Chapter XVII
At the end of a dark passage through the house was the farmyard, to which five or six well-worn steps descended. To the left were the barn and the press; and to the right, the stables and the dove-cote, the dark shape of the last standing sharply outlined against the gray, misty sky. Opposite the door was the wash-house.
Not a sound was heard. Hullin, after the wild and stormy day, was impressed with the deep silence. He gazed at the tufts of straw hanging between the rafters of the barn, the harrows, the ploughs, the carts, half hidden in the gloom of the sheds, with an indefinable feeling of calmness and satisfaction. Fowl were roosting along the wall, and a cat fled by like a flash, and disappeared in the cellar. Hullin seemed waking from a dream.
After a few moments of silent reverie, he turned slowly toward the wash-house, the three windows of which shone through the darkness. The kitchen of the farm-house was not large enough to prepare food for three or four hundred men, and the work had been carried thither.
Master Jean-Claude heard the childish voice of Louise giving orders in a tone so resolute that it astonished him.
"Come, come, Katel, hurry. It is nearly time for supper, and the poor fellows must be hungry. Just to think--fighting since seven this morning, and not eating a morsel! Here, Lessele, move yourself. Salt! pepper!"
Jean-Claude's heart beat at that voice. He could not avoid peering through the glass before entering. The kitchen was large but low, and with white-washed walls. A huge fire of beech-logs crackled and blazed upon the hearth, in the midst of which appeared the black sides of an immense pot. The chimney, high and narrow, was scarcely large enough to carry off the billows of smoke that arose. Near the fire was the graceful figure of Louise, lit up by the brightest tints that flashed from the hearth, bustling, active, coming, going, tasting sauces, trying the meat, approving, and criticising.
The two daughters of the Anabaptist, one tall, dried up, and pale, with large, flat feet, cased in great shoes, hair bound with black ribbons into a little knot, and a long gown of blue stuff hanging down to her heels; the other, chubby, and waddling along much like a goose, formed a strange contrast with her.
The good Anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room upon a wooden chair, with feet crossed, cotton cap pulled well down upon his head, and hands plunged into the depths of the pockets of his blouse, gazed on all that passed with an air of wonderment, and from time to time ejaculated sententiously:
"Lessele, Katel, do as you are told, my children. Let this be for your instruction; you have yet seen nothing of the world. Walk quicker."
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"Yes, yes, you must move," added Louise. "What would become of us if we meditated days and weeks about putting a little seasoning in a sauce? You, Lessele, are the tallest; unhook that bundle of onions from the ceiling."
And the tall girl obeyed.
Hullin was proud and happy as a prince.
"How she makes them mind!" he chuckled. "What a little dragoon she is! a very puss-in-boots! Ha, ha, ha!"
And he waited full five minutes before entering."
Louise flung down the spoon she held, and rushed to him, crying:
"Father Jean-Claude! papa Jean-Claude! You are not hurt? you are not wounded?"
Poor Hullin could not speak for a moment. He folded her tenderly in his arms, and at length replied, in a voice whose tremor he could not repress:
"No, Louise, no; I am well and happy."
" Sit down, Jean-Claude," said the Anabaptist, seeing how his emotion affected him. "Here, take my chair."
Hullin seated himself, and Louise, placing her hands upon his shoulders, burst into tears.
"What is the matter, my child?" asked the old man in wonder. "A moment ago you were brave enough."
"Yes, I made believe, but I was very frightened. I thought--I thought, 'Why does he not come?'"
Then a sudden whim seemed to enter her little head; she seized her father's hand, and cried, laughing through her tears:
"Let us dance, papa Jean-Claude! Come, dance!"
And she pulled him around the room.
Hullin, smiling in spite of himself, turned to the Anabaptist, who saw all that passed without a change in his grave visage, and said:
"We are somewhat foolish, Louise and I; but don't let that astonish you, Pelsly."
"It does not, Master Hullin. Did not King David dance when he had smitten the Philistines hip and thigh?"
Jean-Claude, rather astounded at his resemblance to King David, made no reply.
"Well, Louise," said he, "you were frightened during the battle, were you?"
"Yes, at first; the cannon-shots and the din were fearful! But afterward I only thought of you and mother Lefevre."
Then she took him by the hand, and, leading him to a regiment of pots, kettles, and pans, ranged around the fire, enumerated her forces with the air of a conqueror:
"Here is the beef; here is General Jean-Claude's supper; and here is broth for the wounded. But that is not all. Here is our bread," she added, showing him a long pile of loaves on the table, and she was dragging him to the oven, when Catherine Lefevre entered.
"It is time to set the table," cried the old woman. "Everybody is waiting. Come, Katel, spread the cloth."
The stout girl departed, running; all followed to the great hall, where Doctors Lorquin and Despois, Marc-Dives, and Materne and his two sons, impatiently awaited the meal.
"How are the wounded, doctor?" cried Hullin.
"Rest easy, Master Jean-Claude; all are cared for. You have given us a hard day's work; but the weather is favorable, and fever or mortification need not be feared. Everything looks well."
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Katel, Lessele, and Louise soon entered, bearing an enormous soup-dish, and two magnificent rounds of beef, which they placed upon the table. Sharp appetites left scant room for ceremony, and soon the rattling of knives and opening of bottles alone were heard. Without, the broad flames from the bivouac-fires flashed on the window-panes, and showed the mountaineers doing full justice to Louise's cheer.
At nine o'clock Marc-Dives started for Falkenstein with his prisoners. At ten, all in the house, or around the fires, were sleeping, and no sound broke the stillness save the passage of the rounds and the challenge of the sentries.
So ended the first day in which the mountaineers proved that the spirit of their fathers had not degenerated in them.
But other and not less stern trials were soon to follow those already past; for throughout man's life one obstacle is overcome only to make way for another. The world is like a stormy sea: wave follows wave, from age to age, in a flow that eternity alone may stay.
Chapter XVIII
During the entire battle, until nightfall, the people of Grandfontaine saw the fool, Yegof, standing on the summit of Little Donon, his crown upon his head, his sceptre waving in his hand. There he stood, like a Merovingian king, issuing his orders to his imaginary armies. What feelings shook him as he saw the Germans beaten back, routed, no man may say. At the last echo of the cannon he disappeared. Whither had he gone? This is what the people of Tiefenbach say:
At the time of which I speak, two strange beings--sisters--lived on the Bocksberg. One was called Little Kateline; the other Tall Berbel. These two ragged creatures made their home in the cavern of Luitprand, so named, as old chronicles aver, from the fact that the King of the Germani, before descending into Alsace, buried beneath its immense vault of red stone the barbarian chiefs who had fallen at Blutfeld. The hot spring, which always bubbles and streams from the middle of the cave, secured the sisters from the fierce cold of mountain winters, and Daniel Horn, of Tiefenbach, the wood-cutter, had the charity to close the main entrance from without with great heaps of broom and brushwood. At the side of the hot spring was another spring, cold as ice and clear as crystal.
Kateline always drank at this spring, and was not more than four feet in height; but what she lacked in length she made up in rotund breadth; and her wondering look, round eyes, and enormous throat, gave her the appearance of a meditative matronly hen. Every Sunday she bore an osier basket to the village of Tiefenbach, and the good people there filled it with cooked potatoes, loaves of bread, and sometimes, on holidays, with cakes and other remnants of their festivities. Then the poor creature would make her way back to the cave, breathless, laughing, chattering, rejoicing.
But Tall Berbel was ever careful not to drink at the cold spring. She was bony, fleshless as a bat, and had lost an eye; her nose was flat, her ears large, and her single orb sparkled like a coal; she lived upon the fruits of her sister's sallies. She never left Bocksberg. But in July, when the heat was greatest, standing upon the height, she shook a withered thistle over the grain of those who had not regularly filled Kateline's basket; and fearful tempests, or hail, or swarms of rats or field-mice, ruined the budding harvest. The spells of Berbel were feared like pestilence; she was everywhere known as the Wetterhexe, or storm-witch, while little Kateline was esteemed the good fairy of Tiefenbach. In this way Berbel lived in idleness, and Kateline begged food for both.
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Unfortunately for the two sisters, Yegof had for some years previously established his winter residence in the cavern of Luitprand. Thence he departed in the spring, to visit his numberless castles and to count his feudatories, as far as Geierstein in the Hundsruck. Every year, toward the end of November, after the first snows, he arrived with his raven--an event which the storm-witch always bitterly bemoaned.
"Again thy plaints," he was wont to say, as he tranquilly installed himself in the most comfortable spot the cave afforded; "do you not both live upon my domains? I am very good to suffer two valkyrs [Footnote 271] useless in the Valhalla of my fathers, to remain here."
[Footnote 271: Maidens of Odin, whom he sends to every battlefield to decide who shall fall and who shall be victorious. They also wait upon the heroes in Valhalla.]
Then would Berbel, aroused to fury, overwhelm him with reproach and insult, and Kateline look offended; but he, careless of the storm he raised, would only light his old boxwood pipe, and relate his far-off wanderings among the souls of the German warriors, who, for sixteen centuries, lay buried in the cavern, calling them by name, and speaking to them as to men yet living. You may imagine with what delight Berbel and Kateline looked forward to the coming of the fool with his dismal tales.
But this year, Yegof had not come, and the sisters believed him dead, and duly rejoiced over the prospect of seeing him no more. Nevertheless, the Wetterhexe had observed the agitation in the valleys, the crowds of men, musket on shoulder, leaving Falkenstein and Donon. Surely, something strange had happened; and the sorceress, calling to mind that the preceding year Yegof had related to the spirits of his warriors how his countless armies would soon invade the land, felt a vague uneasiness. She would fain have learned the cause of the movement around her; but Kateline having made her tour the Sunday before, would not again budge from her home for an empire, and no one ever climbed to the cavern.
In this frame of mind Berbel came and went, wandered restlessly about the cave, growing hourly more uneasy and irritable. But during Saturday she had enough to think on. From nine o'clock in the morning, heavy and deep peals rang like thunder over the mountain side, and awoke the thousand echoes of the valleys; far away toward Donon rapid flashes crossed what sky appeared between the peaks; and as night approached, yet louder sounds rolled through every gorge, and the hollow voices of Hengst, of Gantzlée, Giromani and Grossmann replied.
"What can all this be?" asked Berbel of herself, "can the day of doom have come?"
Then returning to the cavern and finding Kateline huddled in a corner munching a potato, she shook her rudely and hissed:
"Idiot! hearest thou nothing? Fearest thou nothing? Carest thou for nothing but eating and drinking?"
She dashed the potato furiously to the ground, and sat herself trembling by the hot spring, which sent its grey vapors to the roof. Half an hour later, the darkness growing deeper, and the cold intense, she lighted a fire of brushwood, which threw its pale flashes over the vault of red stone, and pierced to the end of the cavern, where Kateline slept with her feet buried in a heap of straw, and her chin resting on her knees. {623} Without, all noise had ceased. The storm-witch pulled aside the briars at the entrance, and gazed down the mountain side; then she returned to her post by the fire, her thin lips set tightly together, and her eyelids closed; she drew an old woolen coverlet over her knees, and seemed to sleep. No sound broke the stillness but the dripping of the condensed steam falling from the vault back to its source with a melancholy plash.
So lasted the silence for hours. Midnight was nearing, when suddenly the sound of footsteps, mingled with discordant noises, started Berbel from her slumber. She listened, and heard the cry of a human voice. She arose trembling, and, armed with a huge thorn branch, glided to the opening; there, pushing aside the briars, she saw in the moonlight the fool Yegof advancing alone, but writhing as if in agony, and beating the air with his sceptre, as if thousands of invisible beings surrounded him.
"To the rescue, Roug, Bléd, Adelrick!" he shouted in tones that pierced the cold air like the clangor of an iron bell, his matted beard and hair waving the while, and his dog-skin cloak folded like a buckler around his left arm; "to the rescue! Follow me to the death! See you not who are coming, cleaving the skies like eagles? On, men of the red beards! Crush this race of dogs! Ah! Minan, Rochart, are ye here?"
And then he called with savage shouts, upon all the dead of Donon, defying them as if they were really there; then he recoiled step by step, still striking the air, hurling curses, urging unseen armies to the fight, and struggling as if surrounded by foes. A cold sweat poured from Berbel's brow, she felt her hair rise upon her head, and she would have fled; but at the moment a strange murmuring arose within the cave, and, to her horror, she saw the hot spring boiling fiercely, and masses of vapor rising from it and advancing to the entrance of the cave.
Like phantoms the thick clouds came slowly on, and suddenly Yegof appeared, crying in a husky voice,
"At last ye have heard me! ye are come!"
With a bound he darted to the opening. The icy air filled the vault, and the vapors pouring forth, twisted and wreathed beneath the vast vault of heaven, as if the dead of to-day and those of long gone centuries had begun a never-ending conflict.
The pale moonbeams shed a weird light over Yegof's face and form, as he stood with flashing eyes and sceptre outstretched, and beard falling over his breast, saluting each phantom and calling it by name.
"All hail, Bléd! Hail to thee, Roug! and to ye all, brave warriors! The hour which for centuries you have awaited is at hand; the eagles are whetting their beaks; the earth thirsts for blood! Remember Blutfeld!"
Berbel's senses had almost left her; fear alone kept her standing; but soon the last clouds escaped from the cavern and melted in the limitless blue.
Yegof entered the vault and sat upon the ground near the hot spring, his head resting upon his hands, and his elbows on his knees, gazing with haggard eyes on the bubbling waters.
Kateline awoke sobbing, and the storm-witch, more dead than alive, observed the fool from the darkest nook of the cave.
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"They have all arisen from their graves," cried he suddenly; "all! all! not one remains behind. They will give life to the hearts of my young warriors, and teach them to despise death!"
He raised his face. A crushing sorrow seemed settled there.
"O woman!" he said, fixing his eyes upon the Wetterhexe with a wolfish glare, "O thou descendant of the Valkyrs, but who at the festal board hast never filled the deep cups of the warriors with mead, nor placed before them the smoking flesh of the boar Serimar, what canst thou do? Canst spin winding-sheets? To thy task then! Spin night and day, for thousands of bold warriors are stretched upon the snow. They fought valiantly. They did their work well, but the hour had not yet come. Now the ravens feed upon their flesh!"
