Mr. Owen makes, as do hundreds of others, a mistake in using the word

_spiritualism_ for _spiritism_, and spiritual for spirital or

spiritalistic. Spiritualism is appropriated to designate a system of

philosophy opposed to sensism or materialism, and spiritual stands

opposed to sensual or carnal, and is too holy a term to be applied to

spirit-rapping, table-tipping, and other antics of the spirits. Mr.

Owen is unhappy in naming his books. He holds that the universe is

governed by inflexible, immutable, and imperishable physical laws;

that all events or manifestations take place by the agency of these

laws; that the future is only the continuation and development of the

present; and that death is only the throwing off of one’s overcoat,

and the life after death is the identical life, without any

interruption, that we now live. We see not well how he can assert

another world, or a debatable land between this world and the next. If

all things and all events are produced by the agency of natural laws,

and those laws are universal and unchangeable, we are unable to

conceive any world above or beyond nature, or any world in any sense

distinguishable from the present natural world. His books are

therefore decidedly misnamed, and so named as to imply the existence

of another world and a world after this, which cannot on his

principles be true.

Mr. Owen’s first book was mainly intended to establish the fact and to

show the character of the spirit-manifestations; in his last work, his

design is to show that these manifestations take place by virtue of

the physical law of the universe, that they are of the same nature and

origin with the Christian miracles, inspiration, and revelation, and

are simply supplementary to them, or designed to continue, augment,

and develop them; and to show, especially to Protestants, that, if

they mean to make theology a progressive science, and win the victory

over their enemy the Catholic Church, they must call in the spirits to 804

their aid, and accept and profit by their inspirations and

revelations.

This shows that the author leans to Protestantism, and seeks its

triumph over Catholicity; or that he regards Protestantism as offering

a more congenial soil for the seed he would sow than the old church

with her hierarchy and infallibility. Certainly, he holds that, as it

is, Protestantism is losing ground. In 1580 it held the vast majority

of the people of Europe, but is now only a feeble minority. Even in

this country, he says, if Catholics continue to increase for a third

of a century to come in the same ratio that they have for the last

three-fourths of a century, they will have a decided majority. As

things now go, the whole world will become Catholic, and the only way

to prevent it, he thinks, is to accept the aid of the spirits. We are

not so sure that this aid would suffice, for Satan, their chief, has

been the fast friend of Protestants ever since he persuaded Luther to

give up private Masses, and has done his best for them, and it is

difficult to see what more he can do for them than he has hitherto

done.

Mr. Owen, since he holds the spirit-manifestations take place by a

natural law, always operative, and always producing the same effects

in the same or like favorable circumstances, of course cannot

recognize in them anything miraculous or supernatural; and, as he

holds the alleged Christian miracles, the wonderful things recorded in

the Old and New Testaments, are of the same order, and produced by the

same agency, he, while freely admitting them as facts, denies their

miraculous or supernatural character. He thinks that the circumstances

when these extraordinary events occurred were favorable to

spirit-manifestations; the age was exceedingly ignorant,

superstitious, and semi-barbarous, and needed new accessions of light

and truth, and the spirits, through our Lord and his apostles as

medium--God forgive us for repeating the blasphemy--made such

revelations as that age most needed or could bear or assimilate. This

age also needs further revelations of truth, especially to enable it

to throw off the incubus of a fixed, permanent, non-progressive,

infallible church, and secure an open field, and a final victory for

the rational religion and progressive theology implied in the

Protestant Reformation. So the spirits once more kindly come to our

assistance, and reveal to us such further portions of truth as man is

prepared for and especially needs. Very generous in them.

This is the doctrine, briefly and faithfully stated, of Mr. Owen’s

_Debatable Land_, which he sets forth with a charming _naïveté_, and

a self-complacency little short of the sublime. There is this to be

said in his favor--the devil speaks better English through him than

through the majority of the mediums he seems compelled to use; yet not

much better sense. But what new light have the spirits shed over the

great problems of life and death, time and eternity, good and evil, or

what new revelations of truth have they made? Here is the author’s

summary of their teaching:

“1. This is a world governed by a God of love and mercy, in which

all things work together for good to those who reverently conform

to his eternal laws.

“2. In strictness there is no death. Life continues from the life

which now is into that which is to come, even as it continues

from one day to another; the sleep which goes by the name of

death being but a brief transition-slumber, from which, for the

good, the awakening is immeasurably more glorious than is the

dawn of earthly morning, the brightest that ever shone. In all 805

cases in which life is well-spent, the change which men are wont

to call death is God’s last and best gift to his creatures here.

“3. The earth-phase of life is an essential preparation for the

life which is to come. Its appropriate duties and callings cannot

be neglected without injury to human welfare and development,

both in this world and in the next. Even its enjoyments,

temperately accepted, are fit preludes to the happiness of a

higher state.

“4. The phase of life which follows the death-change is, in

strictest sense, the supplement of that which precedes it. It has

the same variety of avocations, duties, enjoyments,

corresponding, in a measure, to those of earth, but far more

elevated; and its denizens have the same variety of character and

of intelligence; existing, too, as men do here, in a state of

progress. Released from bodily earth-clog, their periscope is

wider, their perceptions more acute, their spiritual knowledge

much greater, their judgment clearer, their progress more rapid,

than ours. Vastly wiser and more dispassionate than we, they are

still, however, fallible; and they are governed by the same

general laws of being, modified only by corporal _disenthralment_,

to which they were _subjected_ here.

“5. Our state here determines our initial state there. The

habitual promptings, the pervading impulses, the lifelong

yearnings, in a word the moving spirit, or what Swedenborg calls

the ‘ruling loves’ of man--these decide his condition on entering

the next world: not the written articles of his creed, nor yet

the incidental errors of his life.

“6. We do not, either by faith or works, _earn_ heaven, nor are

we sentenced, on any day of wrath, to hell. In the next world we

simply gravitate to the position for which, by life on earth, we

have fitted ourselves; and we occupy that position _because_ we

are fitted for it.

“7. There is no instantaneous change of character when we pass

from the present phase of life. Our virtues, our vices; our

intelligence, our ignorance; our aspirations, our grovellings;

our habits, propensities, prejudices even--all pass over with us:

modified, doubtless (_but to what extent we know not_), when the

spiritual body emerges, divested of its fleshly encumbrance; yet

essentially the same as when the death slumber came over us.

“8. The sufferings there, natural sequents of evil-doing and

evil-thinking here, are as various in character and in degree as

the enjoyments; but they are mental, not bodily. There is no

escape from them, except only, as on earth, by the door of

repentance. There as here, sorrow for sin committed and desire

for an amended life are the in dispensable conditions-precedent

of advancement to a better state of being.

“9. In the next world love ranks higher than what we call wisdom;

being itself the highest wisdom. There deeds of benevolence far

outweigh professions of faith. There simple goodness rates above

intellectual power. There the humble are exalted. There the meek

find their heritage. There the merciful obtain mercy. The better

denizens of that world are charitable to frailty, and

compassionate to sin far beyond the dwellers in this: they

forgive the erring brethren they have left behind them, even to

seventy times seven. There, is no respect of persons. There, too,

self-righteousness is rebuked and pride brought low.

“10. A trustful, childlike spirit is the state of mind in which

men are most receptive of beneficent spiritual impressions; and

such a spirit is the best preparation for entrance into the next

world.

“11. There have always existed intermundane laws, according to

which men may occasionally obtain, under certain conditions,

revealings from those who have passed to the next world before

them. A certain proportion of human beings are more sensitive to

spiritual perceptions and influences than their fellows; and it

is usually in the presence, or through the medium, of one or more

of these, that ultramundane intercourse occurs.

“12. When the conditions are favorable, and the sensitive through

whom the manifestations come is highly gifted, these may supply

important materials for thought and valuable rules of conduct.

But spiritual phenomena sometimes do much more than this. In

their highest phases they furnish proof, strong as that which

Christ’s disciples enjoyed--proof addressed to the reason and

tangible to the senses--of the reality of another life, better

and happier than this, and of which our earthly pilgrimage is

but the novitiate. They bring immortality to light under a blaze 806

of evidence which outshines, as the sun the stars, all

traditional or historical testimonies. For surmise they give us

conviction, and assured knowledge for wavering belief.

“13. The chief motives which induce spirits to communicate with

men appear to be--a benevolent desire to convince us, past doubt

or denial, that there _is_ a world to come; now and then, the

attraction of unpleasant memories, such as murder or suicide;

sometimes (in the worldly-minded) the earth-binding influence of

cumber and trouble: but, far more frequently, the divine impulse

of human affections, seeking the good of the loved ones it has

left behind, and, at times, drawn down, perhaps, by their

yearning cries.

“14. Under unfavorable or imperfect conditions, spiritual

communications, how honestly reported soever, often prove vapid

and valueless; and this chiefly happens when communications are

too assiduously sought or continuously persisted in: brief

volunteered messages being the most trustworthy. Imprudence,

inexperience, supineness, or the idiosyncrasy of the recipient

may occasionally result in arbitrary control by spirits of a low

order; as men here sometimes yield to the infatuation exerted by

evil associates. Or, again, there may be exerted by the inquirer,

especially if dogmatic and self-willed, a dominating influence

over the medium, so strong as to produce effects that might be

readily mistaken for what has been called possession. As a

general rule, however, any person of common intelligence and

ordinary will can, in either case, cast off such mischievous

control: or, if the weak or incautious give way, one who may not

improperly be called an exorcist--if possessed of strong magnetic

will, moved by benevolence, and it may be aided by prayer, can

usually rid, or at least assist to rid, the sensitive from such

abnormal influence.”--(_Debatable Land_, pp. 171-176.)

