaven taught the church the hidden

beauties of the ineffable sacrament, and protected this greatest

treasure of the Bride in its integrity of doctrine and its continuity

of love. May we not so interpret, lovingly and reverentially, the

olden custom of the dove-shaped tabernacle?

Beautiful as the day was, it was a sore trial to leave the darksome,

silent chapel, where generations of older and braver Christians than

ourselves had spent their triumphant vigils and been brought back to

sleep their peaceful hero-slumbers--it was a trial, I say, to return

to the carelessly beautiful earth, the unheeding theatre of such

wondrous mysteries. To leave the catacombs in Cecilia’s times was to

go forth to almost certain death; to leave prayer and solitude, the

catacombs of the heart in our day, is to encounter certain sorrow and

possible sin. It is hard to leave God’s temple and mingle with the

chattering throng; it is hard to lift the curtain of silence and mix

with the wrangling world. Yet it is our duty. Few are privileged to be

hermits, and those few not until the privilege is turned into a trial,

and the apparent retreat is no other than a hard-won stronghold. In

the battle, we must fight, and fight manfully, in the foremost rank;

it is only the generals and the chiefs among us that watch from afar,

and feel, like wearied Moses, the weight of victory or defeat hanging

on the issue of their prayers. Our part seems the harder, but it is

only because our nature is so little that dissatisfaction with our

present lot is the very air we breathe. After all, if we could look

around us, we should see many beautiful things; if we are bound in

fetters of duty, they are golden fetters, with the word of God carved

all over their sunlike sheen; if we are led in one way and forced to

wear the harness of unalterable circumstances, the reins are broidered

with fair work that tells the story of how the angel led the ass of

Balaam, and how palms were strewn on the path of Jesus; the way is

emblazoned with rarest flowers and sweetest fruits, the heraldry of

grace; if we bear a yoke and a burden, they are but spices and

ointments, wine and oil, and milk and honey, all fair and gracious

merchandise from the great mart of heaven, to be borne over the world,

as the clouds bear the rain, in fertilizing charity and fruit-bearing

meekness. So let us leave the dear catacomb, where even Music hushed

her sighs, and come forth across the Roman Campagna, with the

mist-veils rolled off it, and the noonday sun, with its reminiscences

of summer, gilding its fringe of distant mountains, and its strange

rifts of sudden, unsuspected valleys. Here and there, an aqueduct or a

proud stone pyre, a mound of stones, each of which bears an imperial 650

inscription, a rude shepherd’s fence, or irregular stone wall, that is

all you see. Not far from here, in a cornfield whose waves of brown

and gold a few months ago kissed the foot of an ilex-crowned hillock,

is the fountain of Egeria, a grotto, fern-clothed, with a broken

goddess of mouldering stone. The water and the “maiden-hair” fern are

there still, as beautiful as when the king of Rome is said to have

wandered here in search of wisdom; the sage himself and the

problematic nymph of tradition are dead and gone, forgotten by the

owner of the corn-field, ignored by the peasant who drinks at the

fountain, unknown to the brown, barefooted child who gathers the

feathery fern.

Of what use is it to say any more? Facts are more cruel commentaries

on the past than any words.

Yet we have just seen children and peasants, women from northern

lands, men from eastern climes, bearing away as a relic a leaf of bay

or a starry flower from the once filled recess where Cecilia lay in

peace-sealed slumber.

Where is the difference, and why?

A little child can tell, but the philosopher will not listen.

The feast of St. Cecilia, though to the writer of these pages it ended

on the threshold of the catacomb, is not completed here.

At her church in the _Trastevere_, the church already mentioned,

takes place the ceremony of solemn vespers, in which the artists of

Rome assist and take part gratuitously, out of homage to the queen of

music. The antiphon “Cantantibus Organis” is magnificent in art, but

unresponsive in devotion. The phantom of the unhappy _Renaissance_

breathes in these strains, religious only in so far as they are a

fabric built on sacred words. The simple solemnity of the church’s

service dwells not in them, and the touching silence of the catacomb

recalls the saint to our mind far more sweetly than these outbursts of

paganized minstrelsy within the halls she once called her own. Still,

if honor to God be meant by this concourse of the artist fraternity,

let us be simple of intention, and see in it, as God does, the

first-fruits of what they have offered to the God of all.

Reader, if you ever pray before the early shrine of the virgin-martyr

in St. Callixtus’ chapel, remember the writer of these few words, and

let our prayers go up to God together, “as a morning sacrifice” and

“as incense in his sight.”

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FLEURANGE. 651

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MRS. CRAVEN,

AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’s STORY.”

PART FIRST.

THE OLD MANSION.