Then in ungovernable fury, seizing his crown with both hands, and tearing it from his head, although with it came away handfuls of hair, he shouted:
"Accursed tribe! Will ye ever bar our way! But for ye we had long since conquered Europe; ay, we of the red beards had been masters of the world. And I humbled myself before this race of dogs! I asked his daughter of one of them, instead of bearing her off as the wolf does the lamb! Ah Huldrix! Huldrix! Listen, Valkyr," he suddenly added in a low tone, "listen!"
He raised his finger solemnly. The Wetterhexe listened; a blast arose without, and shook the old frost-laden forest. How often had the sorceress heard that sound before, during the long winter nights, without giving it a thought. Now, she was afraid.
And while she stood trembling, a hoarse cry smote her ear, and the raven Hans, sweeping beneath the rock, flew in circles round and round the cavern, flapping his wings as if in terror, and croaking mournfully.
Yegof became pale as death.
"Vod! Vod!" he cried in despairing tones, "what has thy son Luitprand done to thee? Why choose him rather than another?"
And for some seconds he seemed to have swooned; but soon, as if carried away by a savage enthusiasm, brandishing his sceptre, he darted from the cavern.
Wetterhexe, standing in the opening, followed him with an anxious eye.
He strode straight onward, with outstretched neck, like a wild beast rushing at its prey. Hans flew before, and they disappeared in the gorge of Blutfeld.
Chapter XIX
Toward two o'clock that night the snow began to fall, and at daybreak it rested inches deep upon the men at the bivouacs.
The Germans had left Grandfontaine, Framont, and even Schirmeck, and black spots far away on the plains of Alsace showed where their battalions were in full retreat.
Hullin, roused at early dawn, inspected the bivouacs; he stopped for a few minutes to gaze at the plateau--the scene of Dives's charge at the cannon pointed down the mountain side, the partisans stretched around the fires, and the pacing sentries; then satisfied that all was well, he returned to the farm-house where Catherine and Louise were yet sleeping.
The gray morning was entering at the windows. A few wounded, whom the fires of fever had already seized, shrieked loudly for their wives and children. Then the hum of many voices arose, and at last Catherine and Louise appeared, and saw Jean-Claude seated in a corner of a window; ashamed to be thought more devoted to slumber than he, they hastened to bid him good morning.
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"Well!" said Catherine inquiringly.
"They are gone, and we are masters of the road."
This assurance did not seem sufficient for the old woman. She gazed through the windows, and saw the Austrians far off in Alsace. Still her face bore the impress of an indefinable uneasiness.
Between eight and nine o'clock, Father Saumaize, the priest of the village of Charmes, arrived. A few mountaineers then descended to the foot of the slope, and collected the dead who lay there so thick. Then a long trench was dug, to the right of the farm-house, in which partisans and Kaiserliks, in their blouses, their slouched hats, their shakos, and their uniforms, were ranged side by side. The good priest, a tall old man, with locks white as snow, read the ancient prayers for the dead in that rapid and mysterious voice which pierces the very depths of the soul, and seems to summon long-past generations to greet the new-comers to their realms--which calls so vividly to the hearts of the living thoughts of the darkness and terrors of the grave, and of the light and mercy beyond.
All day wagons and sleds kept carrying the wounded to their villages; for Doctor Lorquin, fearing to increase their excitement, was forced to yield to their cries and prayers that they might again see their homes. Toward evening Catherine and Hullin found themselves alone in the great hall; Louise had gone to prepare supper. Great flakes of snow still continued to fall without, and from time to time a sled departed silently bearing its wounded owner buried in straw, sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, leading a horse by the bridle. Catherine, seated at the table, folded bandages with an absent air.
"What ails you, Mother Lefevre?" asked Jean-Claude. "Ever since morning you have been sad and thoughtful. Is this your rejoicing over victory?"
The old woman looked up, and slowly pushing the linen from her, replied:
"True, Jean-Claude; I am anxious."
"Anxious? About what? The enemy is in full retreat, and Frantz Materne, whom I sent to watch them, and all Pivrette's and Jerome's and Labarbe's couriers report that they are returning to Mutzig. Old Materne and Kasper, after having buried the dead, learned at Grandfontaine that not a white coat is to be seen toward Saint Blaize-la-Roche. All this proves that our dragoons of the Spanish wars gave them a warm reception on the Senones road, and they fear to be turned by way of Schirmeck. I see no reason for uneasiness, Catherine."
And Hullin gazed at her with a look of inquiry.
"You will laugh at me again, Jean-Claude," said she; "I have had a dream."
"A dream!"
"Yes; the same that I dreamed at Bois-de-Chênes."
Her voice grew louder, and, before Hullin could interrupt, she continued half angrily:
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"Say what you will, Jean-Claude, a great peril hangs over us. Yes, yes, all this seems senseless, and is only a dream, but it was not a dream; it was what had passed and what I saw again and recognized in my sleep. Listen! We were as we were to-day--after a great victory--where I know not--in a sort of huge wooden hut, crossed by strong beams and defended by palisades. We were secure and careless. All whom I saw around me I knew. There were you, Marc Dives, Old Duchêne, and many others--old men long since dead--my father and old Hugo Rochart of Harberg, the uncle of him who has just died, all in gray blouses, and with long beards and bare necks. We were rejoicing and drinking from great vessels of red earth, when a cry arose, 'The enemy are returning!' And Yegof on horseback, his beard streaming in the wind, his crown surrounded with spikes, an axe in his hand, and his eyes glittering like a wolfs, appeared before me. I rushed at him with a stake; he awaited me, and I saw no more. But I felt a sharp pain at my throat; a cold blast struck my face, and it seemed as if my head were swinging at the end of a cord. Yegof had hung it to his saddle and was galloping away." The old woman ended her story in such a tone of belief that brave Jean-Claude shuddered.
There were a few moments of silence; then Hullin, rousing himself, replied:
"It was but a dream. I, too, often have horrible ones. It was the noise, the shrieks, the terror of yesterday tormenting you, Catherine."
"No!" she answered firmly, as she resumed her work; "it was not that. In good truth, during the whole of the battle--even when the cannon thundered upon us--I feared nothing; I was sure we would be victorious, for that too I had seen. But now I fear!"
"But the Austrians have evacuated Schirmeck; all the line of the Vosges is defended; we have more men than we need, and still more are arriving every moment."
"No matter!"
Hullin shrugged his shoulders.
"Come, come, Catherine! You are feverish. Try to calm yourself and dispel such gloomy thoughts. I laugh at all these dreams as I would at the Grand Turk with his pipe and blue stockings. We have men, munitions, and defences, and these are better than the rosiest-colored dreams."
"You mock me, Jean-Claude."
"No; but to hear a woman of sound sense, of courage and determination, talk as you do, makes one indeed think of Yegof, who boasts that he has been living sixteen hundred years."
"Who knows?" said the old woman obstinately. "He may remember what others have forgotten."
Hullin proceeded to relate his conversation of the day before with Yegof, at the bivouac, thinking thus to disperse her gloom; but seeing that she was inclined to agree with the fool on the score of the sixteen centuries, the good man at length ceased, and paced the room with bowed head and anxious brow. "She is becoming mad," he thought; "another shock, and her mind is gone."
Catherine, after a silence, seemed about again to speak, when Louise tripped into the room, crying:
"Mamma Lefevre, Mamma Lefevre, a letter from Gaspard!"
Then the old woman, whose lips had been pressed tight together in her indignation at Hullin's ridicule, lifted her head, and the sharp lines of her face softened.
She took the letter and gazing at the red seal, said to the young girl:
"Kiss me, Louise; it bears good tidings."
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Hullin drew near, glad that something had happened to distract Catherine's thoughts, and Brainstein, the postman, his heavy shoes covered with snow and his hands resting upon his staff, stood with a weary and careworn air at the door.
Catherine put on her spectacles, opened the letter slowly, notwithstanding the impatient glances of Jean-Claude and Louise, and read aloud:
"This, my dear mother, is to inform you that all goes well, and I arrived Tuesday evening at Phalsbourg, just as they were closing the gates. The Cossacks were already on the Saverne side, and skirmishing was kept up all night with their advance. The next day a flag of truce summoned us to surrender the place. The commandant Meunier told the bearer to go and hang himself, and, three days after, a storm of shell and canister began to hail upon the city. The Russians have three batteries; but the hot shot do the most harm. They set fire to the houses and when the flames appear, showers of canister prevent our putting them out. The women and children keep within the blockhouse; the citizens fight with us on the ramparts. They are brave men, and among them are some veterans of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and Egypt, who have not forgotten how to work the guns. It makes me sad to see their grey moustaches falling on the cannon as they aim. I will answer for it, they waste no powder; but it is hard to see men, who have made the world tremble, forced in their old age to defend their own homes and hearths."
"Hard indeed," said Catherine, drying her eyes. "It makes my heart bleed to think of it."
She continued:
"The day before yesterday the governor decided to attack the tile-kiln. You must know that these Russians break the ice to bathe in platoons of twenty or thirty, and afterward dry themselves there at the fire. About four in the afternoon, as evening was coming on, we made a sally through the arsenal postern, passing through the covered ways and filing along the path leading to the kiln. Ten minutes after, we began a rolling fire on it, and the Russians had scarcely time to seize their muskets and cartridge-boxes, and, half-dressed, to form ranks upon the snow. Nevertheless, they were ten times more numerous than we, and began a movement to the right, on the little chapel of Saint John, so as to surround us, when the guns of the arsenal opened a fire upon them, the like of which I never saw before, sweeping them down in long lanes. In less than a quarter of an hour they were in full flight to Quatre-Vents, without waiting to pick up their coats, their officers at their head, and round-shot from the town acting as file-closers. Father Jean-Claude would have laughed at their predicament. At night-fall we returned to the city, after destroying the kiln, and throwing two eight-pounders we captured into its well. So ended our first sortie. I write you from Bois-de-Chênes, which we have reached on a foraging expedition. The siege may last months.
"I should have told you that the Allies are passing through the valley of Dosenheim to Weschem, and flooding the roads to Paris by thousands. Ah! if God would only give the emperor the victory in Lorraine or Champagne, not one of them would return. But the trumpets are sounding the recall, and we have gathered a goodly number of oxen and cows and goats. We may have to fight our way back. Farewell, my dear mother, and Louise, and Father Jean-Claude. You are ever in my thoughts and my heart."
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Catherine's eyes grew moist as she finished.
"What a brave fellow he is!" she murmured; "he knows only his duty. Well! well! Do you hear, Louise, how he remembers you?"
Louise threw herself into the old woman's arms, and Mother Catherine, despite the firmness of her character, could not restrain two great tears, which coursed down her furrowed cheeks; but she was soon herself again. "Come, come!" said she; "all is well. Come Brainstein, eat a morsel of bread and take a glass of wine, and here is a crown for your trouble; I wish I could give as much every week for such a letter."
The postman, well pleased at her bounty, followed her, and Jean-Claude hastened to question him as to the enemy's movements; but he learned nothing new, except that the Allies were besieging Bitche, and Lutzelstein, and that they had lost some hundreds of men in attempting to force the defile of Graufthal.
Chapter XX
About ten o'clock that night Catherine Lefevre and Louise, after having bid Hullin good-night, retired to their chamber, which was situated over the great hall. In this room were two huge feather beds, with red and blue striped curtains rising to the ceiling.
"Sleep-well, my child," said the old woman. "I can no longer bear up against my weariness."
She threw herself upon her bed, and in a few minutes was in a deep slumber. Louise did not delay following her example.
This lasted mayhap two hours, when a fearful tumult broke upon them.
"To arms! to arms!" shouted fifty voices. "They are on us! To arms!"
Shots resounded, and the tramp of hurrying feet mingled with cries of alarm; but above all was heard Hullin's voice giving orders in short, resolute, ringing tones, and to the left of the farm, from the gorges of Grosmann rose a deep heavy murmur like that of an approaching storm.
"Louise! hearest thou, Louise?" cried Catherine.
"Yes, yes. Great Heaven! it is terrible?"
Catherine sprang from her bed.
"Arise, my child," she cried; "dress quickly."
The shots redoubled and the windows were lit up as if by constant flashes of lightning.
"Attention!" shouted the voice of Materne.
They heard the neighing of a horse without, and the rush of many feet below in the passage, the yard, and in front of the house, which shook to its foundations.
Suddenly shots were fired from the hall on the ground floor. A heavy step sounded on the stairs; the door opened, and Hullin, pale, his hair disordered and his lips quivering, appeared, bearing a lantern.
"Hasten," he cried, "we have not a moment to lose."
"What has happened?" asked Catherine.
The firing became louder and louder.
"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"
The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung among the rafters.
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As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:
"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"
And the brave fellows below shouted:
"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"
Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken, burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder; but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.
They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall, scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.
Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness, and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback, before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and Louise by her side.
"Here at last!" cried the doctor, "God be thanked!"
And Frantz Materne added:
"If it were not for you, Mother Lefevre, you may be sure that not one of us would quit the plateau tonight; but for you--"
At this moment, a tall gaunt fellow, passed at full speed, shrieking as he ran:
"They are upon us! Every one for himself."
Hullin grew pale.
"It is the miller of Harberg," he muttered, grinding his teeth. "Traitor!"
Frantz said nothing, but brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed and fired.
Louise saw the coward fling his arms in the air and fall face downward on the snow.
Frantz, with a strange smile, reloaded his piece.
"Comrades!" said Hullin; "here is your mother; she who gave you powder and food that you might defend your homes; and here is my child. Save them!"
And all answered:
"We will save them or die with them."
"And remember to warn Dives to remain at Falkenstein until further orders."
"We shall not fail."
"Then forward, doctor, forward," cried the brave old man.
"And you, Hullins?" asked Catherine.
"My place is here. Our position must be defended to the death."
"Father Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching her arms toward him.