We have no intention of criticising this creed of the spirits as set

forth by their learned medium. It is heathen, not Christian, and we

have discovered in it nothing new, true or false. It denies the

essential points of the Christian faith, and what few things it affirms

that Christianity denies are affirmed on no trustworthy or sufficient

authority. A man must have little knowledge of human nature, and have

felt little of the needs, desires, and aspirations of the human soul,

who can be satisfied with this spirits-creed. In it all is vague,

indefinite, and as empty as the shades the heathen imagined to be

wandering up and down on this side the Styx. But in it we find a

statement that dispenses us from the necessity of examining and

refuting it. In Article 4 we find it said: “Vastly wiser and more

dispassionate than we, they [the spirits] are still, however,

_fallible_.”

Whether the spirits are wiser and more dispassionate than we or not

may be questioned; they do not seem to be so in the author’s

illustrative narrations, and the fact that they have undergone no

essential change by throwing off their overcoat of flesh, and living

the same life they lived here, and are in the sphere for which they

were fitted before entering the spirit-land, renders the matter

somewhat doubtful, to say the least. But it is conceded that they are

_fallible_. Who or what, then, vouches for the fact that they are not

themselves deceived, or that they do not seek to deceive us? By

acknowledging the fallibility of the spirits, Mr. Owen acknowledges

that their testimony, in all cases, when we can have nothing else on

which to rely, is perfectly worthless. We can bring it to no crucial

test, and we have no vouchers either for their knowledge or their

honesty. Even supposing them to be what they profess to be, which we

by no means concede, it were sheer credulity to take their word for

anything not otherwise verifiable.

Mr. Owen and all the spiritists tell us that the spirit-manifestations

prove undeniably the immortality of the soul; but they prove nothing 807

of the sort. We need, in the first place, no ghost from hell to assure

us that the immortality of the soul follows necessarily from the

immateriality of the soul; for that is demonstrable from reason, and

was generally believed by the heathen. What was not believed by the

heathen, and is not provable by reason, is the Christian doctrine of

the resurrection; and this, and supernatural life and immortality, the

spirits do not even pretend to teach. Look through Mr. Owen’s

statement of their teaching, and you will find no hint of the

“resurrectionem carnis” or “vitam æternam” of the apostolic symbol.

Are we to reject the doctrine of the resurrection of the body, and the

life and immortality brought to light through the Gospel--which is

something far different from a simple continuation of the soul’s

physical existence--a doctrine so necessary to virtue, and so dear and

consoling to the afflicted, on the authority of fallible spirits,

whose knowledge or veracity nothing vouches for, and who prove

themselves not seldom to be lying spirits?

In the second place, what proof have we that those rapping or

table-tipping spirits are the spirits of men and women once in the

flesh? Mr. Owen undertakes to establish their identity, but he does

not do it and cannot do it; for no proof in the case is possible

except by a miracle, and miracles the author rejects, and declares

the argument from them in all cases a _non-sequitur_. The

spirit-manifestations of which the spiritists make so much, and in

which they fancy they have a new inspiration and revelation, are

nothing new in history, and are not more frequent now than they have

been at various other epochs. They were more common amongst the

polished pagan Greeks and Romans than they are in any real or nominally

Christian nation now. They are nothing new or peculiar to our times.

Tertullian speaks of them, the author of the _Clementine Recognitions_

was acquainted with them, and so was St. Augustine. The trance was one

of the five faculties or states of the soul recognized by the

Neo-Platonists, and was the principle of the Alexandrine theurgy. The

church has in every age encountered them, been obliged to deal with

them, and she has uniformly ascribed them to Satan and his angels. She

has had from the first, and still has, her forms of exorcism against

them, to cast them out, and relieve those who are troubled by them.

Every day she in some locality even now exorcises them, compels them

to acknowledge the power of the name of Jesus, and sends them back

discomfited to hell.

The spiritists cannot say the doctrine of the church is impossible or

prove that it is not true. It certainly is a possible hypothesis, if

nothing more. Then spiritists cannot say that Satan does not personify

the spirits of the departed, or that it is not Satan or some one of

his angels that speaks in those pretending to be the spirit of

Washington, of Jefferson, of Franklin, of Shakespeare, of Milton, of

Byron, or of some near and dear deceased relative? You must prove that

it is not so, before you can affirm the identity claimed. The great

Tichborne case now before the English courts proves that it is no easy

matter to establish one’s own identity even while in the flesh, and it

must be much more difficult for a ghost, which is not even visible.

The spiritists admit that the spirits are fallible; that there are

among them lying, malevolent spirits. A gentleman with whom we were

well acquainted, a firm believer in the spirits, and himself a medium,

holding frequent communications with them, assured us that he held 808

them to be evil spirits, and knew them to be lying spirits. “I asked

them,” he said, “at an interview with them, if they could tell me

where my sister then was. ‘Your sister,’ I was answered, ‘has some

time since entered the spirit-world, and is now in the third circle.’

It was false: my sister was alive and well, and I knew it. I told them

so, and that they lied; and they laughed at me: and then I asked whose

spirit was speaking with me. I was answered, ‘Voltaire.’ ‘That is a

lie, too, is it not?’ Another laugh, or chuckle rather. “I assure

you,” said our friend, “one can place no confidence in what they say.

In my intercourse with them, I have found them a pack of liars.”

This pretension of the spiritists that the spirits that manifest

themselves through nervous, sickly, half-crazy mediums, or mediums

confessedly in an abnormal or exceptional state, are really spirits

who once lived in the flesh, is not sustainable; for they cannot be

relied on, and nothing hinders us from holding them to be devils or

evil demons, personating the spirits of deceased persons, as the

church has always taught us. This, certainly, is very possible, and

the character of the manifestations themselves favors such an

interpretation; for only devils, and very silly devils too, dealing

with very ignorant, superstitious, and credulous people, would mingle

so much of the ludicrous and ridiculous in their manifestations, as

the thumping, knocking, rollicking spirits, tipping over chairs and

tables, and creating a sort of universal hubbub wherever they come.

The spirits of the dead, if permitted at all to communicate with the

living for any good purpose, we may well believe, would be permitted

to do it more quietly, more gravely, and in a more open and direct

way; it is only the devil or his subjects that would turn all their

grave communications into ridicule by their antics or comic

accompaniments. These considerations, added to the fact that the

spirits communicate nothing not otherwise known or knowable, that is

not demonstrably false, and that they tell us nothing very clear or

definite about the condition of departed souls, nothing but what their

consultors are predisposed to believe, convince us that, if they prove

the existence of powers in some sense superhuman, they prove nothing

for or against the reality of a life after this life. They leave the

question of life and immortality, of good and evil, rewards and

punishments, heaven and hell, where they were.

Mr. Owen places the spirit manifestations, and the Biblical miracles,

and Christian inspiration and revelation, in the same category,

attributes them all alike to the agency of the spirits, and thinks he

has discovered a way in which one may accept the extraordinary events

and doings recorded in the Old and New Testaments as historical facts,

without being obliged to recognize them as miracles. This is absurd.

The resemblance between the two classes of facts is far less than

honest Fluellen’s resemblance of Harry of Monmouth to Alexander of

Macedon, “There is a river in Macedon, so is there a river also in

Wales.” The man who can detect any relation between the two classes of

facts, but that of dissimilarity and contrast, is the very man to

believe in the spirit-revelations, to mistake evil for good, darkness

for light, and the devil for God. We find both classes of facts in the

New Testament. The Christian miracles are all marked by an air of

quiet power. There is no bluster, no rage, no foaming at the mouth,

no fierceness of look or gesture, no falling, or rending, as in the 809

case of the demoniacs; and no rapping, no table-tipping, no antics, no

stammering, no half-utterances, no convulsions, no disturbance, as in

the case of the spirit-manifestations described by Mr. Owen in his

books. In the one case, all is calm and serene, pure and holy; there

is no effort, no straining, but a simple, normal exercise of power.

Our Lord rebukes the winds and the waves, and there comes a great

calm; he speaks, the leper is cleansed, the blind see, the deaf hear,

the lame walk, the dead live. What like this is there in Mr. Owen’s

ghostly or ghastly narratives of trances, thundering noises, and

haunted houses? Every one of his narratives shows, so far as it shows

anything not explicable by simple psychical states and powers, the

marks which the church has always regarded as signs of the presence of

the devil. Some of the cases he describes are clearly cases of

possession, and others are as clearly cases of obsession. Unhappily,

Mr. Owen, who formerly believed in no God, now takes, knowingly or

not, the devil to be God.

Mr. Owen has hardly improved on the heathen Celsus, who was refuted by

Origen. Celsus charged the miracles of our Lord to magic. Mr. Owen

ascribes them to necromancy, and regards the apostles and saints each

as a person with a familiar spirit, or, in the language of the

spiritists, a medium. The Jews also ascribed the miracles of our Lord

to the agency of the devil, and charged that it was by Beelzebub, the

prince of devils, that he did his wonderful works. But there is a

striking difference between the Jews and Celsus and our late minister

to Naples. They sought to prove the satanic origin of the miracles of

our Lord as a reason for rejecting him and his teaching; he attempts

to do it as a reason for believing him and reverencing his doctrine

and character. But they lived in an age of darkness, superstition, and

semi-barbarism, and he in an age of light, reason, and civilization,

and the distance between him and them is the measure of the progress

the world has made since their time--a mighty progress indeed, but a

progress backward. The Bible tells us all the gods of the heathen were

devils, and Mr. Owen agrees and takes the devil for God, and demon

worship as true divine worship. What the Jews and Celsus falsely

alleged against our Lord as an objection, he reasserts as a

recommendation. He has discovered that evil is good.

