Chapter I
Count De Maistre somewhere says that during the last century a reputation was made much in the same manner as you make a shoe, "Au dernier siècle, on faisait une réputation comme on fait un soulier."
The manufacturing process indicated by De Maistre was known and practised long before the last century, and is even at the present time by no means to be counted among the lost arts. This very day the reader may look around him and easily find numerous specimens of the peculiar industry here described. And going back two hundred years, we may, out of many cases, select that of a learned, laborious, self-sacrificing and pious man, who, driven to a premature grave by ingratitude, neglect, and calumny, has been falsely handed down to posterity as untruthful, dishonest, brutal, and grossly immoral. His transmitted reputation was not the reflection of his deeds. It was manufactured of shreds and patches. Dying in the disgrace caused by the displeasure of the prime minister of a powerful monarch, it would have been remarkable, indeed, had any one at that day so forgotten himself as to become the advocate of a cause hopelessly lost. And so his enemies had a clear field.
Writers of history and biography of the years immediately succeeding took their word, and subsequent biographers and historians had merely to repeat what their predecessors had said. His story is fraught with more than one moral, and the impressive vindication of his character after the silence of two centuries has something in it that seems higher than mere human agency.
John Michael Wansleben was born at Sommerda, near Erfurth, November 1st, 1635. His father was the Lutheran minister of the place. At a proper age he was sent to the University of Erfurth, and afterward completed his studies at the University of Königsberg in 1656. He held for a short time a position as private tutor, and entered the army of the Elector of Brandenburg in 1657, serving as a private soldier through the campaign of that year.
With some idea of embracing a commercial career, he then visited Schleswig, Amsterdam, Glückstadt, and Hamburg, but without result, and returned to Erfurth in 1658. Job Ludolf, a distinguished savant of Erfurth, was then in the meridian of his fame. Ludolf had been sent to Rome in 1649, to make search for the memoirs of John Magnus, Archbishop of Upsal, a man noted for his learning and piety, who, after an unsuccessful struggle against the kingly power of Gustavus Vasa, and the introduction of Lutheranism into Sweden, retired to Rome, where he died. Ludolf, failing to find the memoirs he sought, remained some time in Rome, occupied in the study of the Ethiopian tongue. He was, unquestionably, a man of remarkable acquirements, and was in his day credited with knowing twenty-five languages.
Vansleb[102] attracted the attention of Ludolf, and was received by him partly as a pupil, partly as an assistant, specially devoting himself, by Ludolf's direction, to the study of the Ethiopian language. In 1661, when he was thought sufficiently advanced, Ludolf sent him to London to supervise the publication of his Ethiopian dictionary. Vansleb performed his task, and the dictionary was published the same year. At this time, the English polyglot edition (six vols. folio) of the Bible, by Walton, Bishop of Chester, was in course of publication. There was in that day no dearth of imitators of Cardinal Ximenes. Although bearing the name of Walton, it was the work of several learned men, and its oriental versions were copied from the Bible of Le Jay, (Paris.) Distinguished among its collaborators was Edmund Castell, Canon of Canterbury, an oriental scholar, who afterward published his Lexicon Heptaglotton, the fruit of eighteen hours' daily labor for a period of seventeen years.[103] Castell met with Vansleb, and engaged him as his assistant, taking him into his house and admitting him to his table. For three years and a half Vansleb labored with Castell, who thus mentions him in the preface to his Lexicon: "In ethiopicis per idem tempus operam impendebat suam D. M. Wanslebius, qui ad perpoliendum in eisdem ingenium in varias orientis oras, longa atque periculosa suscepit itinera."[104]
Returning to Germany, Vansleb found that Ludolf, as the tutor of the young princes of Saxony, had obtained great credit and influence with Duke Ernest, surnamed the Pious. Ludolf had long cherished the singular project of bringing about an alliance between some German prince and the King of Ethiopia, (modern Abyssinia,) and by dint of long conferences on the subject with the duke, had succeeded in enlisting Ernest's enthusiastic interest in his plan. This it was:
An ardent champion of what is called Luther's Reformation, he was assiduous in seeking for it moral support wherever it could possibly be found. He imagined that he saw a certain degree of conformity between Lutheranism and the Coptic rite, and the idea of the appearance of antiquity the new religion would receive from a union with one of the oldest oriental churches was more than enough to awaken his warmest enthusiasm. Ludolf, moreover, hoped, through superior German civilization, that Protestantism would be enabled to exercise a decided influence upon the retrograde population of Abyssinia.
The duke fully entered into all these views with the most sanguine hopes.