But he had, already turned the corner; the doctor whipped up his horse; the sledge crunched the snow, and behind it Frantz Materne and his men, their rifles on their shoulders, strode on, while the roll and clatter of the musketry continued. The old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, remembering her dream, was silent. Louise dried her tears and threw a last long gaze on the plateau, which was lighted up as if by a fire. The horse galloped beneath the blows of the doctor, so that the mountaineers of the escort could scarcely keep up with it; but it was long ere the tumult, the shouts of battle, the clatter and crash of the shots, and the whistling of the balls, cutting through the branches of the trees, and growing more and more indistinct, were heard no more; then all seemed vanished like a dream.
{630}
The sledge had reached the other slope of the mountain and darted like an arrow through the darkness. The tramp of the horse's hoofs, the hard-drawn breath of the escort, and from time to time the call of the doctor, "Ho, Bruno, old fellow!" alone broke the deep stillness.
A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up from the valley of the Sarre, bore from afar, like a sigh, the never-ending plaint of the torrents and woods. The moon broke through a cloud and looked down on the dark forests of Blanru, with their tall, snow-laden firs. A few moments after, the sledge reached a corner of the woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle, cried:
"Now, Frantz, what are we to do? The path turns to the hills of Saint-Quirin, and here is another going down to Blanru. Which shall we take?"
Frantz and the men of the escort drew near. As they were then on the western side of the Donon, they began to catch glimpses once more of the German fusilade, and occasionally they heard the crash of a cannon-shot echo through the abysses. "The path to the hills of Saint-Quirin," replied Frantz, "is shorter if we wish to stop at Bois-de-Chênes; we shall gain at least three quarters of an hour by it."
"Yes," said the doctor, "but we risk being taken by the Kaiserliks who now hold the defile of the Sarre. They are already masters of the heights, and they have doubtless sent detachments to the Sarre-Ridge in order to turn Donon."
"Let us, take the Blanru path then," answered Frantz; "it is longer, but safer."
The sledge descended the mountain side to the left, along the skirts of the wood. The partisans in single file, their rifles slung on their backs, marched upon the top of the slope, and the doctor, on horseback, in the narrow way, broke through the snowdrifts. Above hung the long fir branches, burying road and travellers in deep shadow, beyond which streamed the pale moonlight. The scene was picturesque and majestic, and under other circumstances Catherine would have wondered at its weird beauty, and Louise would not have failed to admire the long icicles glittering like spars of crystal where the moonbeams fell; but now their hearts were full of unrest and fear, and soon the sledge entered the deep gorge, whence they could see no light but that which flooded the mountain peaks. Thus they pushed on in silence until at length Catherine, rousing herself from the gloomy thoughts in which she seemed plunged, spoke.
"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us at the bottom of Blanru, will you explain why we have thus been carried off? Jean-Claude seized me, threw me on this truss of straw, and here I am."
"Ho, Bruno!" cried the doctor.
Then he answered gravely:
"To-night, Mother Catherine, the greatest of evils has befallen us. It cannot be laid to Jean-Claude; for by the fault of another we have lost the fruit of all our blood and toil."
"By whose fault?"
"Labarbe's, who did not guard the defile of Blutfeld. He died afterward doing his duty like a man; but his death could not repair his fault; and if Pivrette does not arrive in time to support Hullin, all is lost. We must then abandon the road and retreat."
{631}
"What! Blutfeld in possession of the enemy."
"Yes, Mother Catherine. But who would have thought that the Germans would have entered it? A defile almost impracticable for infantry, surrounded by pointed rocks, where the herdsmen themselves can scarcely descend with their flocks and goats? Well, they passed through it, two by two, turned Roche-Creuse, crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself like a lion until nine at night, but finally had to take to the woods and leave the road to the Kaiserliks. That is the whole story, and it is fearful enough. Some one must have been cowardly and treacherous enough to have guided the enemy to our rear--to have delivered us over bound hand and foot. O the wretch!" cried the doctor in a trembling voice; "I am not revengeful, but if ever he falls under my hand, how I will dissect him! Ho, Bruno! Ho, boy!"
The partisans still maintained their steady shadowy march, and no word was spoken.
The horse again began a gallop, but soon slackened his pace and breathed heavily.
Mother Lefevre was once more buried in thought.
"I begin to understand," said she at length; "we were attacked tonight in front and flank."
"Just so, Catherine; and, by good fortune, ten minutes before the attack, one of Marc-Dives's men--the smuggler Zimmer, an old dragoon--arrived at full speed to warn us. If he had not come, we were lost. He fell among our outposts after having passed through a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust, and the blood was pouring from his wound."
"And what did he say?" asked the old woman.
"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! We are turned! Jerome sent me--Labarbe is dead--the Germans passed through Blutfeld!'"
"He was a brave man!" murmured Catherine.
"Yes, a brave man!" replied Frantz, drooping his head.
All became silent, and thus for a long time the sledge kept on through the narrow, winding valley. From time to time they were forced to stop, so deep was the snow, and then three or four mountaineers took the horse by the bridle and pulled him on.
"No matter," exclaimed Catherine, emerging from her reverie, "Hullin might have told me--"
"But if he had told you of the two attacks," interrupted the doctor, "you would not have come away."
"And who dare hinder my doing as I wish? If it pleased me to descend from this sledge, am I not free to do so? I had forgiven Jean-Claude--I repent having done so!"
"O Mother Lefevre!" cried Louise; "if he should be killed, while you speak thus!"
"She is right, poor child!" thought Catherine--
And she continued:
"I said I repent of forgiving him; but he is a brave man, to whom I can wish no ill. I forgive him with all my heart. In his place I would have done as he has done."
{632}
Two or three hundred yards further on, they entered the defile of the Rocks. The snow had ceased falling and the moon shone brilliantly from between two great black and white clouds. The narrow gorge, bordered by pointed rocks, seemed to unroll its length to their view, and on its sides high firs rose, until lost in distance. Nothing broke the deep quiet of the woods; human turmoil seemed indeed far away. So profound was the silence that they heard every step of the horse in the soft snow, and even his weary breathing. Frantz Materne halted from time to time, cast a glance over the dark mountain sides, and then hastened to overtake the others.
And valleys succeeded valleys; the sled ascended, descended, turned to right and to left, and the partisans, with their cold blue bayonets fixed, followed steadily after.
Thus toward three in the morning they had reached the field of Brimbelles, where even yet may be seen an old oak standing in a turn of the valley. On the other side, to the left, in the midst of bushes white with snow, behind its little wall of loose stones and the palings of its little garden, the lodge of Cuny, the forester, began to outline itself against the mountain side, with its three bee-hives in a row on a plank, its old knotty vine climbing to the roof, and its little branch of fir hung over the door by way of sign; for in that solitude Cuny joined to his avocation of forester that of innkeeper.
Here, as the road runs along the edge of a bank several feet above the field, and the moon was obscured by a thick cloud, the doctor, fearing lest the sledge should be overset, halted beneath the oak.
"Another hour will see us to the end of our journey, Mother Lefevre," said he; "so be of good cheer--we have now plenty of time."
"Ay," said Frantz; "the worst is over, and we can breathe the horse."
The whole party gathered around the sledge, and the doctor dismounted. A few produced flint and steel to light their pipes, but nothing was said; all were thinking of Donon. Could Jean-Claude hold his own until the arrival of Pivrette? So many painful thoughts weighed upon the mind of each that no one cared to speak.
They were some five minutes under the old oak when the cloud slowly passed away and the pale moonlight streamed down the gorge. But what is that yonder, between the two firs? A beam of light falls upon it--upon a tall dark figure on horseback; it is a Cossack with his lambskin cap, and long lance hanging backward under his arm, slowly advancing; Frantz had already aimed, when behind appeared another lance, and another, and in the depths of the forest, under the deep blue sky, the little group saw only swallow-tailed pennons waving, lances flashing, and Cossacks advancing straight on toward the sledge, but without hurry, some looking around, others leaning forward in their saddles like people seeking something. They numbered more than thirty.
Catherine and Louise gazed upon each other. Another minute and the savages would be upon them. The mountaineers seemed stupefied. They could not turn the sledge in the narrow way, and on one side was the steep slope to the field, on the other, the steep mountain side. The old woman, in an agony of fear, seized Louise's arm and whispered in trembling tones:
"Let us fly to the woods!"
She tried to spring from the sled, but her shoe came off in the straw.
Suddenly, one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural exclamation which ran all along their line.
"We are discovered!" cried Doctor Lorquin, drawing his sabre.
Scarcely had he spoken, when twelve shots lit up the path. Wild yells replied. The Cossacks left the road and dashed with loose rein over the field, fleeing like deer, to the forest lodge.
{633}
"There they go," cried the doctor; "we are safe!"
But the brave surgeon was too hasty in his conclusion; the Cossacks, describing a circle in their career, massed their force, and then, with lance in rest, bending over their horses' necks, came right on the partisans, shouting "Hurrah! hurrah!"
Frantz and the others threw themselves before the sledge.
It was a terrible moment. Lance grated against bayonet; cries of rage replied to curses. Beneath the old oak, through the branches of which only a few scattered moonbeams fell, rearing horses, with manes erect, struggled up from the field to the path, bearing barbarous riders with blazing eyes and uplifted arms, striking furiously, advancing, recoiling, uttering yells that, might chill the stoutest hearts.
Louise and the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes stood erect in the sledge, pale as death. Doctor Lorquin, before them, parried, lunged, and struck, crying the while:
"Down, down! Morbleu! Lie down!"
But they heard him not.
Louise, in the midst of the tumult, thought only of protecting Catherine, and Catherine--imagine her horror when she saw Yegof, on a tall, bony horse, among the assailants--Yegof, his crown upon his head, his unkempt beard and dogskin mantle floating on the wind, and a lance in his hand. She saw him there plainly, as if it were broad day, flourishing his long weapon not ten paces from her, and she saw his gleaming eyes fixed on hers.
The most resolute souls seem often utterly broken by the pursuit of a relentless and inflexible fate. What was to be done? Submit--yield to that fate. The old woman believed herself doomed; she saw the mingled combat--men striking and falling in the clear moonlight; she saw riderless horses dashing over the field; she saw the attic window of the forester's lodge open, and old Cuny aim without daring to fire into the mass. She saw all these things with strange distinctness, but she kept repeating to herself, "The fool has returned; whatever may happen, he will hang my head to his saddle-bow. My dream is true--true!"
And indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears. The mountaineers, too feeble in numbers, began to give way. Soon, like a whirlwind, the Cossacks burst upon the road, and a lance's point passed through the old woman's hair, so that she felt the cold steel pass across her neck.
"O wretches! wretches!" she cried, as she fell to the bottom of the sledge, still holding, however, the reins in both hands.
Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen upon the sledge. Frantz and the others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could render no assistance. Louise felt a hand grasp her shoulder--the hand of the fool, mounted on his tall steed.
At this supreme moment, the poor girl, crazed with fear, uttered a shriek of distress; then she saw something flash in the darkness; it was the barrels of Lorquin's pistols, and, quick as lightning, she had torn them from the doctor's belt. Both flashed at once, burning Yegof's beard, and sending their bullets crashing through the skull of a Cossack who was bending toward her. She seized Catherine's whip, and standing erect, pale as a corpse, struck the horse's flanks with all her might. The animal bounded from the blow, and the sledge dashed through the bushes; it bent to the right--to the left; then there was a shock; Catherine, Louise, sledge and straw, rolled clown the steep road-side in the snow. The horse stopped short, flung back on his haunches and his mouth full of bloody foam. He had struck against an oak. {634} Swift as was their fall, Louise had seen some shadows pass like the wind behind the copse. She heard a terrible voice--the voice of Dives--shout,
"Forward! Point! point!"
It seemed but an illusion--a mingled vision, such as at our latest hour passes before our glazing eyes; but as she rose, the poor girl doubted it not; sabres were clashing twenty paces from her, behind a curtain of trees, and Marc's voice still rang on the night:
"Bravely, boys, bravely! No quarter!"
Then she saw a dozen Cossacks climbing the slope opposite, in the midst of the bushes, like hares, and through an opening beneath, Yegof flying across the valley, in the clear moonlight like a frightened bird. Several shots resounded, but they did not reach the fool; and standing erect in his stirrups while his horse kept on at his utmost speed, he turned in the saddle, shook his lance defiantly, and shouted a "Hurrah!" in a voice like that of a heron escaping the eagle's talons. Two more shots flashed from the forester's lodge; a rag flew from the fool's waist, but he still held on his course, again and again hoarsely shouting his "Hurrah!" as he followed the path his comrades had taken.
And then the vision vanished.
When Louise again became conscious, Catherine was standing beside her. They gazed for a moment at each other, and then embraced in an ecstasy of joy.
"Saved! saved!" murmured Catherine, and they wept in each other's arms.
"You bore yourself well and bravely," said the old woman. "Jean-Claude, Gaspard, and I may well be proud of you."
Louise trembled from head to foot. The danger passed, her gentle nature asserted itself, and she could not understand her courage of a few moments before.
Then, finding themselves more composed, they tried to reach the road, when they saw the doctor and five or six partisans coming to meet them.
"Ah! you needn't cry, Louise," said Lorquin; "you are a dragoon, a little Amazon. Your heart seems now in your throat, but we saw all. And, by the by, where are my pistols?"
As he spoke, the thicket separated, and tall Marc-Dives, his sabre hanging from his wrist, appeared, crying,
"Ha! Mother Catherine! What a time? What luck that I happened to be on hand! How those beggars would have plundered you!"
"Yes," returned the old woman, pushing her gray hair beneath her hood, "it was indeed fortunate."
"I believe you. Not more than ten minutes ago I reached Father Cuny's with my wagon. 'Do not go to Donon,' said he; 'for the last hour the sky above it has been red; they are fighting there!' 'Do you think so?' said I. 'Ma foi! yes,' he replied. 'Then Joson will go ahead as a scout, and we will empty a glass while we wait for his return.' Scarcely had Joson started, when I heard shouts as if the fiends had broken loose. 'What is the matter, Cuny?' I cried. He did not know, so we pushed open the door and there saw the fight. Ha! we did not wait long. I was on Fox at a bound, and then, 'Forward!' was the word. What luck!"
{635}
"Ah!" said Catherine, "if we were only sure that matters were going as well on Donon, we might indeed rejoice."
"Yes; Frantz told me all about it; something is always going wrong," answered Marc. "But here we are standing in the snow. Let us hope that Pivrette will not let his comrades be crushed, and let us empty our glasses which are yet half full."