The class of facts which the spiritists call spirit-manifestations are

recognized in the Bible from beginning to end, but always as the works

of the devil or evil spirits, always as works to be condemned and to

be avoided; and any communication with those who do them is forbidden.

Necromancers, or those who consult the spirits of the dead, are

mentioned and condemned in the Book of Genesis. The Mosaic law

ordained that a witch or a woman with a familiar spirit--that is, a

medium, whether a rapping or a clear-seeing, a talking or a writing

medium--should not be suffered to live. The church has always

condemned everything of the sort, and requires a candidate for baptism

to renounce the devil and his works, and expels the devil from him by

her exorcisms, before receiving the postulant to her communion. And

yet Mr. Owen would have us believe that the Bible and the church

sanction his doctrine, that the Christian miracles and the

spirit-manifestations are produced by one and the same agency! Verily,

Mr. Owen throws a strong light on the origin of the great Gentile

apostasy, and shows us how easily men who break from the unity of 810

divine tradition, and set up for themselves, can lose sight of God,

and come step by step to worship the devil in his place. The thing

seemed incredible, and we had some difficulty in taking the assertion

of the Holy Scriptures literally, “All the gods of the gentiles are

devils”; but since we see apostasy from the church running the same

career, and actually inaugurating the worship of demons, actually

exalting the devil above our Lord, the Mystery of Iniquity is

explained, and the matter becomes plain and credible.

It is curious to see what has been the course of thought in the

Protestant apostasy in regard to the class of facts in question.

Having lost the power of exorcism with their loss of the true faith,

the Protestant nations had no resource against the invasions of the

spirits but to carry out the injunction of the Mosaic law, “Thou shalt

not suffer a witch”--that is, a medium--“to live.” Hence we find their

annals in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries blackened with

accounts of the trials and cruel punishments of persons suspected of

witchcraft, sorcery, or dealings with the devil, especially in

England, Scotland, and the Anglo-American colonies. Having no

well-defined and certain criteria, as the church has, by which to

determine the presence of Satan, many persons, no doubt, were put to

death who were innocent of the offences of which they were accused.

This produced a reaction in the public mind against the laws and

against the execution of persons for witchcraft or dealing with the

devil. This reaction was followed by a denial of witchcraft, or that

the devil had anything to do with matters and things on earth, and a

shower of ridicule fell on all who believed in anything of the sort.

Then came the general doubt, and then the denial of the existence of

the devil and all infernal spirits, save in human nature itself.

Finally came the spirit-manifestations, in which Satan is no longer

regarded as Satan, but is held to be divine, and worshipped as God, by

thousands and millions.

We must be excused from entering into any elaborate refutation of Mr.

Owen’s blasphemous attempt to bring the Christian miracles under the

general law, as he regards it, of spirit-manifestations. He has proved

the reality of no such law, and if he had, the spirit-manifestations

themselves would prove nothing more than a gale of wind, a shower of

rain, a flash of lightning, or the growth of a spire of grass. Could

we prove the Christian miracles to be facts in the order of nature, or

show them as taking place by a general law, and not by the immediate

act of God, and therefore no miracles at all, we should deprive them

of all their importance. The value of the facts is not in their being

facts, but in their being miraculous facts, which none but God can

work. The author does not understand this, but supposes that he has

won a victory for Christianity when he has proved the miracles as

facts, but at the same time that they are no miracles.

It is clear from his pages that the author does not know what

Christians understand by a miracle. He cites St. Augustine to prove

that a miracle is something that may take place by some law of nature

to us unknown, but St. Augustine, in the passage he cites, is not

speaking of miracles at all; he is speaking of portents, prodigies, or

extraordinary events, which the ignorant, and the superstitious

ascribe to a supernatural agency; but which may, after all, however

wonderful, be produced by a natural cause, as in our days not a few 811

believe to be the case with the spirit-manifestations themselves, and

no doubt is the case with most of the wonders the spiritists relate.

The devil may work portents or prodigies, but not miracles, because he

has no creative power, and can work only with materials created to his

hand.

It is necessary also to distinguish between what is simply superhuman

and what is supernatural. Whatever is creature is in the order of

nature. Nature embraces the entire creation--whatever exists that is

not God or distinguishable from him. Whether the created powers are

above man or below him in the scale of existence, they are equally

natural, and so is whatever they are capable, as second causes, of

doing. The angels in heaven, the very highest as the lowest, are God’s

creatures, distinguishable from him, and therefore included in nature.

The same must be said of the devils in hell, or the ghosts, if the

spirits of the departed, and hence whatever they do is within the

natural order. The devil is superior, if you will, by nature to

man--for man is made little lower than the angels, and the devil is an

angel fallen; he may know many things beyond human intelligence, and

do many things beyond the power of man; but what the devil does, is,

if superhuman, not in any sense supernatural, but as natural as what

man himself does. We agree with Mr. Owen, though not for the same

reason, that there is nothing miraculous in the spirit-manifestations,

even supposing them to be facts, and therefore are of no value in

relation to the truth or falsehood of Christianity as a revelation of

and by the supernatural.

God alone, and what he does immediately by his direct act and

immediate act, is supernatural. God alone can work a miracle, which is

a supernatural effect wrought without any natural medium, law, or

agency, in or on nature, and is, as far as it goes, a manifestation of

creative power.

Miracles do what portents, prodigies, spirit-rappings, etc., do

not--they manifest the supernatural, or the existence of a real order

above nature. They do not indeed directly prove the truth of the

Christian mysteries, but they do accredit our Lord as a teacher sent

from God. As Nicodemus said when he came by night to Jesus, “Rabbi, we

know that thou art come a teacher from God, for no man can do the

miracles thou doest, unless God were with him,” God in the miracles

accredits the teacher, and vouches for the truth of what he in whose

favor they are wrought teaches. What our Lord teaches, then, is true.

If he teaches that he is perfect God and perfect man in hypostatic

union, then he is so, and then is to be believed, on his own word,

whatever he teaches, for “it is impossible for God to lie.” The

facts, then, are of no importance if not miracles. Hence the

“natural-supernaturalism” of the _Sartor Resartus_ is not only a

contradiction in terms, but utterly worthless, as are most of the

admired utterances of its author, and aid us not in solving a single

problem for which revelation is needed.

Deprive us of the prophecies under the Old Law and the miracles under

the New, and we should be deprived of all means of proving

Christianity as a supernatural religion, as supernaturally inspired

and revealed, and should be reduced, as Mr. Owen is, to naked

rationalism, or downright demonism. The prodigies of the devil do not

carry us above nature. They are indeed Satan’s efforts to counterfeit

genuine miracles, but at best they only give us the superhuman for the 812

supernatural. If the author could prove the Christian miracles are not

miracles, though credible as facts, or if he could bring them into the

category of the spirit-manifestations, he would in effect divest

Christianity of its supernatural character, and render it all as

worthless as any man-constructed system of ethics or philosophy. His

Christianity, as set forth in his pages, has not a trace of the

Christianity of Christ, and is as little worthy of being called

Christian as the bald Unitarianism of Channing, or the Deism of

Rousseau, Tom Paine, or Voltaire, or the Free Religion of Emerson,

Higginson, and Julia Ward Howe.

What Mr. Owen regards as a highly important fact, and which he

urges Protestants to accept as the means of triumphing over the

Catholic Church, namely, that the Christian miracles and the

spirit-manifestations are worthy of precisely the same respect and

confidence in a Christian point of view, is far less important than he

in his profound ignorance of Christianity imagines. How far he will be

successful with Protestants we know not; but his success, we imagine,

will be greatest among people of his own class, who, having no settled

belief in any religion, who know little of the principles of

Christianity, are, as all such people are, exceedingly credulous and

superstitious. These people hover on the borders of Protestantism,

have certain sympathies with the Reformation, but it would be hardly

just to call them in the ordinary sense of the term Protestants. Yet

Protestantism, being substantially a revival in principle of the

ancient Gentile apostasy which led to the worship of the devil in the

place of God before our Lord’s advent, there can be no doubt that

Protestants are peculiarly exposed to Satanic invasions, and there is

no certainty that they may not follow Mr. Owen back to the

devil-worship from which Christianity rescued the nations that

embraced it. But we have said enough for the present. Perhaps we may

say more hereafter.

[159] 1. _The Debatable Land between this World and the

Next._ With Illustrative Narratives. By Robert Dale Owen.

New York: Carleton & Co. 1872. 16mo, pp. 542.

2. _Footfalls on the Boundary of Another World._ With

Narrative Illustrations. By Robert Dale Owen. Philadelphia:

Lippincott & Co. 1860. 16mo, pp. 528.

----------

THE ANNUNCIATION.

MARCH 27TH.

She kneels in prayer--a childlike, virgin form;

What purity is mirrored in her eyes!

Her dove-like glances, with devotion warm,

Are raised in worship, to the midnight skies--

But look! a heavenly radiance bright has shone

Around the virgin chosen of the Lord;

In her rapt prayer she hears the angel’s tone,

“Hail! full of grace! for lo! upon the word

Of thy consent waits now the heavenly dove,

Whose wings o’ershadowing thee shall lightly rest

One moment on thy pure and humble breast,

And make thee by that awful seal of love

The mother of thy God!” She bows her head,

While _fiat mihi_ in meek tones is said.

----------

FLEURANGE. 813

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’s STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART FIRST.

THE OLD MANSION.

IV.