The better to appreciate Ludolf's project, let us take a rapid glance at the history of Abyssinia and its condition at that time.
Ethiopia embraced Judaism during the reign of Solomon, following the example of Queen Sheba, who, according to the best authorities, was sovereign of that country.
It was also one of the first nations converted to Christianity through the baptism of the treasurer of Queen Candace, by the Deacon Philip. (Acts of the Apostles, viii. 27-38.) And this result was predicted by God. Ethiopia præveniet manus ejus Deo.[105] (Psalm lxvii. 32.) In the fifth century, Ethiopia was drawn into the Eutychian heresy, and, under the name of Jacobites, her people to this day persevere in it.
In the sixteenth century, the Portuguese having rendered some signal service to the reigning king, they obtained from him authority allowing Jesuit missionaries to enter the country. They did so enter, and made numerous conversions. But persecution undid their work. Catholicity was placed under ban, the faithful pursued, and the dispersed missionaries put to death. The two last Jesuits, who remained with their neophytes, were taken and hung in 1638. Others sought to penetrate Abyssinia; but all who entered the country were arrested and decapitated. The king, Basilides, was the most furious in persecution. He persuaded himself that the king of Portugal was organizing against him a league of all the monarchs in Europe. The very name of Catholic was made treasonable; and he sent his own brother to execution simply on suspicion of leniency to the hated religion.
It was mainly from his enmity to it that he permitted, contrary to law, the introduction of Mohammedanism, and even sent for doctors to preach it to his people. These so-called "disasters of the papacy" were far from being a subject of grief to the German reformers, particularly to those inspired with the desire of proselytism. Duke Ernest was called the Pious, and was now fired with the ambition of adding illustration to his surname.
The circumstances looked favorable in the highest degree. Any thing was sufficiently recommended to King Basilides if it were only anti-Catholic; and therefore, the success of the Protestant mission was a foregone conclusion.
But who could be found capable of executing such a mission? He should be, independently of the requisite religious qualification, a person of experience and superior education--at once a man of the world and a scholar--and more, an oriental scholar.
"I have him here in Erfurth," said Ludolf to the duke; "an alter ego, as familiar as I am with the language, literature, and customs of the Ethiopians."
He referred, of course, to Vansleb, who was already fully advised in the matter from long conferences with Ludolf.
Duke Ernest assumed all the expenses of the mission, drew up the necessary instructions, and traced the itinerary to be followed.
Vansleb was to make his way to Egypt, and thence to Abyssinia, with no more apparent object than the ordinary curiosity of a traveller desirous of studying the language and the natural history of the country. In case he found influential men favorably disposed, he was to advise them confidentially that a German prince named Ernest, who held the Abyssinians in high esteem, as well for their warlike qualities as for their attachment to the ancient faith of their fathers, had given him letters for them in their own language, and that he was willing to make the necessary advances in money to bring to Europe a certain number of well-disposed young Abyssinians desirous of instructing themselves as to the condition of the Christian reformed churches, and thus bring about, between the two peoples and confessions, a sincere and lasting friendship.
In every respect the proposition suited Vansleb. The arrangement was soon completed, and he was invested with all the necessary powers of an ambassador, but in a disguised and indirect form, with special instructions not to exhibit his credentials until fully satisfied that his advances would be met.
The result of this remarkable embassy is soon told. Ludolf himself relates that he does not know whether to attribute the failure of a plan conceived with all possible prudence to the parsimony of the duke or to the imprudence of Vansleb. That Ludolf, who, after this period, never hesitated to paint Vansleb in the blackest colors, should make it a matter of doubt, is quite enough to justify the latter.
And now let us accompany Vansleb on his route to Ethiopia. He reached Cairo in January, 1664, and spent a year in visiting Egypt, and in studying and copying Abyssinian books. The Coptic Patriarch of Alexandria, Matthew de Mir, whose jurisdiction extended over the churches of Ethiopia, dissuaded Vansleb from attempting to penetrate that country, and he addressed Duke Ernest a letter in Arabic, giving the reasons for his advice, which letter is still preserved in the ducal library of Saxe-Gotha.
And now the grand project of Ernest was visited--humanly speaking--with poetic justice. The Coptic patriarch, who was pleased with Vansleb, obtained from him an exposition of the history of the reformation and of Lutheran doctrine, and Vansleb, instructed in return, could, as he listened to the patriarch, compare the German novelties with the antique symbol of the oriental communions. The result was inevitable, and he began to see a light that illuminated his mind and made evident his errors. He soon afterward embarked for Italy, fully resolved to seek admission to the Catholic Church.