Four other smugglers came up, saying that the villain Yegof was likely to return with a swarm of thieves like himself.
"Very true," replied Dives. "We will return to Falkenstein, since Jean-Claude so orders; but we cannot bring our wagon with us; it would hinder our crossing the country, and in an hour all those wretches will be upon us. But let us go to Cuny's. Catherine and Louise will not object to a cup of wine, nor will the others. It will put back your hearts in the right place. Ho! Bruno!"
He took his horse by the bridle. Two wounded men were placed on the sledge. Two others killed, with seven or eight Cossacks, lay stretched upon the snow. They left them as they were, and all entered the old forester's house. Frantz was beginning to console himself for not being on Donon. He had run two Cossacks through the body, and the sight of the lodge put him in good humor. Before the door stood the wagon, laden with cartridges. Cuny came out crying,
"Welcome, Mother Lefevre. What a night for women to be out! Be seated. What is going on yonder?"
While they hastily emptied a bottle, everything had to be again explained. The good old man, dressed in a simple jacket and green knee-breeches, his face wrinkled and his head bald, listened with staring eyes, ever and anon clasping his hands as he cried,
"Great God! good God! in what days do we live! We cannot travel the high roads without fear of being attacked. It is worse than the old stories of the Swedes!"
And he shook his head.
"Come," said Dives, "time presses; forward!"
All went out; the smugglers drove the wagon, which contained several thousands of cartridges and two little casks of brandy, three hundred paces off, to the middle of the valley, and there unharnessed the horses.
"Forward, forward!" cried Marc; "we will overtake you in a few minutes."
"But what are you going to do with the wagon?" asked Frantz. "Since we have not time to bring it to Falkenstein, we had better leave it under Cuny's shed than to abandon it in the middle of the road."
"Yes, and have the poor old man hung when the Cossacks return, as they will in less than an hour," replied Dives. "Do not trouble yourself; I have a notion in my head."
Frantz rejoined the party around the sledge, who had gone on some distance. Soon they passed the sawmill of Marquis, and struck straight to the right, to reach the farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes, the high chimney of which appeared over the plateau, three quarters of a league away. When they were on the crest of the hill, Marc-Dives and his men came up, shouting,
"Halt! Stop a moment. Look yonder!"
And all, turning their eyes to the bottom of the gorge, saw the Cossacks caracoling about the wagon to the number of two or three hundred.
"They are coming! Let us fly!" cried Louise.
"Wait a moment," replied the smuggler; "we have nothing to fear."
{636}
He was yet speaking, when a sheet of flame spread its purple wings from one mountain to the other, lighting the woods to their topmost branches, and the rocks, and the forester's lodge fifteen hundred feet below; then followed a crash that shook the earth.
And while with dazzled eyes they gazed at each other, mute with horror, Marc's peal of laughter mingled in the sound that yet rang in their ears.
"Ha, ha, ha!" he shouted; "I knew the beggars would gather round the wagon to drink my brandy, and that the match would have time to reach the powder. Do you think they will follow us further? Their limbs adorn the firs. So perish all of their kind who have crossed the Rhine!"
The entire party, partisans, the doctor, everyone, had become silent. So many fearful scenes, scenes which common life knows not, gave all food for endless thought. Each one murmured to himself, "Why must men thus torture, tear, ruin one another? Why should they thus hate each other? And what ferocious spirit urges them to such deeds, if not the spirit of evil, the archdemon himself?"
Dives alone and his men were unmoved, and galloped on laughing and applauding what had been done.
"Ha, ha, ha!" cried the tall smuggler; "I never saw such a joke! I could laugh a thousand years at it."
Then he became gloomy, and said,
"Yegof is at the bottom of all this. One must be blind not to see that it was he who guided the Germans to Blutfeld. I would be sorry if he were finished by a piece of my wagon; I have something better in store for him. All that I wish is, that he may remain sound and healthy until I meet him some day in a corner of the woods. Let it be one, ten, or twenty years--only let it come! The longer I wait, the keener will be my appetite; good morsels are best cold, like wild-boar's cheek in white wine."
He said all this with a good-humored air; but those who knew him knew that beneath that lay danger for Yegof.
Half an hour after, all reached the field of Bois-de-Chênes.
----------
Inscription On A Door.
Written By Theodulphus, Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.
Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper, Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul. Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus, Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.
Translation.
Set wide thy portals ever to the poor, So Christ shall enter with them at thy door. And let the poor be feasted from thy board, So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.
C. E. B.
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{637}
"Poor Mara!"
The celebrated Rosenthal, in Germany, was the retreat where Goethe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was indeed a valley of roses, especially in early summer, when flowers are most abundant, and the tender green of the rich foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with refreshments. A dozen seats were arranged round it, evidently for a small and select company. Ere long, carriages drove up, and some ladies alighted, and began to arrange the collation. Two of them were the wife and daughter of Doles, the musician; they brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table, placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to be occupied by their honored guest, no less a person than Mozart, who had come to give his last concert in Leipsic. The rest of the company soon joined them; and it would be interesting, had we space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship. There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed, the composer would have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their discourse were the musical masters of the world, and the state and prospect of their art.
"Oh! could we only entice you to live here," said one of the company to the great composer.
"No; the atmosphere does not suit me," replied Mozart; "the reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may come to Leipsic; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way, what think you of Bonn?"
"You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?"
"Not I. Had you asked me where art had the least chance of spreading her wings for a bold flight--where she was most securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have answered, 'Bonn.' But that unpromising city has produced one of the greatest geniuses of our day."
"Who? who?" eagerly demanded several among the company.
"A lad, a mere lad, who has been under the tutelage of the elector's masters, and shocked them all by his musical eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner so spirited, so admirable--carried away by the music, which entered his very soul, forgetful of his faint-heartedness--full of inspiration! 'Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble one, and I told him so."
"His name?"
"Louis von Beethoven."
"I know his father well," said Hiller.
{638}
"Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For, mark me, railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his forte will be sacred music."
The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Handel.
As the sun declined westward, the company rose and returned to the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward from the concealment of the foliage, and walked pensively to and fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved. It was the artist Mara, a violoncellist of great merit--famous, indeed--but ruined by dissipation. His wife had left him in despair of reforming his intemperate habits; his friends had deserted him; all was gone but his love of art; and that had brought him to see the great Mozart.
"Well, well," he said to himself, "I have heard and know him now. His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Handel and old Sebastian. Ah! that music in my dream." He struck his forehead. "But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara-- Mara--non e pen com era prima! If 'twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh! 'twould be glorious!"
The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her painful and contaminating bonds!
"Why," resumed the soliloquist--"why was I not invited to make one among the company assembled here to welcome the great chapel-master? I, too, am a famous artist; I can appreciate music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day-time!
It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and clap for me, and call me a merry fellow; and I am the merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome. I would rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me. The wine! Am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is my master; and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I rebel, till I cry mercy, and crouch at his feet again. Oh! if I had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches. But I have no friends--none, not even Gertrude. She has left me; and there is no one at home now even to reproach me when I come back drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a companion or two. Heinrich--no; he laughs and makes game of me like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and then they will say once again, 'Poor Mara!'"
With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away, and was presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was caught by his pursuer.
"What the mischief are you about?"
"Let me alone!" cried Mara, struggling.
"Do you mean to be drowned?"
{639}
"Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose; and what have you to say against it, Friedrich?"
"Nothing, if your fancy runs that way," replied the lad, laughing; "only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and just now you are wanted."
"Wanted?"
"Yes; I came to look for you."
"Who wants the poor drunkard Mara?"
"They want you at Breithoff's, tonight, at the supper given to Mozart after the concert; and you must bring your instrument; we are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall go with me to the concert."
Mozart's concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his acquaintances had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led away by his companion.
The concert was a splendid one, and attended by all the taste and fashion of Leipsic. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the composer gratified and thankful. Mozart thanked the performers in a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.
Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared, and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as the most distinguished artists. The revelry was prolonged beyond midnight, and, as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone, and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger guests began to put their practical jokes upon him, and provoke him to imitate the noises of different animals on his violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after glass, till, at last, he fell back quite overpowered and insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and clipped his mustaches, and tricked him out in finery that gave him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be, next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond the bounds of propriety and sound judgment, Mozart included.
It was considerably after noon, the next day, that poor Mara, the victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had been heaped upon him in wicked sport.
The door soon opened, and Mozart entered. At sight of the composer, Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation. Mozart looked grave and sad.
"You are much the worse for last night's dissipation, my good fellow," said he.
"Ah Master Mozart!" said the violoncellist, with a faint smile, "it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara."
{640}
"I have something to say to you, friend," answered the composer, in a voice of emotion. "In the first place, let me thank you for your music, last night."
The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.
"I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such music."
"You were pleased with it?" asked Mara, looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.
"Pleased? It was noble--heart-stirring! I must own I did not expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And when you played the air from Idomenio--sacré! but it went to my soul. I have never had my music so thoroughly appreciated--so admirably executed. Mara, you are a master of your art! I reverence you!"
"You?" repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.
"Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all, last night."
The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost heart.
"Oh! you make me very happy," faltered he.
"I am glad of it, for now I am going to say something painful."
Mara hung his head.
"Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill, last night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man."
Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.
"We forgot that such as we are set up for an example to the uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter wine! Art--our mother--has reason to blush for us."
"For me," cried Mara, deeply moved; "but not for you."
"Yes, for me," repeated Mozart, "and for all who were there. It was a shameful scene. What," he continued, with rising indignation--"what would the true friends of art have thought of such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have said, perhaps, 'These men are wild fellows, but we must let them have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free living; they must have stimulants to compose or play well.' No, no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought to the bottle. I tell you, I hate myself for last night's foolery."
"Ah master, you who are so far above me?" sighed Mara.
"And lo, here the wreck of a noble being!" said the composer, in a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming: "Listen to me, Mara. You have been your own enemy, but your fall is not wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved, and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a lesson, Mara--a lesson which I shall remember my life long--which I shall teach to others. You have done me good--I will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna."
The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him he so venerated--whom he looked on as a superior being. While he talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius, lamented his faults, and gave him hope that all was not yet lost, the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was the waking of his mind's energies; the struggle of the soul for life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed! Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands, and wept aloud.
{641}
"Come," cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes moistened--"come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this purse, put your dress in order, and make haste. I will call for you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more." And forcing a well-filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had saved from worse than death.
The great composer was early summoned from this and many other works of mercy and benevolence. But if this noble design was unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the prize; if he did not, the fault was wholly his own. Whatever the termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.
----------
Discipline.
A block of marble caught the glance Of Buonarotti's eyes, Which brightened in their solemn deeps, Like meteor-lighted skies.
And one who stood beside him listened, Smiling as he heard; For, "I will make an angel of it!" Was the sculptor's word.
And soon mallet and chisel sharp The stubborn block assailed, And blow by blow, and pang by pang, The prisoner unveiled.
A brow was lifted, high and pure; The wak'ning eyes outshone; And as the master sharply wrought, A smile broke through the stone!
{642}
Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair Escaped in floating rings; And, plume by plume, was slowly freed The sweep of half-furled wings.
The stately bust and graceful limbs Their marble fetters shed, And where the shapeless block had been, An angel stood instead!
O blows that smite! O hurts that pierce This shrinking heart of mine! What are ye but the Master's tools Forming a work divine?
O hope that crumbles to my feet! O joy that mocks, and flies! What are ye but the clogs that bind My spirit from the skies?
Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee Encumbered heart and hands: Spare not the chisel! set me free, However dear the bands.
How blest, if all these seeming ills Which draw my thoughts to thee Should only prove that thou wilt make An angel out of me!
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{643}
From The German Of Dr. B. Werneke.
The Teachings Of Statistics Concerning The Freedom Of The Human Will.
The enemies of Christianity are, in our days, making war upon its dogmas more fiercely and more generally than at any previous period. Materialism--the teachings of which may be summed up in the following propositions: There exists no God as a spiritual, immaterial personality; there exists no spirit as a supersensible, self-existent, immortal substance--is finding its way into every rank of society. By clothing it in a popular garb, its advocates are meeting with no small degree of success in making converts to its errors, even among the working classes and the deluded prolétaires who have a dread of labor. Materialism no longer goes to the trouble of exhibiting itself in the guise of a well-connected philosophical system: it prefers the more insidious method of appearing only occasionally, in writings and speeches whose theme is of quite another nature. It puts on an appearance of science and of devotion to genuine progress; and herein consists its principal danger. When doctrines, opposed to faith, are secreted in works on natural science, and placed side by side with evident facts, there must necessarily result a strong temptation for the unwary to look upon them all as undeniable truths.
The science of moral statistics is one of those that have been most recently perverted to the purposes of materialism. The founder of this science is Quetelet, the celebrated Belgian astronomer and statistician. He first observed that, by considering large masses of men during a long period, a certain uniformity in the manner of their accomplishment could be traced, in such voluntary acts as come under the observation of statisticians, more especially in marriages, suicides, and crimes. He even reached the conclusion that acts elicited under the influence of free-will occur with a greater degree of regularity than events which depend exclusively on the influence of physical causes. This discovery was pursued still further. Observations were made upon different nationalities, the results were compared, and upon their evidence it was thought justifiable to speak of a law of nature by which all human acts were supposed to be controlled. This new law could not but be hailed with pleasure by the disciples of materialism. They immediately took it up and adduced it as evidence in favor of their doctrines. It requires but a small amount of perception to see that, if all human acts are controlled by a law of nature, there cannot be any free-will. The denial of free-will implies the elimination of one of the essential faculties of the human soul, and it, at the same time, shakes Christianity to its foundation.. For, if everything is subjected to an immutable necessity, sin and grace, redemption and sanctification, need no longer be mentioned.
{644}
It is well worth our while to subject the new doctrine, founded on the evidence of moral statistics, to an examination and to test its tenability. We propose to do this in the following pages. Before entering, however, into the assertions and inferences of the materialists, it will be expedient to state a few of the principal results of the science of moral statistics, so that the reader may see the method by which such unexpected and surprising conclusions have been reached, and may thus be enabled to form a judgment for himself.