When daylight appeared, Fleurange awoke first, but in a few minutes,

while she was admiring the child still sleeping in her arms, his large

eyes opened in their turn. Their first expression was one of extreme

surprise, somewhat mingled with fear, but Fleurange’s look and voice

soon had a reassuring effect. His eyes grew smiling, his mouth half

opened, his little arms stretched towards her and were soon clasped

around her neck, and the acquaintance was made. During this time the

pale and languid young mother was endeavoring to shake off a heaviness

more difficult to overcome than sleep. She slightly blushed and

murmured some words of excuse when she perceived her child in the arms

of the beautiful stranger. But Fleurange protested with an accent of

indubitable truth that the child did not trouble her in the least. She

soon perceived she could be of some service to the poor convalescent.

The children, aroused from a long night’s sleep, were now wholly

awake. Every one knows that children awake, and, confined within a

narrow space, soon arrive at a degree of turbulence whose only

advantage is to produce lassitude and then sleep. During the first of

these two phases, the poor mother made a vain and feeble effort to

restrain them. After a few minutes she fell back, not only exhausted,

but faint. Fleurange drew near, and began to improvise a pillow for

her head out of the shawls scattered around. Then she opened the small

basket Mademoiselle Josephine had given her, and took out a flask, the

contents of which, poured on a handkerchief and applied to the sick

woman’s pale face and temples, soon revived her.

“Thank you,” she said; “you have done me a great deal of good. I am

feeble, that is all, but I did not suppose myself so much so.”

“Do not exert yourself,” replied Fleurange. “I will take care of the

children.”

The mother smiled, and touched her head, showing by this gesture how

fatiguing she found the noise she had not succeeded in quieting. At

that very moment, the younger of the two children was standing on the

seat, trying to reach the net, of painful memory, suspended like the

sword of Damocles over the travellers’ heads, and which served as a

receptacle for everything that could not be stowed away elsewhere. 814

The child was not climbing without a motive. His brother had already

successfully preceded him, and found means of seizing, through the

meshes of the net, a small hunting-horn, on which he was now executing

a flourish. Why could not he also get his drum, almost within reach?

If he could only stretch a little farther--and he looked at Fleurange

with a supplicating air; but the latter, instead of heeding his mute

appeal, laughingly laid hold of him and drew him on her lap; then

skilfully bearing off the hunting-horn from the other, she promised to

relate them the most charming of stories if they would be quiet. In an

instant they were both leaning beside her, and then, in a low tone,

she related one story after another, keeping them silent and attentive

till the hour of sleep returned.

By the end of the second day the travellers had made great progress in

their acquaintance. “How can I thank you sufficiently?” said the young

mother. “How fortunate I was to meet you!”

“Do not thank me: your children have done me more good than I can

return.”

This reply, of course, did not at all diminish the gratitude mingled

with admiration with which she had inspired her companion, and as

there is only a step from attraction to confidence, the latter soon

related the whole story of her uneventful life to Fleurange. She had

met with a severe fall three months before, and her life was despaired

of; then her husband took her to Paris to consult Dr. Leblanc, who

effected a cure. Fleurange’s eyes brightened. It was such a

gratification to be able to talk about her dear old friends!

“He is so skilful and kind,” she said.

“Oh! yes, indeed! he is more than a physician: he is a benefactor, and

yet I disobeyed him in starting so soon! He said I was still too

feeble, which I denied; but I see he was right.”

“Why did you do so?”

“Because my poor Wilhelm is alone and impatiently awaiting me.”

“Your husband?”

“Yes.”

“Could he not have come for you?”

“No; he is M. Dornthal’s head clerk, and it is very difficult for him

to leave his post.”

Fleurange’s heart gave a leap at this name. “Are you alluding to M.

Ludwig Dornthal?” said she.

“No; to his brother, the rich banker.”

“And the other--the professor--do you know him?”

“I have never seen him, but Wilhelm is well acquainted with him, and

is sometimes invited to the soirées he gives. They are not balls--they

are not fond of dancing there--but réunions for conversation, reading,

music, and looking at engravings. Wilhelm says they are all learned,

the girls as well as the boys, and madame as much so as her husband.”

Fleurange slightly shuddered at this brief communication respecting

her uncle’s family. She was very fond of study, still more so of the

arts; she had a taste for reading she was often obliged to repress,

but this word “learned” she did not find attractive.

“Learned!” she said to herself. “That means pedantic, grave, and

tiresome. Well, I must make the best of it. Perhaps that does not

prevent them from being good, which is the essential point, and I

certainly should not aim at amusement in this short life.”

Another night--another long day now drawing to a close--when lights 815

more frequent and bright, and more numerous dwellings, announced the

vicinity of a large city. As each moment brought them nearer their

destination, the joy of the mother and her children became more

expansive.

“He will be waiting for us, will he not?” said the elder of the

children.

“Yes, yes, we shall see him as soon as the carriage stops, but that

will not be for an hour.” Soon the cry was: “In half an hour, now!”

and at last: “Here we are!”

Poor Fleurange listened to her travelling companions, and envied them

the certainty of being greeted at their journey’s end by a dear and

well-known face. Sadness and a fearful timidity came over her. At

last, the carriage stopped. As at their departure, there was a great

uproar, a variety of cries, and vacillating lights, which illuminated

everything, but nothing distinctly. Fleurange sought in vain among all

the persons who crowded around the carriage, for a face that might be

her uncle’s. The door opened. A tall man with flowing hair and a long

blonde beard presented himself. “Was it he?” No, the joyful cries of

the children at once informed Fleurange it was their father.

“Bertha, Bertha!” he exclaimed, and, even before embracing his

children, he pressed both her hands and looked anxiously in her face.

“You are very pale, dear Bertha.”

“It is only with joy, Wilhelm,” replied she, weeping. “I am cured, and

I behold you once more!”

He then stretched out his arms to his children, but before leaving the

carriage they both cried “Adieu! adieu!” in childlike tones and threw

their arms around Fleurange’s neck.

“Wilhelm,” said his wife in a low tone, “thank this kind young lady,

who has been an angel of goodness to them and to me on the way.”

He turned with a soft and grateful look toward Fleurange: “May God

reward you, fair and gentle maiden,” said he, taking off his hat. Then

he added hesitatingly:

“Doubtless some one is waiting for you here, and I cannot have the

pleasure of rendering you any service?”

“I thank you,” said Fleurange quickly. “I am, indeed, expected by my

relatives.” While speaking she anxiously cast her eyes around. No one

seemed to be seeking her in the crowd of unknown faces that surrounded

her. Was there any mistake? Had they forgotten her? What should she

do?

Meanwhile her travelling companions left the carriage, and the happy

group was already at a distance. She followed them with her eyes, her

heart sinking within her. At that instant a small open carriage, drawn

by a fine horse, drove swiftly up. In it was a youth of eighteen or

nineteen years. He threw the reins to some one standing near and

sprang out. Seeing him, Bertha’s husband took off his hat, and a cap

is hastily raised in return, displaying an abundance of light hair of

rather a warm shade. But the new-comer did not stop. He was in a great

hurry and out of breath. He ran up to the diligence and said

inquiringly:

“Mademoiselle Gabrielle!”

“That is my name,” said Fleurange, at first struck dumb at hearing

herself so-called, and especially at the sight of him who had come to

meet her.

“Very well,” said he, “let me help you descend.”

Fleurange silently prepared to obey, but after another glance at him

as he held out a firm hand, she said: “There is no mistake, is there?

It is my uncle, M. Ludwig Dornthal, who has sent for me?”

The only reply she received was an affirmative nod of the head; a 816

moment after, a concise order, promptly obeyed, brought down from the

heights of the imperial the modest luggage belonging to Fleurange. In

an instant it was fastened behind the light carriage which he

afterward assisted her in entering, then, carefully and silently

wrapping around her a large fur cloak which he had brought, he took

his seat, and the horse set off, as he came, at a fast trot.

Fleurange at first felt giddy with the rapid motion of the carriage,

but it soon became agreeable, contrasted with the heavy movements and

violent jolting of the diligence. The weather was sharp, but the warm

cloak that covered her prevented her from feeling it, and, thus

protected, the keen air, so far from being unpleasant, gave her, on

the contrary, an unaccustomed animation which was like a fresh

infusion of youth and life. The sky above was sparkling with stars. It

was one of those brilliant winter nights which we love to imagine like

that which witnessed the coming of Christ, and saw angels hovering

over the heights that surround Bethlehem, to convey the glad tidings

to the shepherds, and sing on earth their divine hymn.

In about twenty minutes the horse slackened his pace a little, and the

young coachman turned around and seemed to make some attempt at an

explanation which Fleurange tried her best to comprehend, but the

rattling over the pavements rendered this nearly impossible, and she

only seized the words “My father” and “_Christ Kindchen!_” after which

his head, turned around for an instant, resumed its former position,

and the horse his usual pace.

But Fleurange gathered from this that the youth was one of M.

Dornthal’s sons, and her uncle had not been able to meet her for some

reason connected with the festival of the following day. Her first

impression was that her cousin’s manners were rather abrupt, and his

face somewhat peculiar, but on the whole he had shown himself very

efficient and attentive. As for his skill in driving it was

unrivalled, the reins could not have been in better hands.

After this short interruption, they kept on their way without

slackening an instant, notwithstanding more than one turn through the

winding streets, and at length arrived at a place planted with trees,

where the carriage stopped before a flight of steps leading to an

oaken door adorned with a massive brass knocker.

Some one was evidently watching for them, for the door instantly flew

open. Fleurange caught the glimpse of a bright light and many forms!