Landing at Leghorn, he went to Florence, where he spent some time, and was protected by the prince, who was afterward Cosmo (de' Medici) III. Here, also, he made the acquaintance of the British ambassador, Finch, whom he subsequently met at Smyrna. Going to Rome, he there abjured Protestantism, was received into the church, and entered the Dominican convent of the Minerva. This order, specially devoted to teaching and preaching, was best suited to his tastes and habits.
And here, for a period of four years, Vansleb disappears from the world and from history. He passed them in solitude, exclusively occupied with study and religious exercises.
Meantime, imagine, if you can, the storm that broke at Erfurth. Duke Ernest was bitterly disappointed, as was natural; but it would be difficult to describe the fury of Ludolf. It burst forth never to be extinguished but with his death. Vansleb, so warmly recommended by Ludolf to the duke, suddenly became a monster not only of ingratitude, but of every other possible vice. There were no limits to the abuse nor to the accusations of the angry professor.
All this did not then trouble Vansleb, but he was made to feel their effects long afterward.
FOOTNOTES:
[101] The truth is frequently the very contrary of the reports current concerning men and things.
Posterity frequently does us the justice refused us by our contemporaries.
[102] Through the Latinization of Wansleben, Vanslebius, his name subsequently in France took the form of Vansleb, by which he became known as an author, and which he retained.
[103] He spent large sums in its preparation, and twelve thousand pounds in its publication, to say nothing of the sacrifice of his repose and health. The success of the work was far from commensurate with its merit, or with its author's sacrifices. After his death, five hundred copies of it were found abandoned in a garret, a prey to rain and to rats.
[104] At the same time Vansleb applied himself with all his power to the study of Ethiopian, and afterward, in order to perfect himself therein, undertook long and perilous voyages in various oriental countries.
[105] Ethiopia shall soon stretch out her hand to God.
Chapter II
At the end of his four years with the Dominicans of Rome, Vansleb went to France, where he was presented by Bosquet, the learned Bishop of Montpellier, to the minister Colbert, as a man of superior merits and of great erudition in the oriental languages. Succeeding Mazarin and Fouquet in the councils of Louis XIV., Colbert aimed to distinguish his administration by fostering letters, sciences, and the arts.
The Royal Library, of sixteen thousand volumes at the accession of the king, contained seventy thousand at the end of his reign--an increase mainly due to Colbert. At once recognizing the merit of Vansleb, Colbert charged him with an important Scientific mission. He was instructed to travel through oriental countries, and especially to visit Mount Athos, the island of Chio, Aleppo, Mount Sinai, Nitria, Constantinople, Turkey, Persia, and Baalbec; everywhere seeking and purchasing Arabian, Turkish, Persian, and Greek books and manuscripts. He was to make his way to the most remarkable monasteries for the purpose of obtaining certain ecclesiastical works; to collect rare medals, statues, and bas-reliefs, besides preparations in botany, natural history, and mineralogy; to give descriptions of machinery, utensils, costumes, and vestments of the different nations he saw; to copy inscriptions on monuments, pillars, obelisks, and tombstones. He will keep aloof--continued his directions--from political complications, wear such costumes as he may think proper, and select the route which to him seems best.
The original of these instructions was found only a few years since among the papers of Vansleb. They bear this singular indorsement in the handwriting of Colbert himself: "I do not understand these instructions, more particularly as you proposed Vansleb for a mission to Ethiopia, which country is not even mentioned. The instructions, as they stand, might just as well have been given by the French ambassador at Constantinople."
In point of fact, the instructions had been drawn up by Carcavy, the royal librarian, a man of great merit. He saw almost insurmountable obstacles to the success of an Ethiopian mission, and thought it better to confine its authorization to merely verbal instructions, leaving it to Vansleb to attempt it or not, as he might find most advisable.
The dissatisfaction of Colbert was not at first fully appreciated, but it was doubtless the germ of the neglect with which Vansleb was afterward treated, and of the coolness and injustice of his reception when he returned.
Vansleb departed on this, his second journey to the East, in the spring of 1671, and visited Malta, Cyprus, Aleppo, Damascus, and a part of Phoenicia. He reached Damietta in March, 1672, after a journey marked by delays, dangers, storms, and sickness; for oriental travel was not the comparatively easy and comfortable journeying of to-day, nor had the brutality and tyranny of eastern officials toward Christians been rebuked and corrected as they since have been. Establishing his headquarters at Cairo, Vansleb made numerous excursions to the Pyramids, the Sphinx, and the various monuments then so novel, but now so familiar to Europeans, and indeed to Americans. After renewing his acquaintance with the Patriarch Matthew de Mir, who had unconsciously been the instrument of his conversion to Catholicity, Vansleb embarked for Rosetta in May, 1672.