A glance at the statistical tables which record the sum-total of marriages contracted in a single country reveals in reality that their number is nearly the same, year after year. Even in so-called anomalous marriages, that is, marriages in which a young man allies himself to a woman much older than himself and vice versa, as well as in marriages between widows and widowers, there seems to be a certain uniformity. Thus, if we take Belgium, with a population of about four and a half millions, we find the total number of marriages, from the year 1844 to the year 1853, running as follows: 29,326, 29,210, 25,670, 24,145, 28,656, 31,788, 33,762, 33,169, 31,251, 30,636. During the same years, the number of marriages between men of 30 years and under, with women of 30 years and under, stands thus: 13,024, 13,157, 11,578, 10,749, 12,642, 13,933, 14,440, 14,337, 13,488, 13,161. Anomalous marriages, between men of 30 years and less, and women of from 45 to 60 years, likewise evince a perceptible regularity during the same years: 129, 102, 118, 98, 101, 140, 130, 128, 104, 115. On the other hand, marriages between men of 60 years and over, and women of 30 years and under, during the same series of years: 41, 36, 33, 42, 44, 47, 49, 42, 39, 32. These figures are sufficient for an illustration. The result is similar in the case of other countries.
If we consider, the age at which marriage is contracted, we discover considerable uniformity in a single country, but wide differences in different countries. The following table exhibits what percentage of men and women contract marriages in the different countries, at the different ages indicated:
Under 20 20-25 25-30 30-35 35-40 40-80
In England Men 2% 46% 26% 11% 5% 10% Women 12% 50% 20% 8% 4% 6%
In France Men 2% 27% 33% 18% 9% 11% Women 19% 38% 22% 10% 5% 6%
In Norway Men 1% 23% 39% 20% 8% 9% Women 5% 35% 33% 14% 6% 7%
In Bavaria Men 0% 12% 32% 38% 38% 18% Women 4% 25% 32% 29% 29% 10%
These figures show that in England 72 per cent of the men marry between the ages of 20 and 30 years; in France, 60 per cent; in Norway, 62 per cent; in Bavaria, however, only 44 per cent. In England, 82 per cent of the women contract marriage at and under the age of 30 years, whilst in Bavaria the percentage is only 61. It is hardly to be supposed that what Quetelet calls la tendance an mariage (the tendency toward marriage) is less strong in Bavaria than in England: we may only infer that the conditions which render marriage practicable are more easily realized in England than in Bavaria, and a single glance at both these countries will show that such is really the case.
We shall now give a few figures from the statistics of suicide. The following table contains the annual aggregate of suicides, during a period of twenty years:
{645}
France Belgium Denmark Austria Prussia Saxony 1836 2340 189 241 1436 214 1837 2443 165 269 534 1502 264 1838 2586 167 292 1453 261 1839 2747 192 297 486 1474 246 1840 2752 204 261 550 1480 336 1841 2814 240 337 1630 290 1842 2866 220 317 587 1598 328 1843 3020 242 301 588 1720 420 1844 2973 255 285 1575 335 1845 3082 216 290 596 1700 338 1846 3012 247 376 611 1707 373 1847 3047 251 345 1852 377 1848 3301 278 305 1649 398 1849 3583 275 337 452 1527 328 1850 3596 340 454 1743 390 1851 3598 165 401 552 1816 402 1852 3676 150 426 637 2073 530 1853 3415 161 419 705 1942 431 1854 3700 189 363 770 2198 547 1855 3810 166 399 2351 568
Making all possible allowance for increased population in each of these countries throughout the space of twenty years, and for greater accuracy in the later records than in the earlier ones, it still remains incontestable that in civilized countries suicide is on the increase, and that this increase exceeds that of the population.
By taking the annual proportion to a million of inhabitants, we shall perceive that this crime is more frequent in some countries than in others. The following figures comprise the period from 1856 to 1866:
In France, to one million of inhabitants, there occurred yearly 111 suicides; in Belgium, 47; in Denmark, 276; in Austria, 64; in Prussia, 122; in Saxony, 245; in Bavaria, 72; in Hanover, 137; in Würtemberg, 85; in Baden, 108; in Hesse, 134; in Mecklenburg, 162; in Nassau, 102; in Portugal, 7; in England and Wales, 65; in Hungary, 30; in Dalmatia, 11; in Europe generally, 84.
Very notable differences may be observed in these figures. The degree of intellectual culture and social refinement is about the same in Saxony as in Belgium, yet these two countries stand widely apart on the record of suicides, even if it be allowed that the estimate for Belgium is somewhat too low. There can be no doubt that religion exercises a decided influence in this matter. Saxony is a Protestant country, whilst Belgium is Catholic. Similar divergences exist in favor of Austria when compared with Prussia, and of Bavaria compared with Hanover.
Suicides are far more frequent amongst Protestants than amongst Catholics. The latter possess in their faith far more remedies against temptation to suicide than the former are able to obtain from theirs. A Protestant despairs more readily than a Catholic.
These remarks apply only to countries at large. The great metropolises, which may properly be designated hot-beds of suicide, must be taken as exceptions, because in them practical religion easily dies out and cannot exercise its usual influence. In the year 1865, when Paris had a population of 1,863,000 inhabitants, there were 706 cases of suicide, that is, one to every 2638; in Vienna, with a population of 550,000 inhabitants, there were 110 cases, that is, one for every 5000; in London, with 3,000,000 inhabitants, there were 267, that is, one for every 11,715; and in New York, population 1,095,000, 36 cases of suicide, one to every 28,000 inhabitants. Accordingly, the greatest number of suicides is committed in Paris, where reign the highest degree of social culture and the most rigorous police surveillance, and the smallest number occurs in New York, the seat of the greatest social and political liberty.
We may here state, as a general rule, that high intellectual culture is not a preventive of suicide. Observation shows, on the contrary, that it is comparatively most frequent in countries where the enlightenment of the population has attained the highest point, and that it occurs far oftener in cities than in rural districts. {646} This fact is unmistakable evidence that moral improvement is not keeping pace with intellectual progress, and that governments, whilst furthering the latter with increasing zeal, are not bestowing sufficient care on the former. From the year 1826 to the year 1860, suicides increased 130 per cent in France, whilst the population increased but 13 per cent. This astounding circumstance has been looked upon as attributable to the advancement of industry and the progress of science and popular education; and no doubt justly, if we consider how much more frequently suicide is committed in the enlightened northern and eastern departments of France than in the less progressive southern and western.
Something similar is noticeable in Germany. Saxony and its neighboring provinces rank undeniably as high in general education as any state in Germany; but it is also to be remarked that they furnish the largest number of cases of suicide; whilst in the Tyrol, Old Bavaria, and other provinces of a lower grade of general education, the number is considerably less. And if, in the Catholic parts of the Rhenish provinces and in Westphalia, which are not behind Saxony in general culture, suicides are of less frequent occurrence, we are only justified in attributing the difference to the happy influence of the Catholic religion.
Quite a peculiar discovery from statistics, and one that at first thought is rather astonishing, is the fact that the number of suicides increases with the advance of age, and that the proportion appears to be equal in the two sexes. It seems that indifference about life and recklessness about the dread future become greater as the years of life pass by. This, however, may be psychologically accounted for without inventing for the purpose a general law, according to which suicides are supposed to be apportioned to the various ages of human life.
We will now cast a glance at the statistics of crimes. Accurate records upon this subject, published in England, Belgium, and France during a series of years, afford us ample material for this investigation. Similar records, commenced at a later period, have been kept in the Netherlands, in Bavaria, in Baden and other states; and since 1854, the Prussian Ministry of Justice has, every second or third year, published a thorough report of the proceedings of the criminal courts of that kingdom. It is impracticable, however, to establish a comparison between different countries on this point, as very notable differences exist between them with respect to their laws and their administration of justice. We are consequently compelled to confine our observations to one country. We choose Prussia as it was before 1866, because its various provinces present a variety of forms of religion, nationalities, degrees of education, industry, and commerce, which affords an excellent opportunity for instituting comparisons. Moreover, the same code is everywhere in use, excepting in the Rhenish provinces, where the Napoleonic is established.
The following table exhibits the number of criminals, with their religious professions, as arraigned before the criminal courts of Prussia from 1855 to 1862:
Accused. Evangelicals. Catholics. Jews. 1855 8089 4743 3245 84 1856 8722 5116 3509 87 1857 6260 3658 2493 105 1858 4995 3038 1870 81 1859 5192 3083 2024 82 1860 5283 3164 2028 85 1861 5720 3308 2319 88 1862 5690 3382 2327 76
Average 6244 3686 2477 86
{647}
On an average, from eighteen to nineteen per cent of the accused were every year pronounced not guilty. It might naturally be expected that, in the case of special crimes, the ratio of those acquitted to those condemned would vary greatly. Thus, of 100 accused of theft, an average of 6 was acquitted; of serious injury done to the person, an average of 25; of murder, about 16; of violation of official obligations, about 36; of perjury, upward of 41.
By calculating what proportion of the accused from 1859 to 1862 belonged to each of the above-mentioned religious denominations, we find that of the Jews there was one accused for every 2978 inhabitants; one Catholic for every 3087, and one Protestant for every 3415. Hence, the accused were most numerous amongst the Jews; least numerous amongst the Protestants. The unfavorable position here assigned to the Catholics is accounted for by the fact that large figures refer to the eastern provinces of Prussia, which are inhabited in a great measure by Catholic Sclaves, with little culture and very much impoverished. A considerable difference is observable in the provinces. The average of a period of four years (1859-1862) counts 1 accused for every 2345 in Silesia, 2503 in Posen, 2853 in Brandenburg, 3101 in Prussia proper, 4056 in Pomerania, 4436 in Saxony, 4863 in Westphalia, 5095 in the Rhenish province.
The eastern provinces present a sadder condition than the western. Unfortunately the statistical tables give us no information concerning the nationality of the accused. But, if we confine our investigation to Rhineland and Westphalia, where the population is purely German, the result will be found altogether in favor of Catholicity. The census of these two provinces, including Hohenzollern, amounted in 1861 to 1,474,520 Protestants and 3,313,709 Catholics. During a term of five years, (1858-1862,) 1463 Evangelicals and 3138 Catholics appeared before the tribunals, making 1 for 5035 Evangelicals and 1 for 5280 Catholics. Whence we infer that nationality, want of education, and poverty produce effects in the eastern provinces which cannot be found where Catholics and Protestants are on an equality in those respects.
The comparison seems to be specially favorable to the Catholic provinces when the infliction of punishment upon the guilty is considered. For great offences, the punishment is penitentiary; for less offences, imprisonment. Now, although in 1855 the number of accused was much greater amongst the Catholics than amongst the Protestants, nevertheless there was but one penitentiary culprit for 8430 inhabitants in Rhineland and Westphalia, whilst in the Protestant provinces there was 1 for 4179. Hence, the number of penitentiary culprits in these latter being double argues likewise greater crimes.
The foregoing statistics of criminals, considered with respect to creed, enable us to form a conclusion in regard to the influence of the particular form of religion upon the dispositions of men. Amongst Catholics, the crimes peculiar to youth seem to predominate, whilst amongst Protestants they are the crimes of mature and of advanced age.
The former appear to decrease with the advance of intellectual culture and improvement in temporal welfare, whilst the latter, on the contrary, appear to become more numerous.
{648}
Further figures might be given showing that the majority of criminals belong to the laboring classes, and that the incentives to crime are want and absence of training amongst the working people, and dissipation and luxury in higher ranks of society. We will, however, content ourselves with what has been stated, and proceed to discuss the conclusions which materialists draw from such data.
At the present day, materialists conclude, from such facts and figures as these, that the volition of man is not free. They pretend that it is impossible to explain the regularity with which acts, seemingly voluntary and deliberate, are elicited, unless we accept the conclusion that free will is a mere fiction of the imagination, and that science inevitably forces us to the conviction that all human acts depend on what they designate a law of nature. They say that such a degree of order in the occurrence of human acts could not possibly result from the unbiased power of self-determination. They reject the distinction between nature and man as a being partly spiritual, and consider him as a purely material product of nature, subjected, like animals, plants, and minerals, to general laws, without the power of exercising the slightest influence on his own destiny. And this outcry against free-will is raised by men in every department of science, by naturalists, philosophers, historians, physicians, and jurists. Says Buckle, in his History of English Civilization, speaking of the evidences of moral statistics:
"In certain conditions of society a large proportion of men must put an end to their own existence. Such is the general law. The special inquiry as to who is to commit the crime depends, of course, upon particular laws, which, in their united energies, must obey the general law to which they are subordinate. And the force of the higher law is so irresistible that neither the attachment to life nor the dread of the future can to any degree hinder its execution."
Dankwart declares boldly:
"Man is not a free agent. He is just as little responsible for any of his deeds as a stone which, in obedience to the law of gravitation, falls upon one's head. The criminal act was the necessary development of a law of nature."
What are we to say in reply to these attacks? Are the facts of statistics really so decisive and convincing as to compel us to abandon the time-honored dogma of Free-Will, to which the noblest and loftiest minds of all ages have so tenaciously adhered? Can those imposing arrays of figures operate in us to the conviction that, when a man contracts marriage, commits a crime, puts an end to his own life, or performs any other act, he necessarily follows a universal law of nature, and cannot, therefore, be held responsible for his deed? Do the acts of men enter into the economy of nature like ebb and flow of tide, day and night, summer and winter? It is not our purpose to enter into deep philosophical disquisitions on free-will. Its materialist adversaries ignore all philosophical speculation. They occupy themselves exclusively with facts--visible, palpable facts--and upon this vantage-ground we intend to oppose them. Our task, then, in the present instance, is to demonstrate that the conclusions drawn from the given premises are unwarranted and erroneous; that the regularity in the recurrence of certain acts can be satisfactorily accounted for by other causes, without having recourse to a mysterious law of nature; and lastly, that there are many facts which, even without free-will, are problems not less difficult to solve.