Her cousin hastened to aid her in alighting. Confused voices were

audible, all having a cordial accent of welcome. A strong hand

supported Fleurange as she ascended the six stone steps and entered

the passage. A tall woman dressed in gray, and wearing a cap trimmed

with flowers, approached and embraced her. “It is my turn now!” said a

deep and sonorous voice, “for I am her uncle.” Fleurange raised her

eyes toward a noble countenance which had too young a look to be

crowned with such white hair, and her uncle embraced her, murmuring in

a softened tone the name of Margaret. Beside him stood a lovely young

girl, grave and blonde, while another, fair as her sister but younger,

divested Fleurange of the heavy fur cloak and untied her bonnet. A boy

of seven years ran out into the street to aid his brother, and a

little girl of four or five clung to her mother’s skirts, looking

curiously, but with delight, at the strange visitor.

Fleurange, dazzled by the lights, and confused by the very cordiality 817

of her reception, was incapable of uttering a word, but her large

eyes, full of tears, were more expressive than any words, and the

unusual brilliancy of her complexion, owing to the keen night air, and

her long tresses falling over her shoulders when her bonnet was

removed, gave her an unusually striking appearance which would have

conciliated the most malevolent. How, then, must she have been

regarded by those so ready to welcome her heartily?

They led her, triumphantly, as it were, into a spacious drawing-room

which was still more dazzling. In the centre of the apartment stood a

tree brilliantly illuminated and hung with toys, flowers, jewels, and

fruit of all kinds. Two chandeliers added their light to that of the

illuminated tree, under one of which half a dozen children were

gathered around a table loaded with cakes. Several young ladies, as

well as others who were older, were grouped here and there.

In short, Fleurange suddenly found herself, and for the first time in

her life, in the midst of what seemed to her a very brilliant reunion,

in which all the faces, even those of her hosts, were strange. The

least timid would have been disconcerted, and Fleurange was completely

abashed. The lady in gray with a cap trimmed with flowers, whom she

supposed to be her aunt, took her by the hand, and hastily led her

back into the passage, and thence into a small parlor lighted by a

single lamp. In crossing the hall, they met Fleurange’s young guide.

“Is she ill? Does she need anything?” he asked in a kind and eager

tone.

“Yes, she needs rest,” and with this reply Madame Dornthal shut the

door in her son’s face.

Fleurange sat down and breathed more freely. Hitherto she had been

unable not only to utter a word, but even to collect her thoughts.

Now, thanks to the quiet room, she at once grew calm, and in a few

minutes felt quite recovered. She was young and vigorous. She had

scarcely felt the fatigue of the journey, and it was not in her nature

to yield long to emotion and embarrassment, especially when in the

depths of her heart she felt so happy! Had not a single glance, quick

as a flash, sufficed to dissipate the burden which weighed on her

heart, and to light it up with a transport of joy and hope? Her

uncle’s voice, the words he murmured as he embraced her, “O Margaret,

is it you?” gave her a thrill; then the soft glances of those fair

young girls, the sight of the children gathered under the

Christmas-tree, even the abrupt attentions of her young cousin--all

gave her a delicious sensation of safety, an assurance of protection

which in her moments of desolation she had desired more than joy or

happiness.

She raised her head, and looked at her aunt, who stood silently

regarding her. The latter was decidedly ugly--astonishingly so, yet

even before she spoke or smiled there was an expression more desirable

than beauty visibly imprinted on her face, otherwise devoid of all

charm--an expression of intelligence and kindness.

“Remain here perfectly quiet, will you?” said Madame Dornthal,

_tutoyant_ Fleurange as if she had known her from childhood.[160]

“There, look at the clock; a quarter of an hour will be sufficient. Do

not try to talk, only listen to me. You are at home, you must 818

understand: remember that. No thanks are necessary. You are one of our

children. We had five: now we have six. It was Clement, my oldest son,

who went to meet you, because his father could not leave the children

this evening. You saw Hilda and Clara at your arrival, as well as the

two little ones, Fritz and Frida, who were also there to receive you.

There is Gabrielle besides: that is all. Your uncle has mourned so

much for his poor sister Margaret! Now he has found her again, it is a

happy day for us all!”

Fleurange quietly wiped away her tears without replying. Just then

some one knocked at the door.

“Who is there?”

“It is I.”

It was Clement with a cup of coffee, which, at her aunt’s injunction,

Fleurange drank with docility.

“Will you now go up to your room for the night, or will you return to

the drawing-room among the others?”

Fleurange replied without any hesitation: “I prefer to go back to the

drawing-room and see them all, at once.”

A pleasant smile lighted up Madame Dornthal’s face. “I like you very

much, Gabrielle, not because you are handsome, that has nothing to do

with it; I should love you quite as much were it otherwise; but

because there is so much simplicity about you--which is quite to my

taste. Now, let me see: it is eleven o’clock, our friends are going to

take their children home, and our youngest are going to bed. As to the

rest of us, we shall presently go to the Midnight Mass, and not sup

till our return. Make your own choice--to follow the children’s

example, or go with us.”

“Oh! with you, with you!” cried Fleurange. “Pray, take me to church;

I am neither feeble nor fatigued.”

“And yet you are fatigued,” replied Madame Dornthal, “only you do not

yet feel it. But as it will do you no harm, you shall do as you wish.

So save your strength, and do not return now to the drawing-room. You

can remain here and wait for me.”

She left the room, and Fleurange remained where she was, happy to obey

such kind orders without any resistance. Five minutes after, the door

opened. It was Clement again, holding his little brother by the hand,

and carrying his young sister in his arms.

“Fritz and Frida wish to bid you good-night,” he said. The little boy

timidly approached. Fleurange immediately spoke to him in that

language which all children understand, and which can only be learned

and spoken by those who love them: he was speedily reassured. She then

took Frida, and kissed her blue eyes, which, while looking at her with

surprise, began to close. When she gave the child back to her brother,

she was asleep, and he bore her away without awakening her, holding

her with an ease that showed how accustomed he was to the care. His

little brother followed him out of the room.

Half an hour of silent repose succeeded this interruption. It was more

beneficial to Fleurange than sleep, which strong excitement kept her

from feeling the need of. At the end of that time, Madame Dornthal

reappeared with her two daughters. Clement and his father were waiting

for them in the passage. They set off by starlight on foot, for the

church was near. They were all silent and thoughtful, for the

children’s festival had not made them forgetful of the solemnity of

this great night.

In church, once more in church, Fleurange felt, as she knelt down, 819

that her overburdened heart could now find relief, and when solemn,

harmonious, and accordant voices made the magnificent arches resound

with unearthly chants, which seemed to be the spontaneous expression

of universal prayer, the young girl bowed her head still lower: all

the joy and gratitude of her heart overflowed in sweet tears and

fervent prayers of thanksgiving. When Mass was over, one voice, which

surpassed the rest--a voice sweet and manly--intoned beside her the

Psalm _Laudate Dominum_. She involuntarily joined in the strain, and

the two voices seemed for an instant to form but one.

When she turned around, she saw that this singer was her cousin,

Clement Dornthal.

V.

When a friendly hand aids a shipwrecked traveller in reaching the

shore, his first impulse is to express his boundless gratitude. Rest

is sweet, even on the sand, to him who has just escaped the perils of

the ocean; but if he finds no place of refuge on the shore, if his

only hope of an asylum is the vague glimmer of some distant beacon, he

is tempted to doubt his strength to reach the half-seen light, and if

it will really prove a haven. Such had been the mixture of gratitude

and apprehension the poor orphan felt the day she accepted from

Mademoiselle Josephine the hospitality of the blue chamber, and it did

not leave her the whole time of her stay in that first harbor of

safety. But to-day, roused from her slumbers by the merry Christmas

chimes, her first thought was: “Thank God, I have arrived at port”;

and she rose from her spacious couch eager to begin her new life. She

began the day by writing to Mademoiselle Josephine. Her old friend

must be informed of her happiness before she could enter upon its

enjoyment. It seemed only a debt of gratitude to share with her all

her new and pleasing impressions. She also wrote to Madre Maddalena:

she must without any delay link all the friends and joys of the past

with her present happiness and truly transformed life.

Her aunt, in assuring her the previous evening she was among her

own--that is, at home--seemed to have constituted her, as by magic, a

child of the house. Everything around her was new and somewhat

strange, but everything pleased her as if naturally conformed to her

tastes; and yet the walls of her room, hung with sombre colors, the

old press of carved wood, which easily contained her limited wardrobe,

the high-backed chairs ranged around, the antique bureau in one

corner, and in the other a great monumental stove, the spectral aspect

of which alone was surprising--all this might easily have offended an

eye accustomed to the smiling magnificence of Italy, but not an object

in the house seemed capable of imparting any sad impressions. The word

welcome appeared inscribed on every side, as on all faces, and in this

sweet atmosphere she instinctively felt that the material comfort was

only a type of the mental freedom much more necessary than the other

to the happiness of life.

“You must not dress in black today, Gabrielle,” said her two fair

cousins, as they entered her chamber for the third time since she rose

an hour before, bearing a basket which contained garments similar to 820

their own.

“Why not?” said Fleurange, somewhat astonished.

“Do you not know that, in Germany, mourning is laid aside on great

festivals?” replied Clara, the younger of the two. “You must dress

like us to-day, as you will always do when the time for this sad

mourning is over.”

The elder of the two sisters noticed that her cousin made no reply:

she approached her and said affectionately:

“Excuse Clara if she has distressed you. She is so gay and happy

herself, that she cannot comprehend misfortune and sadness.”

“I do not wish to remind her of them to-day,” said Fleurange, “and

will do as she requests. But you, dear Hilda,” continued she--looking

with admiration at her cousin’s golden locks and grave brow, which a

queen’s diadem would have suited, or the aureola of a saint--“are you

not as gay and happy as your sister?”