But we do not propose to follow our traveller through all his wanderings. They were full of novelty for him and for those who, at that period, read his descriptions of them. In 1673, he visited Upper Egypt and explored the antiquities of Esneh and Denderah, and the remains of ancient Thebes at Luxor and Karnak. At Lycopolis, the Bishop Amba Joannes introduced to him one Muallim Athanarius, the only man in all Egypt, he said, who spoke the Coptic language. Vansleben did not converse with him, but flattered himself on having seen the man with whom the Coptic language was to expire. After exploring the Thebaide and its grottos, and visiting the ruins of Enseneh, the column of Marcus Aurelius and the Triumphal Arch, he returned to Cairo. Of course he had not lost sight of one of the main objects of his mission, the purchase of rare and valuable works for the Royal Library. He neglected no opportunity to obtain them, and up to this period of his journey he had purchased and forwarded to Paris three hundred and thirty-four volumes, Turkish, Persian, and Arabic. Compelled to deal with people of all classes, some of them had spoken of his purchases, and by the time he returned to Cairo it was reported that the Frank stranger was gathering all the sacred books in the country for the purpose of sending them away to the infidels. The Mohammedan laws made it a capital crime for a stranger to buy, sell, or even have in his possession any of their books, whether treating of religion or any other subject. To exemplify the feeling with which they regard the possession of their books by infidels, (Christians,) M. Champollion Figeac relates that during the reign of Louis Philippe a number of young Arabs were sent to France by Mehemet Ali, Viceroy of Egypt, and among them two sons of the viceroy. While visiting the Royal Library, M. Champollion took pains to show one of the young princes the magnificent copy of the Koran taken from a mosque in Cairo during the French expedition to Egypt. When he saw what the book was, the young Arab turned away his head, covering his face with both hands.
Under the circumstances, Vansleb of course understood at once that he could not remain in Egypt. For two years he had been dealing in books, and, if arrested, there was evidence enough to take his life a hundred times. Without losing a day, he at once set out for Constantinople. Touching at Rhodes and the island of Chio, he went to Smyrna, where, to his great astonishment, and contrary to his uniform experience in the East, his letters of introduction and his credentials were made light of by the resident French consul, who more than insinuated that he suspected him of being an impostor.
Personally wounded, and annoyed at a circumstance that endangered his mission and deprived him of the only legal protector to whom he could have recourse in case of difficulty, Vansleben sought advice and assistance of the English consul, Paul Ricault. Notwithstanding his decidedly French name, Ricault was a veritable Englishman, born in London within the sound of Bow bells. He had been secretary of the Earl of Winchelsea, and ambassador extraordinary of Charles II. to Mohammed IV. After serving eleven years as consul of England at Smyrna, Clarendon appointed him, in 1685, his first secretary for the provinces of Connaught and Leinster. He was afterward privy councillor and judge of the Admiralty, and under William III. was minister resident for the Hanseatic towns. He is the author of a History of the Present Condition of the Ottoman Empire, and other works of merit. The two scholars Ricault and Vansleb immediately sympathized, and through Ricault Vansleb renewed the acquaintance of the ambassador Finch, whom he had met in Florence, and who was then on his way to Constantinople. Unfortunately for Vansleb, a serious difficulty just then arose between the two consuls, English and French, on account of some incivility offered by the latter to the ambassador on his arrival. Already prepossessed against Vansleben, through some underhand manoeuvre, Chambon, the French consul, from that moment became his bitter enemy, alleging as one of the principal accusations against him his personal intimacy with the enemies of France. In those days there were no lines of Mediterranean packetboats, and Vansleb was glad to accept the invitation of the ambassador to take passage on the man-of-war which was to transport him and his suite to Constantinople. This added fuel to the flame of Chambon's resentment, and he thereafter left nothing undone to injure Vansleb in the East and in France. Vansleb's destination was perfectly well known, and he had hardly set foot in Constantinople when he perceived that Smyrna had been heard from. The Marquis de Nointel was temporarily absent when Vansleb arrived; but the manner of his reception by those in charge of the ambassador's residence, and by the merchants of the Company of the Levant, for whom he had letters, made it plain to him that these people to whom he was a stranger had already been set against him.
He found lodgings (by no means gratuitous) at the house of a French apothecary named Chaber, who discoursed eloquently on the shortcomings of the French embassy, criticising its extravagance, and its want of consideration for the French merchants of the Levant, who were heavily taxed to maintain its expensive display.