{649}
In examining the method by which our adversaries draw inferences from facts, we shall find that their logic is in contradiction to all the laws of correct thinking. "Not all acts are free, therefore some acts are not free," is a proper conclusion; "but some acts are not free, therefore all acts are not free;" who would admit such a conclusion? As an illustration, let us take another example from statistics. According to the testimony of statistics, of 908,000 families in Belgium, only 89,630 were in good circumstances in the year 1857. 373,000 were in a very straitened condition; 446,000 were in downright misery. In all probability, the same relative situation may be found existing through a series of years. Now, what would the enemies of free-will say to the following reasoning: "In Belgium, the masses are in poverty, therefore all Belgians are poor; affluence does not exist at all in Belgium"? Is not the following reasoning of theirs identically the same: "In marriages, suicides, crimes, and other human acts, the influence of free-will is imperceptible, as shown by statistics; therefore, these acts are not free; therefore, the influence of free-will is impossible in all acts; there is no free-will at all"? We might even, for argument's sake, grant--which, of course, we do not--that the above-mentioned acts are not free, without thereby doing away with free-will in numberless other human acts.
But this is not the only logical blunder made by our opponents. They infer from the deed to the volition. "The deed is not free, therefore neither is the volition." Do the deed and the volition always correspond so perfectly that we may, under all circumstances, infer from the former to the latter? The very fact that in trials before courts extenuating circumstances are so strongly insisted upon, is proof positive that the deed and the volition are not always identical. It is a long way from deliberation to decision, and from decision to execution. We may not more infer from the deed to the volition than from the volition to the deed. How absurd to infer from the volition to the deed! And should the reverse be more logical?
What does experience show--in trials, for example? A man is murdered, for instance. In one case, the evidence shows that the murderer had harbored his dark design for years, until finally a favorable moment presented itself for the execution. In another case, it will appear that, in a casual quarrel, a man dealt a mortal blow to another, perhaps even to his friend, without intending to do it! The criminal courts of all countries present multitudes of such instances. It is the statistician's province to note the deed, but not the volition; and hence, sound logic will never permit inferences in regard to the volition to be drawn from statistical facts.
Let us now examine the foundation on which arguments against the freedom of man's will are based. This foundation is the regularity with which the aforesaid acts have been observed to recur, as if within the range of a higher and wider law. How have statisticians discovered this regularity? Evidently only by summing up facts as they took place within a period of some duration, and over an extensive range of territory, a process by which the actual differences were entirely put out of sight. We learned above that, from 1855 to 1862, a yearly average of 6244 criminals was arraigned before the criminal courts of Prussia. But particular years fall wide of this average figure. Thus, in 1856, the number was 8722, that is, 2500 more than the average; in 1858, the number was 4995, that is, more than 1300 less than the average; and the total of the difference of these years, 3800. {650} It would seem that this might as truthfully be called irregularity as regularity. If, in Prussia, crimes are merely the necessary consequences of a natural law, and of political and social circumstances, can it be reasonably believed that these underwent so great a change in the space of two years that the number of crimes was diminished by one half? It is impossible to draw from such premises conclusions strong enough to uproot convictions planted as deeply in the human breast as is that of the freedom of man's will. External circumstances may indeed have undergone changes within two years, still these changes are not sufficient of themselves to account for such variations in statistical figures as we have above quoted. These can be accounted for only by taking into consideration the freedom of the human will, which may be influenced, in a measure, by external circumstances, but not necessarily controlled.
But grant that a certain regularity is perceptible in human acts. Undoubtedly 8722 and 4995 come nearer to the average figure, 6244, than would 1200 and 500. Still the regularity may be explained without subjecting all human acts to the influence of a law of necessity. It is on account of the point of view from which statisticians examine facts that their regularity appears so remarkably great, and their differences so immaterially small. We will illustrate what we mean by a comparison. By standing on the brink of a river, we hear the plashing and perceive the motion of its waters. By going to a mountain-top, at a distance from the stream, we neither hear a sound nor observe a motion. Now, could we, whilst standing on the mountain-top, reasonably say, "Before, as we stood on the brink of the stream, we imagined that the water was in motion and produced a sound but in this elevated position, from which we see the stream for miles, we discover that we were mistaken; the stream is evidently silent and without motion"? Where lies the mistake in this instance? and where the truth? Is not the case of the statistician the same? If, viewing things from his elevated stand-point, he fails to recognize the free-will of the individual, is the cause to be found in the absence of all free volition, or is it not rather owing to his having taken too high a stand-point? In order to obtain correct information concerning the material creation, we must enter into details, and carefully examine single specimens; hence the importance of the microscope in natural sciences. And why shall we pass by the individual altogether, and generalize our observations, when we undertake the study of moral phenomena? Surely, there can be no reason for proceeding thus. No man looking from a high tower upon a flock of sheep can expect to obtain accurate knowledge of their animal nature and conformation.
Quetelet, the founder of the science of moral statistics, and its most talented representative, expresses himself as follows upon the question at issue: "I do not believe that, in view of such evidences, the freedom of the human will can be denied. I only think that it is greatly limited, and, in social affairs, plays the rôle of an accidental cause. Accordingly, by not considering individual cases, and by taking things summarily and in bulk, it will appear that the influences of accidental causes neutralize each other in such a manner as to let none but real causes, in virtue of which society exists, appear. {651} The Supreme Being has wisely put limits to our moral powers, as well as to the physical, in order to hinder man from encroaching upon his eternal laws. The possibility of founding a science of moral statistics, and of drawing useful inferences from it, depends mainly on the fact that, as soon as observations are made upon a large number of individuals, the human will retires and manifests no perceptible influence."
The action of the free-will of man is, in reality, confined within very narrow limits. The less a man knows, the fewer must be the objects of his volition and of his desire. Most men have, in this respect, but a very narrow range. It is the poor and the illiterate who everywhere compose the bulk of the population, and it is this bulk precisely that the statistician is obliged to consider. The power of execution is still more limited. For executing, ability and means are required, which, however, in innumerable instances, are found insufficient. But even though the will and the power to execute be limited, freedom of volition may still exist. For we speak of the freedom of a merely human will, and man is by nature a limited, not an infinite, being. The freedom of man's will can be made available only within the limits placed about the individual. The individual can will only that which he has knowledge of, and do that which he has the means to do. Nero once wished that the whole Roman people had but one head, that at a single blow he might strike it off. It was simply the wish of a tyrant gone crazy. It is pretty nearly the same with free-will as with unencumbered bodily motion. We have it in our power to wander in every direction upon the globe, but the globe itself we cannot leave. It revolves about the centre of the planetary system, and carries us with it in its career. In the same manner can we possess freedom of volition and of doing; but step beyond the limits of our nature we cannot, and for this very reason, says Quetelet, does the influence of free-will disappear when larger groups become the object of observation.
The transition from the will to the deed depends on the objective possibility of accomplishing the deed. External circumstances must be considered; at times they are favorable, at times again they are unfavorable. Any man can elevate his thoughts to God. The will becomes the deed forthwith. But raising his hands in prayer is quite another thing. This can be done only by a man who has the free use of his members. We may infer from a glance at the statistics of marriages and crimes, how much the execution of the will depends upon external circumstances. We quoted above that, among every 10,000 inhabitants, there are usually 87 marriages in Prussia, 82 in Saxony, and only 66 in Bavaria. Now the question arises, Is there less inclination to marriage amongst young people in Saxony and Bavaria than in Prussia, or does the law of necessity, supposed to control such events, cease to be in force when it reaches the boundaries of Bavaria? Not at all. The difference is simply this. In Prussia it only requires two parties, a bride and a groom, for a marriage contract, whilst in Bavaria it requires three, a bride, a groom, and a functionary of the police department, and, as everybody knows, it is harder for three to come to an agreement than for two. Besides these legal hinderances, there are many others that oppose the will to marry. We have only to look about to notice them. {652} One man may have the will to marry, but cannot find a suitable match; another may not be able to obtain the consent of his parents; a third may not have a sufficient livelihood; a fourth may be prevented from marriage by war, by sickness or any other cause. They all may have the will to get married, but external circumstances do not permit it.
External circumstances exert a similar influence upon crimes. Statistics show that five times more men than women are arraigned for crimes. Are we to suppose hence that women are so much better than men? Hardly. The number of women criminally disposed cannot surely be much less than that of men; but women want the ability, the means, and the adventurous spirit necessary to carry out their evil designs. In years of famine, as the number of marriages decreases, that of theft increases. In France, in 1846, a year of plenty, 31,768 persons were convicted of larceny. In 1847, a year of scarcity, the figure rose to 41,626, and the year after, it fell again to 30,000. Similar facts might be quoted for England. What becomes of the law of nature in presence of such evidences? Starvation is something exceedingly natural, if you will; but if a man prefers starving to stealing, he will not be dragged before the tribunals. In 1836 and 1837, there was great distress in England, during which many died of starvation. Many had not the will to prolong their lives by stealing, many others had not the chance. No statistical record can acquaint us with the ratio of those who had not the will, to those who had not the chance; whence we are authorized to argue that no inference can be drawn from such records regarding the will of men.
It is incontestable that the individual is greatly influenced by the social, moral, religious, domestic, and intellectual circumstances in which he happens to be placed. Still it cannot be conceded that these circumstances do away with the freedom of man's will. True enough, men permit themselves to be controlled, in a great measure, by the circumscribed relations of private life, but they do so for the very purpose of remaining in those relations. There are many cases in which men see no motive for withdrawing from under the influence of existing circumstances. Sacrifices are even made to existing circumstances in order that they may continue the same. As for instance, in the case of tax-paying. We may complain loudly of the burden of taxes, still we pay them. Should we have a mind not to pay them, we leave the country for another less oppressed. The man that remains pays his taxes unwillingly indeed, yet of his own free-will. Unwillingness does not preclude free-will.
The narrower the circumstances, the more limited the education, the lower the rank of a man, the greater are his efforts to accommodate himself to circumstances; and vice versa, the greater his wealth and the higher his education, the more independent is he.
In European countries, a son usually adopts the profession of his father. The son of a farmer becomes a farmer, and the son of a mechanic becomes a mechanic. Statisticians might easily adduce imposing columns of figures to prove this, and the enemies of free-will might call it a law of necessity. Yet what multitudes of exceptions are there not? Thousands submit to the circumstances that surround them at their birth, nevertheless there will always be a few who will not submit. These will struggle and push their way into the highest positions of life.
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When nature and natural laws are alone in operation, and there is no interference on the part of man, natural circumstances continue the same during centuries. At the present time the Amazon river presents about the same appearance as when the first white men paddled their frail canoe along its luxuriant banks. The hand of man has made but few changes. But within the same space of time the Mississippi and its tributaries have undergone the most astonishing changes. Flourishing towns now occupy the former pasture-ground of the buffalo, and where the alligator once held undisturbed possession, are now to be seen golden acres of corn and snowy fields of cotton. It would be hard to recognize in the Germania of Tacitus the Germany of the present day. Soil and climate have both undergone changes. Were men controlled by laws of necessity like the rest of creatures, they never would have been able to effect these modifications of physical nature. There is a principle in man which other creatures want. Together with understanding, he is endowed with a free-will whose action is always perceptible where man engages in an unusual struggle with nature.
Much ado is made about the influence of the social, domestic, and religious condition of the masses upon the individual. It is said that his action is necessarily directed and controlled by this influence. But we would know who creates these particular conditions--who brings them about--and who changes them? Everybody knows that elephants are very sagacious animals. But the elephants employed nowadays in India for the chase and other purposes are not a whit more sagacious nor a whit less stupid than those which King Porus employed in the war against Alexander the Great, 2000 years ago. Had elephants been endowed with understanding and free-will, they would, in all probability, have made some little progress within 2000 years. We never speak of intellect, morals, and religion when animals are the subject of consideration; we only speak of their natural condition, and this circumstance alone shows that we must not look upon man as a mere part of material nature, under the same necessary laws. So far as the body is concerned, he belongs to material nature, and undergoes its influence; but, as to the spirit, he rises above nature, and for this very reason, enters into a contest with nature, and triumphs. The fertile marshes of Holland and Friesland are not a gift from the ocean, but man has wrested them from the ocean; they are the creation of his mind and invincible strength of will.
We several times before made mention of the happy influence of Catholicity upon its adherents. Most Catholics, it is true, belong to the communion by virtue of their descent from Catholic parents, and, thus far, this may be called a natural circumstance. But this same circumstance is brought about by the deliberate and free will of thousands of persons who in England, Germany, and America are annually returning to the old church. Somebody might perhaps imagine a "conversion-law," according to which a certain number of Protestants must inevitably become Catholics every year.
It seems to us that the science of moral statistics has been turned against the dogma of free-will, chiefly because statisticians have directed their attention to such facts only as are most immediately under the control of external circumstances. Had they selected other facts, the result would not have led men so easily to form conclusions opposed to the freedom of the human will. {654} We will give an example. France is a Catholic country. There are 35,000,000 of Catholics in France. It is customary amongst Catholics to go to confession. We suppose it would not be putting the figure too high if we said that about 100,000,000 confessions are heard annually in France. Every statistician will readily grant that in France, and in every Catholic country, the aggregate of the confessions will be nearly alike for different years--and that the proportions of men and women, and the variances for the different seasons, months, days, etc., will present a decided appearance of regularity. Now, would Buckle be ready to say: "In the present condition of France, one hundred millions of confessions must take place every year. This is the general law. The particular inquiry as to who is to go to confession depends, of course, on special laws whose united forces must, however, obey the general laws to which they are subordinate. And the force of the general law is so irresistible, that neither fear of the priest nor the impenitence of man can exert the slightest influence for the hinderance of its action"? We are inclined to think the materialistic historian would have hesitated a while before ranging confession under the economy of nature.
Before concluding, there are two more facts which we beg permission simply to state. Materialists believe in facts. They say that there is no effect without a cause, and that the effect corresponds with the cause. Now, it is an undeniable fact, that every man that has attained the use of reason believes his will to be free. How will materialists account for this fact? The belief in the freedom of the will is an effect--the effect of what?--of real necessity? We thought the effect should correspond with the cause. For centuries men have believed their will free, and for centuries criminals have been held responsible for their deeds, and have been punished--and lo! now the statistician does away with free-will altogether! It is plain that this mode of blotting out free-will is merely a cunning but erroneous piece of calculation.