“Yes, as happy,” said Hilda, “but not as gay.”

After some explanations, Fleurange conformed to her cousins’ wishes.

But when, before dinner, the beautiful Hilda, clothed in white,

brought a garland like that she wore herself and wished to place it on

her head, she objected: “As to this garland, Hilda, you must excuse me

from wearing it.”

“Why so?”

“Because I have never worn any ornament of the kind: because, after

all, I cannot and do not wish to forget I am a poor orphan, who should

not dream of adorning herself, or mingling in the world.”

“But, Gabrielle, you must know we only adorn ourselves to celebrate at home

the great annual festivals, and we never mingle in the world.”

“Never? But then, why wear flowers without any reason?”

“It is not without a reason. My father likes us to wear the flowers of

the season at every feast. This poor wreath you have refused,

Gabrielle, look at it: it is, like mine, of holly, reflecting the

brightness of Christmas, with its shining leaves and berries red as

coral. There, see if it is not becoming in your raven hair?” As she

spoke, Hilda held the wreath over her cousin’s head: at that instant

Clara appeared, and hesitation was no longer possible. She instantly

took her sister’s place: the bright leaves and red berries were placed

like a crown on Fleurange’s brow, who laughed and only made a feeble

resistance, while the mirror reflected the forms of the three young

girls--as graceful a picture as ever haunted an artist’s dreams.

“There,” cried Clara, “you are both beautiful--one fair as the day and

the other brilliant as night. And I,” continued she, arranging her

long curls, among which holly leaves were also twined--“let me see

what I resemble myself.”

“A flower, a star, dear Clara: everything that is best worth gazing at

by day or night,” said Fleurange affectionately.

She preferred the elder of the two sisters, but there was an

irresistible grace about the other, whom she could not help caressing

with her eyes and tones, as if she were a child.

“Ah! that is charming, poetic, and very applicable! Thank you, Cousin

Gabrielle. I will presently ask our poet to divine my emblems. We

shall see if he agrees with you.”

“If our poet is in a fit of abstraction, you must ask some one else

who certainly will not be,” said Hilda.

Clara blushed. “Come, come!” said she, “let us talk no longer about 821

me, but go down. There is Frida coming for us. They have doubtless all

arrived.” And taking her little sister by the hand, she ran off,

scarcely touching the massive balustrade as she flew down the stairs.

“You did not tell me you were expecting visitors,” said Fleurange.

“Only some friends and relatives. Since my Uncle Heinrich lost his

wife, he and his son have taken their Christmas dinner with us. The

family formerly assembled at his house. You are going to make his

acquaintance, and that of our fine cousin Felix. The rest are our

friends, and will soon be yours.” Hilda paused. “You doubtless know

that Hansfelt is my father’s friend, and was the companion of his

youth?” she continued at length.

“Hansfelt!” exclaimed Fleurange. “What! Karl Hansfelt, the great

poet?”

We have already remarked that Fleurange perfectly understood her

mother’s native tongue. The poems of the person just mentioned were

sufficiently celebrated at that time for her to be familiar with them,

and even know some of them by heart.

“And he is your friend? And shall I see him?”

“Yes,” replied Hilda, “you will see him often. And you will also see,”

she added, as if eager to change the subject, “a young artist who is

beginnings be quite popular. His name is Julian Steinberg, and he is a

friend of Overbeck’s. I will leave Clara to introduce him to you.” A

significant smile accompanied the last words, and Fleurange,

comprehending, or nearly so, the state of affairs, descended with her

cousin into the large drawing-room, which, as well as the dining-room,

was on the ground floor.

The house M. Ludwig Dornthal inhabited is probably no longer standing.

Modern improvements have swept away, one by one, those old houses in

all our cities to which time had given an aspect too much at variance

with the tastes and requirements of a new generation. Even at the

period in which our story opens--that is, in 1824--the house of which

we are speaking already began to be pointed out as the _Old

Mansion_--the name, _par excellence_, by which it was known in the

city. But, as it was spacious and commodious, its situation quiet and

retired, and it had a large garden which all the windows on one side

overlooked, it was admirably adapted to the professor’s studious

habits. The picturesque color it had acquired with age was also quite

to his taste, and, above all, as it was here Ludwig Dornthal passed

the first years of his married life, and where his children were born,

nothing in the world would have induced him to leave it, and on this

point they were all agreed. The Old Mansion was dear to those who

inhabited it, as well as to all who frequented it, and every one, like

Fleurange, uttered more or less fervently these words, which are

always vainly repeated in this world when our faculties are all for an

instant in a state of happy equilibrium: “It is good for us to be

here: let us set up our tabernacle, and here remain.” This impression,

it may be supposed, was not wholly owing to the exterior aspect of the

Old Mansion. There was a harmony between it and its occupants; and,

with various results, this effect is produced almost everywhere.

Inanimate objects seem to imbibe and communicate something of the life

that passes around them, and this language, though silent, is, to

those who heed it, a source of genuine revelation.

When Fleurange entered the drawing-room, she perceived her Uncle 822

Ludwig was rather impatiently awaiting her, for the moment she

appeared he advanced, and, taking her by the hand, led her to the

other end of the apartment, where stood a gentleman whose features

bore some resemblance to his own; but with so different an expression,

that the likeness, which at first was apparent, grew less and less as

the two brothers were better known.

“This is our sister Margaret’s daughter,” said Ludwig to the banker.

“She is doubly your niece now, for I have adopted her as my child.”

M. Heinrich Dornthal bowed and cordially embraced the young girl, but

he could not resist saying: “Another daughter, when you have three

already, is a great addition.”

This cool and unpleasant remark disconcerted Fleurange, and she had

not recovered from her painful sensation of embarrassment when a young

man of rather a fine figure approached and offered her his arm.

Fleurange looked at him with an air of astonishment. She had never

been to a large dinner-party, and knew nothing of the usages common to

all countries on such an occasion. She slightly retreated, and,

opening her large eyes, said: “Who are you, monsieur, and where do you

wish to conduct me?”

This question and movement caused a general smile around her, in which

she saw her Uncle Ludwig join, and with that simplicity which was her

greatest charm she began to laugh herself, and so innocently, that he

who had involuntarily caused this little scene exclaimed half aloud:

“This is truly the most charming piece of rusticity I ever met with;”

and then, bowing to her with mock gravity, and an air at once gallant

and bantering, he said:

“Mademoiselle, my name is Felix Dornthal: I have the honor of being

your cousin, and I offer you my arm to conduct you to the dining-room;

but I acknowledge there would have been more propriety in first making

us acquainted with each other.”

Fleurange, blushing and smiling, accepted the arm offered her, and,

once seated at table beside this new cousin, and freed from the

embarrassment of this little incident, she looked around and began to

enjoy her novel position.

Was it really her own self, who recently felt so isolated? She who had

stood face to face with want and abandonment? Could she be the same

person now, surrounded by numerous relatives, a member of a large

family, feeling herself beloved by all, and loving all in return--yes,

all, excepting the cousin seated beside her, who caused her

involuntary confusion; and yet he had just said some words to her in

Italian, pronounced with so pure an accent that she experienced a

lively sensation of surprise and joy, for Italy was her native

land--her own country almost, left only a few months previous for the

first time. But her cousin’s words embodied a compliment to which she

did not know how to reply, and when she raised her eyes toward him she

met a look that disconcerted her still more. She therefore only

uttered a few words in return, and then silently resumed her

examination of the company, beginning with her Uncle Ludwig. As to

him, she thought she had never seen a nobler and sweeter face. It was

impossible not to be struck by the contrast in this respect between

him and his wife, which must have been even more striking in their

youth than now. While she was dwelling on this thought, she met her

aunt’s eye resting on her for a moment, and saw her smile. That look 823

and smile seemed to answer her, and give a clue to the mystery, for

they revealed the traits that constitute the indestructible bond of

genuine sympathy. Beauty adds nothing to such characteristics, or at

least only a charm the heart disregards, and which even the eye soon

ceases to dwell on, for they who are capable of loving a soul soon

love the form, whatever it may be, in which it is clothed.

The only one of the children who had not inherited the beauty of the

Dornthals was Clement, who looked more like his mother than the rest.

He had the same ugliness and the same smile, and yet, as he was tall,

slender, active, and robust, his form, without being elegant, was not

devoid of grace, and when his thick hair was thrown back, the shape of

his forehead gave a marked character to his face, and his look was, in

flashes, expressive, decided, and intelligent. It was astonishing,

therefore, to find young Dornthal so apparently incapable of

self-assertion: the more so because he possessed great aptitude for

the arts and sciences, and as a student he stood in the highest rank.

But it seemed to be an effort for him to converse, and he was so

absolutely silent in the drawing-room that his friends habitually

avoided speaking to him. Elsewhere it was different. His father found

it difficult to conceal the secret preference he felt for his eldest

son, and the affectionate pride with which he regarded him was

manifest in his looks on all occasions, in spite of himself. And

Clement’s mother showed a confidence in him almost strange,

considering his youth, and often seemed more disposed to consult than

direct him. As to his brothers and sisters, they idolized him and were

constantly recurring to him; he had a remedy for every difficulty, a

means for every end, and nothing exhausted his patience. In spite of

this, as we have said, he scarcely attracted any attention in company.

We can therefore understand why Fleurange, in continuing her

inspection, did not stop long to consider her cousin, but, on the

contrary, directed all her attention to a person at his side whose

face was singularly remarkable. He was a man about fifty years old,

perhaps older, for his bald head, gray beard, and pale face, marked by

sickness, showed he was no longer young. But a something indefinable

attracted attention, and induced people to inquire his name, and the

name seemed so much in harmony with his countenance that, when known,

it was not unusual to hear the exclamation: “So had I pictured him to

myself.” Such, in fact, was that of Fleurange when, in reply to her

question, her cousin Felix told her his name was Hansfelt.