The second fact is this: As often as a reaction follows upon a period of greater political and social freedom in a state, it has been remarked that at once the number of births decreases and that of deaths increases. It was the case in France in 1854, and in Prussia in 1855. From this fact we infer that liberty is the atmosphere that suits the nature of populations best, and furthers their increase most. If this is the case, can we, in consequence of the mistaken evidences of statistics, refuse individual man the faculty of free-will, which must be the basis and condition of every other kind of liberty? Certainly not.
One more observation. The free-will of man is one of the fundamental dogmas of Christian, and in particular, of Catholic faith. We have seen what can be advanced against it on the evidence of moral statistics. But the case of statistics is like that of many other sciences. Its results, at first, appear opposed to Catholic faith, and the enemies of the church begin to shout with joy at the victory of "Science over Superstition." But when more closely inspected, the new facts and developments are not only nowhere in contradiction to faith, but are often found to agree with and even to aid in substantiating it.
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From The French Of Marie Jenna.
The Volunteers For Pius IX.
Both from Rome and France these men have earned a radiant crown of merit; As they drew their sword of fire, all hell, with trembling, saw its flashings. What their name? One--Christians! Fear no more when such have come to guard thee, Throne and home of Pius!
On they came, those boasters, fed by Rapine, armed by drivelling Folly, Eager to profane with blood-stained hands the apostolic altar. They were met. And now, as ever, at thy gates, O holy City! Hate by Love is conquered.
At thy pure and sacred majesty they dared, O holy Pontiff! Dared to mock with cries defiant; and like wolves for blood were thirsting-- Thine! No, never! Thou hast drunk enough of Suffering's bitter chalice. Father! look--thy children!
These for thee have gladly quitted wives and mothers, home and country: When the clamorous dastards cried, "Down with the Pope!" then these, uprising, Clutched their arms, and shoulder unto shoulder marched. "Fear not!" they shouted, "We will come and save thee!"
In their faces gleamed the sacred fire that burns in breasts of Frenchmen! If but one of them should fall--for thee the boon of life disdaining-- From their country's borders there would rise upon the morrow morning Thousands to avenge them.
Only that one day, at least, the Christian phalanx--serried closely, So that heart may beat to heart--could know that thou hast gazed upon them; Only that the Holy Church in prayer their names will once remember, Death they gladly welcome.
Holy Father, keep thy double sceptre and thy stainless glory! Rome is spared to thee and thou to Rome. Not yet, O sacred exile! Heaven will claim thee soon enough, and then, bereaved of thy dear presence, We shall be the exiles.
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Yes; the Christian world has sworn that thou from Rome shalt not be driven, As a gage it sends these dauntless heroes forward to thy rescue. Look upon them. Mark that steady tread, those eyes that flash forth victory. Raise thy hand and bless them!
On to triumph, cavaliers of Christ! Yea, Lord, for thee they conquer, When they overcome the enemies of him who represents thee. Count this faithful band, O Thou who in thine hour of dereliction Saw all thine desert thee!
You whose dear and sacred memory is upon our hearts engraven-- You, who were the elder brethren of this youthful band of heroes-- You, who bore the white cross banner till the hands of all fell lifeless At Castelfidardo--
You were there! And more than one of these beheld your glorious spirits Hovering o'er them as they proudly fell and yielded up their life-blood, Waiting with the crowns and palms prepared for such as should be honored So to die and conquer.
Happy ye, O chosen ones! your death is fruitful. Ever passing Through the world the Church broadcasts her seed in sadness; Harvesting in turn with overflowing hands upon the places Sown with blood of martyrs.
Mothers, wives, they come not back, the nearest, dearest that have left you! Weep! He also wept. But ponder well the words that He has spoken: "Greater love no man may show for him he loves than dying for him." Even thus they loved Him!
Weep! but sing a song of triumph as the bitter tears are flowing. Blest are ye who, in his temple, humbly kneeling at the altar, There can offer him a sacrificial incense of such sorrow With such glory mingled!
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Catholicity And Pantheism.
Number Four.
The Blessed Trinity, Or Multiplicity In The Infinite.
General Idea Of The Blessed Trinity.
Catholic doctrine admits that the most pure, simple, and undivided unity of the Godhead lies in its nature; but that this most simple nature is terminated by three real, distinct subsistences or persons, who form the only true and living Infinite. How this answer affords the solution of the problem will be seen in the course of this treatise, in which we shall endeavor to develop the idea of the church in a scientific form. But, before we proceed to analyze it, we feel obliged to develop it in a cursory manner, in order to enable the reader to follow us in the analysis to which it will be subjected.
We say, then, that the essence of God, absolutely simple, is terminated by three real, distinct, opposite subsistences, which are a primary unbegotten activity, a begotten intelligibility, an aspired goodness; all three in a state of personality. For this primary, unborn activity in the state of personality, in whom the whole Godhead resides, by understanding himself, begets a most faithful conception of himself, an intellectual utterance, a word or logos. Now, the nature or essence of intellectual conception or logos, consists in being the object conceived in the state of intelligibility. It follows, then, that the conception of the primary activity, in whom the fulness of the Godhead resides, is, in consequence, the Godhead itself in the state of intelligibility, whilst the conceiver is the Godhead itself, in the state of intelligent activity. Under this last respect, to wit, of intelligent activity and of intelligibility, the conceiver and the conception are necessarily related to each other; a relation which arises from an opposition of origin, since the conceiver, as such, originating the conception, is necessarily opposed to it, and the conception, as such, by being conceived, is necessarily opposed to the conceiver. In this sense they are necessarily distinct from each other. It follows from this that each one has a concreteness of his own, a termination or a state, by whatever name it may be called; which concreteness is incommunicable to the other, and hence each one has the ownership of himself, and therefore is a person. For the first is the whole Godhead under the termination of unborn intellectual activity, which termination is strictly his own and incommunicable. The second is the fulness of the Godhead, under the termination of intelligibility or conception, which belongs to him alone, and is likewise incommunicable. But because in both resides the whole identical Godhead, though under a distinct, opposite, and relative termination, they are both one and the same God.
God conceiver and God conceived are, then, in nature and essence, one and the same; whilst as the conceiver and the conceived, they are two distinct persons; and in this sense, there is a necessary duality in the infinite. {658} This duality is brought into harmony and unity by the production of a third termination, the Holy Ghost. The conceiver and the conceived necessarily love each other. This is the result of a metaphysical law of the act of intelligence, including subject and object; since to intelligence an object produces an inclination or attraction in the subject toward it. Now the two persons in the Godhead intelligence each other; therefore they love each other. It is, again, the nature of love that the object loved should abide in the subject loving, in a state of feeling or an actively attractive state, a state which human language cannot utter. The best expression we can find is, that the object should abide in the subject in the capacity of beatifying it. The Godhead, under the termination of conceiver, loves the Godhead under the termination of conceived; and, vice versa, the Godhead, under the termination of conceived, loves the Godhead under the termination of conceiver. The result of this operation is a third termination of the Godhead--the Godhead under the termination of love, goodness, or bliss, proceeding from the other two terminations, the conceiver and the conceived. This new termination being distinct from the two former, and opposed to them, inasmuch as it originates from them, is consequently its own, incommunicable to the others, and hence a person. But as it is the same identical Godhead, under the termination of love, the three are but one and the same God. Without these terminations or triplicity in the Infinite, the God cannot exist or live. For what is a being without the knowledge of himself and without love? What is life but action? and action without a term originated is a contradiction in terms. The Godhead must, then, intelligence and love himself. The result of this are three terminations in the Godhead; a primary, unbegotten activity, a begotten intelligibility, an aspired goodness. That these three terminations do not break the unity of the Infinite will be manifest from the analysis to which we shall subject them.
We shall now proceed to vindicate the personality of the three terminations against a class of disguised pantheists--disguised even to themselves--that is, the Unitarians.
Why should these three terminations in the Godhead be persons? Could not the Godhead understand and love itself without supposing three personalities?
We answer that without the admission of three persons in the Godhead, we should necessarily fall into the pantheistic theory concerning God.
The Unitarians will concede to us that God must understand and love himself. Without this he were inconceivable. Now, we beg the Unitarians to tell us what this intelligence and love are? Are they only passing and transient acts or modifications, or are they faculties and attributes? What are they?
Besides essence and nature, which includes substance, our minds cannot conceive any other categories than the following:
1st. Attributes or perfections.
2d. Faculties.
3d. Acts of the faculties or modifications.
4th. Subsistence and personality.
Now, excluding subsistence and personality, the understanding and love of the Godhead must be either an attribute or faculty, or a transient act, or both of these together.
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The Unitarians may demur at so many distinctions; but we would beg them to observe that when we see the most sacred dogmas, nay, the very pivot of knowledge, attacked by a flimsy and proud philosophy, we have a right to descend into the depths of science, and ask of the flimsy and boastful philosophy what it means when it attacks so sweepingly and so confidently. This remark has been forced from us by reading the following words of Channing: "We believe in the doctrine of God's unity, or that there is one God, one only. To this truth we give infinite importance, and we feel ourselves bound to take heed lest any man spoil us of it by vain (?) philosophy. This proposition, that there is one God, seems to us exceedingly plain. We understand by it that there is one being, one mind, one person, one intelligent agent, and one only, to whom underived and infinite perfections and dominion belong. We conceive that these words could have conveyed no other meaning to the simple and uncultivated people, who were set apart to be the depositories of this great truth, and who were utterly incapable of understanding those hair-breadth distinctions between being and person, which the sagacity of other ages has discovered."
We have read very few passages of other authors in which we find as much magisterial tone, sweeping assertion, profound ignorance of true philosophy, confusion worse confounded, as in these few lines of Channing.
Is it possible that Dr. Channing should call a hair-breadth distinction, that which lies between essence and nature, and personality? We suspect that the distinction between these terms being so nice, Dr. Channing never apprehended it; and without this elementary apprehension of the most fundamental notions of ontology, Dr. Channing should have kept his peace, and never have written a book touching mysteries, held and defended even unto death by thousands of the sublimest, the profoundest, and the most universal geniuses of Christianity; such men as S. Athanasius, S. Justin, S. Irenaeus, S. Hilary, S. Augustine, S. Ambrose, S. Chrysostom, S. Jerome, S. Fulgentius, S. Thomas, Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, Leibnitz, etc. Before the testimony of such intellects, even the self-assurance of Dr. Channing should have hesitated. Dr. Channing, then, along with all those who hold his opinion, will be kind enough to tell us what they mean by God being one mind, one person, one intelligent agent. Are these things attributes, faculties, or acts? Let us define the terms, that the distinction which exists between them may be more manifest. An attribute or perfection is a partial conception of our minds, of a certain nature, and more particularly of the Infinite. The idea of the infinite implies all perfections. But as our limited minds cannot apprehend all that is contained in that idea at one intellectual glance, we are forced to apprehend it partially, and to divide it mentally, and to consider each side apart. The ideas or notions corresponding to all these apprehensions of the infinite, we call perfections or attributes. But let it be distinctly understood; ontologically, that is, in the order of reality, they do not exist out of, and are not distinct from, the essence of the Infinite. A faculty is the capacity of development in a being. An act is the transition from capacity into movement. Now, before we close with the Unitarians, we shall give the definition of individuality and personality as carefully and intelligibly as we can.
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That last termination or complement of a being, which makes it a unit, in se, separated or at least distinct from all other beings, which makes it sui juris and incommunicable to all others, constitutes what ontology calls individuality. To illustrate this definition, let us suppose our body in the two different states to which it is subject, when it is united to our soul, and when it is separated from it. It is evident that when my body is yet united to the soul, it is a corporal substance, but not an individuality, because it has none of those elements necessary to constitute individuality. It is not a unit in se, neither is it separated from any other being, because it is united to the soul, and hence it is communicable; and above all, it is not sui juris, since the soul possesses it as its most intimate and most subordinate organ and instrument. Let us take the other state of our body, when the soul has left it.
By this very fact, the body becomes an individuality, that is to say, a unit in se, distinct and separated from any other being, sui juris, and incommunicable. So true is this, that should that body in such a state, undergo any change, or do what we might improperly call an action, that change or action would be attributed to it, and to it alone.
For instance, suppose that body should fall and crush by its weight some living creature, we should say that body has killed that creature, because it is an individuality; whereas, suppose that same body, possessed of the soul, falling at night out of bed, should kill by its weight that living creature, we could no longer say that body has killed, but we should say that man fell last night out of his bed, and killed, for instance, his child; because the union of the body with the soul as its most intimate organ, deprives it of its individuality, and consequently of solidarity.
Personality adds to individuality the element of intelligence, and consequently of self-consciousness.
A person, therefore, is a substance, possessed of intelligence and self-consciousness, forming a unit in se, and hence being distinct from all others, having the ownership of himself, sui juris, and being the principle of imputability for all his actions.
If these notions, on which depend the whole field of ontology, which are the foundation of morality, of all social and political rights of man, on which the very bliss and ultimate perfection of man rest--if such notions are hair-breadth distinctions, we thank God that we are endowed with intelligence enough to apprehend them; else, were a man to-morrow to force us into slavery, on the plea that we are only things, and not persons, we should be at a loss how to stop him, not being able, like Channing, to apprehend our own personality, that supreme gift which makes us feel master and owner of ourselves and accountable for our actions.
Having premised these notions, we say the Unitarians, who grant that the Infinite is endowed with intelligence and will, must admit one of these three things: either the intelligence and will are perfections or attributes, or they are faculties, or they are persons. If they admit them to be perfections, they divide the Infinite; if they admit them to be faculties, they fall into pantheism.
This is what we are going to prove in the following propositions.
First proposition: If intelligence and will were admitted to be mere perfections in God, the admission would imply a division in God and a breaking up of the Infinite.
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Before we proceed to prove this proposition, we premise that in the argument we take intelligence and will in action, and not in potentiality; in other words, we take them as acts, and not as faculties.
The reason is because, as we shall prove, there can be no faculties or potentiality in the Infinite. This premised, we lay down the undoubted ontological truth that between intelligence in act and the conception or interior logos, the result of intelligencing, there is and must be a real distinction. In other words, the intellect in act and the conception of the intellect necessarily imply a duality.
The reason of this is evident. First, because between the intellect in action and conception there is necessarily an opposition. The intellect in act, is such, inasmuch as it is not conception, and vice versa. Now, a real opposition implies, necessarily, a real distinction. Again, the conception or interior logos is to the intellect in action as the effect is to its cause, or, better, as the consequence is to its principle.
If, therefore, there were no real distinction between the intellect and the conception, there would be no real distinction between the effect and its cause, the principle and its consequence. Hence, thinking and thought are necessarily distinct. What is true of the act of thinking and of thought is true of the will and its volition, for the same reason. Hence it is evident that the intellect in action, thought or the conception, the will in action and its volition, are necessarily distinct by their very ontological nature and relation. It follows, then, that if we admit them to be mere perfections of the Infinite, we would imply a real distinction in the essence of the Infinite, in other words, a duality of essence; because a perfection in the Infinite is identical with essence, since we have said that perfections have no real existence in re, and are only partial conceptions of our minds, which cannot take in the Infinite at one intellectual glance.
Intelligence in action and conception, therefore, being considered as perfections, would be identical with the essence; and they requiring, in force of their metaphysical nature, a real distinction, the distinction would fall upon the essence of the Infinite. Any one versed in ontology will perceive this truth at a glance. Hence, Unitarians cannot say that the intelligence and the conception of the intelligence, the will and love in the Infinite, are mere perfections, without admitting a real distinction in the essence of the Infinite, and thus admitting a multiplicity of Infinites, which is absurd.
Second proposition: If Unitarians rank the intellect and thought, the will and its volition, of the infinite among faculties, they then fall into pantheism.
Ontology, as we have said, defines a faculty to be a force of development by union with its object.
Its notion implies three elements:
1. A force residing dormant in a being.
2. An object.
3. A union of the force with the object, to render the development actual.
Applying this idea to the subject in question, every one can see at a glance that a faculty cannot be predicated of the Infinite without falling into pantheism.
For it would be to admit in God a force of development, a capacity of unfolding, of actualizing himself.
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Now, every faculty of development necessarily begins, from the minimum degree of actuality, to travel by progressive stages of unfolding to an indefinite maximum of progression. Hence, in the supposition, we should be forced to admit that God started from the minimum of life and action, and that he travelled through numberless stages of development, and will travel indefinitely through higher stages in the direction of a maximum of progress never to be attained. Now, this is almost verbatim the pantheistic theory of Hegel.
Every one who has read Hegel will have observed that his idea of the Infinite coincides perfectly with the above. For he starts from a minimum of reality, the Being, Idea, which, through a necessary interior movement, becomes matter, organism, animality, intelligence, etc.
It would not do for Unitarians to say that the argument does not apply to their system, since they admit a substance already existing and perfect as to being, only endowed with faculties. For, in the supposition, they would admit a finite, not an infinite being.
In a finite being we can conceive one already perfect in the order of existence, with faculties or force of accidental development. But we cannot say the same of the Infinite. The positive infinite, so to speak, is essentially actuality itself; hence, perfection itself, all terms which exclude and eliminate every possibility of development. If it be not that it must be the Infinite of pantheism, a mere abstraction and unreality.
From what we have said, we conclude:
First, that the mystery of the Trinity is essentially necessary to the idea of God; that there can be no conception of Infinite actuality but through the supposition of three distinct terminations of the same essence.
Secondly, that Unitarians are absolutely powerless before pantheism; nay, that their system is disguised pantheism; and that by holding fast only to the unity of God, they sap the very foundation of the reality of the Infinite.
The Infinite is essentially living. A living God is essentially conceiving himself by intellect. A subjective conception necessarily implies an objective conception. These two are absolutely and necessarily opposed to each other, and hence, really distinct. Again, a living God, who necessarily conceives himself, necessarily loves himself through his conception. Again, subjective love necessarily implies an objective love, and the two are essentially opposed, and hence distinct.
Thus we have three real distinct relations in the Infinite, a conceiver, a conception, and love.
On the one hand, these three relations cannot be either perfections or faculties; on the other, they cannot be denied of the Infinite without destroying the very idea of the Infinite. It follows, then, that they should be three terminations of the same essence.
The act of intelligence in God is so actual and perfect as to be in the very same state of personality intelligence itself. The production of this act is also so actual and perfect as to be conception itself, a personality distinct from the first. Love, the necessary production of both the intelligence and the conception, is also so actual and perfect, as to be love itself in a state of personality, three distinct subsistences of the same one infinite essence.
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Heremore-Brandon; Or, The Fortunes Of A Newsboy.
Chapter IV
In the beautiful dawn Dick awoke, hardly remembering where he was, and almost frightened at the wonderful absence of many noises which had never before failed to greet his waking. Not knowing whether it were very late or very early, Dick took the safest view of the subject, and hurriedly dressed himself; then, cautiously opening his door, he looked out to see if there was any sign to guide his further movements: All was silent around him; but the hall door stood wide open, letting in a square of golden sunshine at the foot of the stairs. He went carefully and noiselessly down, and found himself, when he reached the porch, in a flood of glorious light. The flowers that hung above the porch were sparkling in it, for the dew was yet fresh on all the world; a thousand birds were carolling songs of exultation from every tree, while the cool, fragrant morning air came to him in the freshest, purest breezes that ever were known.
Even the pebbles, from which the sun had not yet kissed away a single dew-drop, were sparkling like jewels as Dick approached them on his way to the little rustic gate under the evergreen arch. He stood leaning over it a long time, looking down the cool, shadowy lane, his heart joining in the joyous morning hymn of nature, for the first time heard.
He was standing by the gate, enjoying all, when new voices reached his ears--human voices--and the children all at once came rushing from the garden at the back of the house, in a tumult of delight, surrounding him almost before they were aware of his presence, so intent were they upon their mission to the village.
"Me doing to the 'tore!" exclaimed little Trot, rubbing her hands. "Me dot a pocket."
Which double hint Dick took at once by putting pennies in the "pocket," much to her delight and the older ones' annoyance.
"For shame, Trot!" said Will, "that's as bad as asking; and you can't go to the store either; you'll get wet, the grass is all wet. 'Tan't no good for girls; you stay home."
Whereupon Trot rubbed her brown little fists in her eyes, and loudly bewailed her misery in being only a girl, showing also that she had a will of her own that by no means acknowledged this big boy as its lord and master. Dick attempted to show him that whereas Trot's dress was already a finger deep with wet from the long grass through which she had been tramping all the morning so far, it couldn't make much difference if it got a little wetter. But Will was firm, and Trot inappeasable, until, much to our hero's relief, the noise brought out Rose, who was greatly ashamed of Trot for making "such a time before the strange gentleman," and very firmly decided for Will. In some magic way she sent the boy portion unencumbered by any of the weaker sex, on their way rejoicing, found something for the girls to do, and took Trot's hand so resolutely that not a sob was ventured by that small maiden, so that there was again peace in the land.
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Then came breakfast, with a further display of clean calico, a great deal of laughing and merry talk, but in a less leisurely way than at tea, for the day's work was before not behind them. Breakfast finished, the children, our hero, Rose, and Rose's bosom friend, Clara Hays, were sent off to pick berries in the woods. Half the morning they were in getting started; for everybody spoke at once, and everybody hurried and detained everybody else. There were at least a dozen false starts. As soon as seven got to the gate, Trot and Minnie were reported missing; no sooner were Trot and Minnie secured, than some one else was out of the way. But at last they got fairly off, and went down the lane in great glee; the children swinging their pails and baskets in advance, and running back every two minutes to give some valuable information about the road or the woods or the berries, or something equally important. Rose, Clara, and Dick brought up the rear in a manner that showed they had a becoming sense of the responsibility thrown upon them as the elders of the party.
What they did all day in the woods, how many brooks they crossed, who fell in and was fished out with much laughter; how little Trot got in everybody's way, and ate the others' berries as fast as they were picked; how the children met other children on the road; how often all parties rested, and teased each other, and compared the quantity each had picked; and whether Dick, who had soon got over his awkwardness, put his berries into Clara's pail or into Rose's basket, I am not able to relate. I only know they returned at evening very noisy and very tired; and that Rose had a larger stock than any other one of the whole party; and that as she took off her broad-brimmed straw hat, and pushed back the moist curls from her face, this young lady did not go up at once to wash off the purple berry stains from her hands, and to put on the pretty blue muslin with its tiny bit of lace around the neck, but lingered to hear the children, each interrupting the other, until they were nearly all talking at once, tell Mr. and Mrs. Stoffs and Mrs. Alaine the day's adventures. Dick, too, had somewhat to relate, and glanced at Rose while he told it, although it was only what the children had told twice over already, how Mr. Dick--it had come to that with the children--didn't know a turkey from a goose, and had called things by their wrong names all day; whereat Rose laughed with the rest, and then ran up to bathe her glowing cheeks in time to help get tea.
When she came down, she found the children in the same eager excitement, following the two women from kitchen to cellar, from the closet to the table, still telling about the big snake they were sure they had seen run across the path just before them, and the rabbits, and what Minnie had said, and Will had done, and Charley had thought; to all which the listeners gave an attentive ear, laughing when there was need, and surprised at the proper moment. At tea, the day in the woods continued to furnish food for animated discussion, and neither Rose nor Dick looked as if the subject were a tiresome one.
"And how did my little Trot get along?" asked Uncle Carl; but Trot, who was tired, and cross, and impatient for her piece of cake, made no answer.
"Trot tumbled into the water," said Will; "she always tumbles in."
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Then Trot who couldn't bear to be teased, looked as if she were about to cry, but was appeased by a word or two from Rose, and Carl asked who pulled her out.
"Oh! I did," answered Will readily; "I and Mr. Dick."
"I see that Mr. Dick is very good to you," said Mrs. Stoffs, with a kind smile toward our hero, who colored and looked his delight.
"I don't think we can get along without Mr. Dick any more, can we?"
The children declared they could not, and Dick was as pleased as if he had just taken a degree; but Rose said nothing about the matter.
Well, that was a merry, merry week; there were so many things needed, and such long walks were required through the woods, and over the hills, and even down to the beach, in order to procure them, while every errand took all day to perform, that Dick learned to walk on the soft grass without stumbling; even to loiter slowly along by Rose's side, not often looking to see where he placed his feet; and the children were such good tutors that he learned the names of the birds and animals and insects that came in his way, and knew where there had been the best cherries in the spring, where there would be the best place for nutting in the fall, and when the grapes would be ripe, "If only he could be here!"
If only he could be here! But a week is only a week, and it will end, if it has a life-time in its seven days. The last day had come, and they all knew it; there had been a better dinner. "Mr. Dick's last dinner with us, you know," they had said to each other; and something more than sweet-cakes and peaches for tea, for "to-morrow Mr. Dick will not be here." But, for all their consideration, Mr. Dick hardly knew that night if he were eating sweet-cakes or bitter bread.
It was a very quiet evening that followed the last tea at Carlton. The children were more silent than usual; even Trot was not proof against the indescribable feeling that settles over a group from which one is about to take his departure. She climbed into Dick's lap, and--an uncommon thing with that restless maiden--did not offer to leave her position all those long twilight hours. When Miss Brandon rode by--as I forgot to state she did at twilight every evening--her beautiful pony, her long dress, her hat with its drooping feather, her veil fluttering in the evening breeze, her buff gauntlets, and her silver-handled riding-whip--things which had set the whole flock in commotion before--were hardly commented upon. When Mr. Irving, so tall and princely, left her side for a moment, and, coming close to the gate, called after Will, it was found Rose had forgotten the usual bouquet of flowers for the ladies, and had to beg the gentleman to wait. Rose felt very guilty; but Dick endeavored to console her by saying that, without doubt, Mr. Irving was glad to have a little more time with such a beautiful young lady as Miss Brandon; and then fell to praising Miss Mary vehemently--how beautiful she was, how gracious and pleasant to all, and yet always remembering she was a grand young lady. Rose thought it very easy to be good and pleasant when people are rich and beautiful; and then Dick tried to comfort her again, and perhaps with better success than before; for her only answer was a silent act of contrition for the envious thought that had flitted across her mind. Then, still in silence, she cut the flowers that she could hardly more than guess at in the gathering twilight. {666} Dick was silent, too; and yet there was a great deal he would like to have said, even though he little suspected that all he had so far made clear to her was that Miss Brandon was to him like an angel in a picture, or a heroine in some old romance, and that, beside her silent act of contrition, poor little Rose's heart had given one great throb, and had then made an act of resignation beside. But Dick found voice to ask for a good-by flower, which Rose gave; and it may be there were spoken then a few words of more solemn meaning, such as will come when two people, young and fresh, find their skies suddenly glowing above them, and their hearts full of grateful praise to God, who has made life so sweet. And it may be that little Rose, who said her prayers so regularly for all sinners and for all who are tempted, said a few broken, bashful words, exhorting Dick to goodness even in the midst of the "snares of the great city," and that he eagerly caught the words as they fell, promised her never to forget them, and inwardly made a quick cry for God's grace to let him die then rather than do aught to offend him who had showered such blessings upon him. It may be, too, that Rose--the simple-hearted maiden--was sure he would never break the promise, and that their good-by there was a request and a promise each to pray for the other. But if so, it was not said in long paragraphs, with flowing periods; for Rose was too conscientious to detain Mr. Irving a moment longer than needful.
But I am afraid Rose had to make another act of contrition that night; for when Will brought her the money for the flowers--the garden was her own--she would not take it, but told him to divide it among the children, himself, of course, included. Dick thought it very generous of her; but I have my own opinion about that. Too soon for all the last "good-nights" were said, and Dick knew he had spent out his last evening in Carlton for who could tell how long? Yet his dreams were not sad. If he did not actually believe he was riding on a splendid great horse, by the side of a fair damsel on a white pony, down the shadowy lane, into the broad road of the future; that he had given Carl a home for life, and a load of toys to the children, with, perhaps, an uplifting of his heart, and a readiness to bear, whatever life should bring him worthy of a faithful Christian, I think it was something "very like it."
The next morning there was a hurried breakfast, after which they all went to the little yellow station-house to see him off, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs until the train was out of sight. A little longer, and they had returned in a rambling procession home, each with some remembrance of him to tell the other, while he was in the city at work once more, but as a different Dick Heremore from the one who had said goodby, not without emotion, to his slovenly landlady.
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