“Karl Hansfelt!” she repeated for the second time; “is it he?--what!

is that he?”

“Yes, my fair cousin, he himself,” replied Felix in a mocking tone.

“In truth, I ought to consider myself fortunate in having at length

found a subject of conversation that can interest you, but I did not

think of being under obligations to old Hansfelt!”

“But is it not natural to regard a celebrated man with interest, and

one so justly celebrated as he?” said she, turning her eyes once more

toward her cousin. But she lowered them immediately, for the look

fastened on her was more displeasing than any she had yet met--a look

expressing at once impertinent admiration and entire want of kindness.

She wished, nevertheless, to continue the conversation, and timidly

said: “No one can deny that he is a poet whose name is familiar to 824

every one, and whose songs are in every memory.”

“As for me,” replied Felix Dornthal, “I am not fond of rhymsters; this

one is particularly disagreeable to me; and his approaching departure

does not at all afflict me.”

“Is he going away?” said Fleurange.

“Yes, it seems he has been offered a place at the court of ----, I

hardly know what position, but one that will allow him to fully

gratify his taste for old books, and at the same time--a thing by no

means to be disdained, even by a poet--give him ample means of

livelihood. He has suffered sweet violence, and in a short time we

shall be deprived of the honor of receiving him within our walls--for

ever deprived, it seems, for the kind prince, who is taking him away,

insists on his not quitting his post.”

Fleurange made no reply: her glance had just fallen on her cousin

Hilda, who was sufficiently near to hear the conversation, but not

enough so to be able to take any part in it. She saw her suddenly

stoop down to pick up a flower just fallen from her hand, and when she

rose up there was a lively color in her face. This was a natural

consequence of the movement she had just made, but what was less so

was the paleness which gradually succeeded, and the trembling of her

hand when she endeavored to raise a glass of water to her lips.

Fleurange was observing this with a vague uneasiness, when her

attention was suddenly called away by a question her Uncle Ludwig

addressed to a young man seated at Clara’s side.

This question led to a reply which momentarily deprived Fleurange of

the power of thinking of anything else.

“Steinberg,” the professor said, “look at my niece, and tell me if you

can see the resemblance spoken of.”

The young artist turned toward Fleurange, and looked at her with an

attention that, till now, had been exclusively absorbed by his fair

neighbor. All at once he exclaimed: “Yes, certainly; I remember, and I

see Count George was right. That is truly _Cordelia_ herself before

us!”

Every eye was turned toward Fleurange, and it was her turn to blush.

But why did she thus tremble from head to foot? What were the mingled

remembrances, sweet and poignant, that were suddenly recalled by the

name of _Cordelia_? Of course it was natural that she should be

affected by hearing her father’s last work mentioned--that picture

connected with so many painful associations. On the other hand, it was

that same picture which enabled her uncle to find her, and now,

appreciating more than ever the extent of this happiness, it was

perhaps natural that the name of her unknown benefactor, suddenly

pronounced in her presence, should inspire this lively and

inexpressible emotion--but was this all?

However that might be, she remained the rest of the evening troubled

and absorbed in the same thought. She had not, then, been deceived. It

was really the stranger she had seen in the studio who now owned the

picture, for he not only knew she served her father as a model, but

said the likeness was perfect. And his name was Count George! Count?

Then he was a man of high rank? What was his other name? Where did he

reside? And was he still in this city?

Fleurange wished to give utterance to these questions, but an

invincible embarrassment restrained her, and the evening passed without 825

being able to bring the conversation back to this subject. This

curiosity aroused, but only imperfectly satisfied, left a kind of

uneasiness which she reproached herself for as a fault and a want of

gratitude, when, before falling asleep that night, she recalled all

that had signalized the day when for the first time she celebrated in

the midst of her own relatives the great and memorable festival of

Christmas.

VI.

Four months had passed away, and spring had returned. It was now the

eve of Clara’s marriage and Hansfelt’s departure, and these two events

diversely preoccupied all who lived in the Old Mansion. Fleurange was

leaning over her balcony, allowing her thoughts to wander at will, but

this reverie was by no means melancholy. She felt very happy in spite

of the ideas which vaguely crossed her mind at times, like phantoms

she could not grasp. The vernal air caressed her cheeks, and the sun

gaily lighted up the old furniture in her chamber. She looked

complacently around, and gave herself Up to a sweet and overpowering

sensation of comfort. All at once, without any apparent cause, without

any particular reason for this new impression, a piercing and bitter

thought replaced all these delicious reveries: “If I had to leave this

place for ever, as I have left all the others!” she said to herself

with sudden anguish, and for some moments she could not repress the

fearful thought. She covered her eyes with her hand, and endeavored to

shake off the kind of nightmare which had seized her. She was still in

this attitude when she heard a voice under her balcony, the sound of

which was more disagreeable to her than any other.

“If I were a poet,” said the voice, “or if I only knew some of their

effusions, it would be a suitable time to quote Shakespeare:

‘Oh! that I were a glove upon that hand!’

and so forth. Prompt me, Clement: I know Italian well, but very little

English.”

These words were addressed to her by her cousin Felix Dornthal, who

was in the garden with Clement, and had stopped beneath her balcony.

The latter had his head cast down, but Felix, as usual, gazed at her

with the admiration he had displayed from the very, first day--which

was the only disagreeable and annoying thing she had known beneath her

uncle’s roof. But then, she seldom saw Felix. The company that

assembled two or three times a month in the professor’s drawing-room

was not much to the taste of his nephew, and if he had come oftener

since Fleurange’s arrival, he seldom had an opportunity of conversing

with her, for she avoided him with a care in proportion to the

increasing aversion she felt for him. Felix had, nevertheless, all the

advantage a fine figure and the manners of the world confer, with

sufficient knowledge on various subjects to appear well-informed, and

coolness and assurance enough to direct a conversation so as to shine

in it. It might, therefore, seem surprising that he inspired such a

degree of antipathy, especially when, for the first time in his life,

he seriously endeavored to produce the contrary impression.

Sympathy and antipathy are in part instinctive and uncontrollable, and

sometimes they are wholly inexplicable. They are both experienced

without always knowing the cause, and sometimes, later, they are 826

transformed and modified to such a degree as to efface the first

impulse they inspired. Perhaps it would not be impossible to prove

that upright souls are less rarely deceived in this respect than

others. However it may be, and independent of this instinctive

repulsion, the antipathy Fleurange felt was owing, among other good

reasons, to the constant irony which was so strong an ingredient in

Felix’s nature, as to wither every feeling of kindly impulse or flow

of reason around him. Goodness found no attraction in his nature, and

those who conversed with him almost ceased to believe in it

themselves. He had not discernment enough to see that Fleurange was

one of those persons who may be wounded by a compliment as well as by

an insult, and more than one flash of her large eyes was necessary to

make him comprehend it. And when he suddenly stopped, his silence

excited anxiety to know the cause of his sudden preoccupation and what

sombre cloud enwrapped him. Some insinuated with a nod of the head

that M. Heinrich Dornthal’s only son should yield with more reserve to

his love for play, and his father had repeatedly remonstrated with him

on this point. But as, apart from his whims and irregularities, Felix

had a remarkable capacity for commercial affairs, the banker was

blindly indulgent to him, and often remarked that being “perfectly

satisfied, and sure of his son in matters of _serious_ import

(meaning thereby his aptitude for business), he did not trouble

himself much about the rest, and only patiently awaited the epoch when

the marriage of his choice would lead him back to a more regular

life.”

It should be added that, for several months, the health of the head

of the Dornthal family had, without his acknowledging it, been

seriously declining. The greater part of the business formerly done by

himself was now transacted by his son, and his confidence, or his

weakness, in this respect, increased to a degree unsuspected by any

but him who was its object. The banker occasionally felt, with a

return of his former cautiousness, some anxiety on this point, but

Felix knew how to reassure him by a few words, and he now felt only

one desire, which grew stronger and stronger--to see his son married,

and settled down to a life of greater conformity with the importance

of the affairs he could transact so skilfully, and to which he had

only to give his undivided attention. He could have wished him to

choose one of his two cousins, but Felix did not find them to his

taste, and often declared that it would not be within the walls of the

Old Mansion he should find her to whom he would sacrifice his

independence. But after Fleurange entered them he suddenly changed his

tone, and his ill-concealed admiration now directed toward her all the

banker’s matrimonial hopes respecting his son.

We left Felix beneath his cousin’s balcony, his riding-whip in hand:

“Away with poetry, which is not in my line,” he soon said, “and deign

to listen, fair cousin, to the petition I am about to address you in

humble prose.”

Fleurange, still leaning on the balcony, replied: “I am listening.”

“See what a lovely spring day! My horse stands yonder: will you not

have yours saddled, and allow me to ride in your company?”

Fleurange drew herself up with an air of surprise, and shook her head

without otherwise answering.

“No?” said Felix.

“No, certainly not. How could you think of such a thing? And what claim 827

have you to become my mentor?”

“Your mentor!” repeated Felix with a frown. “I am your cousin, that is

all. Clement often has the honor of accompanying you in this way, and

I should have a share in his privileges.”

“You are mistaken,” said Fleurange tranquilly: “Clement is my brother,

and you are not.”

The smile habitual to Felix--a smile at once impertinent and

satirical, hovered on his lips:

“Assuredly not,” he said; “that is a title I am by no means ambitious

of, and am far from claiming of you.”

Fleurange blushed, and made no reply, but, at a sign from her cousins

who were in the room, she almost immediately left the balcony and went

down into the garden.

Clement remained motionless during the preceding dialogue, with his

head bent down, making flourishes on the sand with the stick in his

hand.

“Her brother!” repeated Felix in a mocking tone, as soon as Fleurange

disappeared. “Well, I have no reason to be offended. She looks upon

you as a boy, that is quite clear. It is for you to complain, if this

does not suit you.”

“It does suit me, on the contrary;” said Clement in a decided tone. “I

accept the title she gives me, and I know, when occasion requires it,

how to fulfil the obligations it imposes, and when to claim my

rights.”

“Rights! What rights?”

“The right, certainly, of protecting her! You see, boy as I am, she

has conferred it on me. It is one which I will never surrender, and

would quite willingly maintain against you, Felix, if necessary.”

“What source of inspiration have you drawn from to-day, my fine

scholar? You are not generally so fluent. Indeed, if you were only a

few years older, I should imagine the large gray eyes of our fair,

disdainful cousin had fascinated you in your turn.”

Clement did not look up; he neither blushed nor was vexed.

“Felix,” said he, “I am only nineteen years old, it is true, and you

are ten years older; but I have one advantage which the younger does

not generally possess: you do not know me. But I,” continued he,

looking him full in the face, “as you are aware, I know you well.”

At these words a black look came over Felix’s face, he bit his lips,

and would perhaps have made some angry reply had not the three girls

appeared at the end of the alley. At the sight of them Felix abruptly

turned around, and, leaping on his horse, galloped off, slightly

waving his hand to Julian Steinberg, whom he met at the garden gate.

Fleurange and her two cousins approached to meet Clara’s betrothed. “I

am late,” said he to Clara, “but you must not think it is my fault. I

have been detained by an unexpected meeting. Count George is here.”

“Count George de Walden?” said Clement, “the same one who visited the

gallery about a year ago?”

“The very one,” replied Julian; “and it was he who showed us the

beautiful Cordelia that resembles you so much, mademoiselle,” he

added, turning to Fleurange.

“And the source of our good luck in finding her,” said Hilda.

“But, since he has seen you, Gabrielle,” said Clara, “you must know

him.”

Fleurange, strangely surprised, moved, and confused, nevertheless

replied in a tolerably calm tone: “I did not know who purchased the

picture until I came here.”

“But,” persisted Clara, “you saw him, however?” 828

“Yes, once, but without speaking to him.”

“In that case, you must remember him, for Julian pretends his face is

the most remarkable one he ever saw.”

“Yes, his features are not only fine,” said Julian, “but there is in

his physiognomy and his whole appearance something--something--”

“Striking and noble,” said Clement.

“Yes, that is true.”

“Assuredly,” replied Julian; “but that is not all. There is something

extraordinary about him--how shall I express it? heroic--yes, that is

the word, he looks like a hero.”

“Of romance?” said Clara.

“No, of history: if I had to paint a celebrated soldier, or the leader

of some famous exploit, I should choose him for the original.”

“And then, he is a great lover of art,” said Clement.

“Yes,” responded Julian, “he seems, indeed, gifted in every way.”

“And is he going to remain here?” said Clara.

“Unfortunately he will not, for in that case he would be at our

wedding, but he is obliged to go to St. Petersburg without any delay.”

“What! is he a Russian?” said Clara.

“No, not wholly.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he is a Livonian or a native of Courland, I do not know

exactly which. But he is one of the emperor’s subjects, and cannot

trifle with his orders, which obliged him to leave Florence suddenly,

where he was, and now forces him to keep swiftly on his way.”

The conversation took another turn, of which Fleurange did not hear a

word. As soon as she had an excuse for leaving her cousins, she

returned to her chamber, where she took a small note-book from her

pocket, and carefully inscribed therein the name of Count George de

Walden.

[160] The use of the second person singular, indicative of

familiarity in most European languages, has not been

retained in this translation.

----------

THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. AGNES.

“Sancta Agnes! ora pro nobis.”

Calm she stood,

An ivory statue, yet instinct with life,

So stately was that gently breathing form

Of grace and dignity so perfect, yet

With all youth’s pliant softness.

On her brow,

White as the ocean pearl when first the waves

Complaining cast their treasure on the shore,

Was stamped the seal of that creating hand

Whose spirit dwelt within that temple rare,

Her holy virgin heart; and from her eyes,

Soul-lit, beamed forth the splendor and the depth

Of that informing mind whose lights they were,

Until you heeded not their violet hues,

Their lashes long, or nobly arching brows. 829

Her flossy hair was colored like the sun,

Her cheeks were opal-tinted, like the hues

Of rosy sunset mingled with the pure

Soft paly whiteness of the maiden moon.

Her mouth was a pomegranate-flower, with all

Its crimson sweetness, and her rounded chin,

Love’s finger touching, had impressed therein

A lovely dimple, thus completing well

The virgin beauty of that angel face.

A young and princely Roman knight drew near,

And bent upon the noble maid his glance,

Wherein the fire of earthly passion blazed,

Yet tempered by a tear of pity born.

“Agnes! my Agnes!” in a suppliant voice

He spake; “Oh! dost thou shun my clasping arms,

And rather choose this grim and ghastly death,

To dower with all thy charms? Oh! let me place

Upon that fairest hand this spousal ring,

Pledge of our future nuptials; then shall all

This dark and bloody pageantry of death,

The axe, the block, the gloomy lictors, all

Pass from thy sight for ever. Agnes! speak!”

The virgin answered not nor seemed to hear,

Her eyes in raptured trance raised to the skies,

Till from her parted lips in angel tones

Low murmuring music broke: “O thou my Lord!

Jesus! my Spouse! my All! my only Love!

Am I not thine alone? upon my brow

Hast thou not left thy signet? on this hand

Hast thou not placed thy ring, the golden ring,

Of our divine espousals heavenly pledge?

Come, O my Love! I long to view thy face,

Come, take thine Agnes to thine own embrace;

For ever with the Lord!” The thrilling tones

Lapsed into silence. On the lictors all,

She smiled--a heavenly smile; and then she knelt,

Bowing her gentle head upon the block,

Her golden tresses, parted for the blow,

Swept the dry sand so soon to drink her blood.

An instant, and the dazzling gleam of steel

Flashed through the air; it fell, and rose again--

All--all was o’er; e’en then the virgin bride

Stood on the sea of glass before her Lord.

The martyred virgin bride, crowned by his hand

With palms of triumph, and the lilies white,

Meet emblems of her purity and faith.

----------

CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM. 830

NO. XIII.

THE COSMOS IN TIME AND SPACE--CONTINUED.

In the preceding article, we have seen that, in consequence of the

sacramental extension of the Theanthropos in time and space,

substantial creation in its highest and noblest element, which is

personality, has received its last initial and inchoative perfection

of being, by the union of human persons with the Theanthropos by means

of his substantial and sacramental presence, and through that union

the elevation to a higher similitude of and communication with the

three persons of the infinite. Now, this last complement of the

cosmos, this union of the Theanthropos, with human persons, through

his sacramental extension in time and space, constitutes the Catholic

Church, which may be defined to be:

_The Theanthropos present in the cosmos through the sacraments, and

through them incorporating into himself human persons in time and

space, raising them to a higher similitude of and communication with

the three personalities of the infinite, and thus not only realizing

the highest initial perfection of the cosmos, but also unfolding and

developing that initial perfection, and bringing it to its ultimate

completion in palingenesia._

The Theanthropos, therefore, has placed himself in the very centre of

the cosmos by his sacramental and substantial presence, as became his

great office and prerogative of mediator. By those moments of his

sacramental presence to which he has only attached his infinite energy

and power, he disposes and fits human persons for the real

incorporation into himself in the following manner: By the sacramental

moment of order, through the moral instrument in whom this moment is

realized, he propounds and explains his doctrine, the _gnosis_

respecting God, and the cosmos which he came to reveal to men. By the

sacramental moment of regeneration, he infuses into human persons the

term of the supernatural order in its essence and faculties, and thus

raises them to a higher state of being, and to a closer communication

with the Trinity, but all this in an initial and inchoative state. By

the sacramental moment, called confirmation, he brings that essence

and its faculties to a definite and determinate growth. When human

persons are thus fitted and prepared, he by his substantial presence

incorporates them into himself, and enables their supernatural being

to live and develop itself by being put in real, actual communication

with all the proper objects of its faculties. Thus, the cosmos of

personalities, perfected in its initial supernatural state, can act

and develop itself--the Theanthropos himself, through his moral

agents, organically constituted, governing and directing its action to

the safest and speediest acquirement of its last perfection.

From this metaphysical idea of the church, derived and resulting from 831

its very essence, it follows:

First, That, next to the Theanthropos, the Catholic Church is the end

of all the exterior works of the infinite. The supreme end of the

exterior works was the highest possible communication of the infinite

to the finite. This was primarily realized in the hypostatic union

which bound all created natures to the infinite, and is realized next

in the union of all personalities with the Theanthropos, and through

him with the Trinity. Now, the very essence of the Catholic Church

consists in this union. Consequently, as such it is the _last supreme

imperative_ law of the cosmos. The last, because with it closes the

cycle of the creative act, and begins the cycle of the return of the

terms to their principle and cause. Supreme, because no higher initial

perfection of the cosmos can be realized after supposing its

existence. Imperative, because it is a necessary complement of the

plan of the cosmos.

Hence, without the Catholic Church the cosmos of personalities would

have no aim or object. It would stand alone, and unconnected with the

other parts of the cosmos, the particular end of each personality

could never be attained, and the whole would present a confused mass

of elements, without order, harmony, or completion.