Vansleb, unfortunately, joined in the conversation, although saying but little. He afterward discovered that his few words were wrested to his prejudice. With his experience he should have been more on his guard, but he could not entirely overcome his native simplicity of character. Innocens credit omni verbo. To add to his annoyances, he was arrested by a Turkish patrol for wearing his beard and a turban, thrust into prison, subjected to personal indignities, and barely escaped the bastinado. Meantime, his salary was in arrears; and as it was his intention to strike from this point for Ethiopia, it was necessary that he should start with a full purse. He bridged over the unavoidable delay by excursions to Broussa and the environs, and a trip to Chio, in order to witness the celebrated mastic harvest, which was at that time made the occasion of a religious festival. At Chio he had made several friends, on his former visit--Dom Georgio, the curate of the cathedral, Dom Matthew, the vicar-general, and a Dr. Pepano, who was acquainted with Vansleb's History of the Church of Alexandria. The doctor was enthusiastic as to the rewards he felt certain must await Vansleb on his return to France, and composed an acrostic in his honor, which ran thus:
"V irtuti A lemannicæ N imiæ S acer L udovicus E xhibebit B ona I mmensa O ptimaque."[106]
"He had not the gift of prophecy," calmly writes Vansleb years afterward, when in poverty and disgrace. Returning to Constantinople, Vansleb visited Mitylene and Tenedos.
In January, 1675, he wrote to Colbert that he was in absolute want on account of the non-payment of his salary. In April, he received a small remittance of one hundred and fifty francs. A letter from Carcavy, of April, 1674, received July 20th, announced orders soon to be issued for the continuance of his mission. But the orders were as slow in arriving as his salary. Again, on the 20th of March, he wrote to Colbert, expressing his impatient anxiety to be again at work, and suggesting various journeys, all of them important, which he was ready to make--to Trebizond, the Chersonesus, to Persia, Syria, Mount Lebanon, Baalbec; or he would even return to Egypt, where he would have the advantage of former experience, and his late acquisition of the Greek and Turkish languages, which he now spoke fluently, and where he could now be protected against annoyance by a passport from the sultan. Meantime, Carcavy had assured Vansleben that his labors were fully appreciated and praised by Colbert. Finally, on the 22d of October, our traveller received two letters from the minister, dated July 4th and August 17th; but the money orders they contained were not cashed by the Company of the Levant until the following December.
Writing to Colbert in November, Vansleben says, "And what greater satisfaction could I have than to start immediately for the country to which your excellency sends me?" So that some new country was designated by Colbert in his letter. What was it? It could only be Ethiopia, according to the original design, and Vansleben's preparations at the time appear to have been for that direction. In December, having received two thousand francs, he writes to Colbert on the 18th that, but for the delay of waiting for a caravan and the passport of the sultan, he should already have started; that he expects to depart in January; to pass a month at Aleppo, in order to see Antioch and the Euphrates; thence to Damascus and the country of the Druses; thence to Jerusalem; from which he would take a fresh departure for Egypt, no longer as a Frank traveller but as an oriental, and there await a favorable occasion to penetrate into Ethiopia.
And now, just at the moment when a fresh horizon of useful enterprise was opening before him, when the thick clouds of envy, malevolence, and misfortune were apparently dispersed, the bolt fell that for ever shattered his career, forced him back in disgrace, and sent him bowed down with sorrows and persecution to a premature grave.
What had in the mean time taken place--what reports, complaints, or insinuations had been brought to Colbert's ear, has never been clearly ascertained; but a dispatch from him of the thirtieth September, addressed to Nointel, advised the ambassador that Vansleb was recalled to Paris. Docile and respectful, he immediately prepared to obey. Nointel advises Colbert in reply, January 5th, 1676, that Vansleb was just ready to start on his eastern journey, and had already expended some money in its preparation.
"Unhesitatingly though, and with apparent satisfaction, he sails to-morrow for France, viâ Malta."
Forced by storms to stop in the island of Candia, (ancient Crete,) and also at Milo, Vansleb continued his labors of observation and research as though his mission had just begun. His return by sea was slow and tedious, and being moreover detained by illness at Lyons, he did not reach Paris until the end of April, 1676. It was a long time before he could obtain audience of the minister, whose reception of him was freezing and curt. The year wore away in expectation, and winter had come again before he could obtain a second interview with Colbert, which was more discouraging than the first.
Meantime, the arrearages due him, as well for his salary as for expenditures, were not paid, and he was obliged to sell his own Ethiopian MSS. in order to live.
Finally, a vigorous placet dispatched to Colbert July 15th, 1677, obtained a third and last interview with the minister.
In this, Colbert, without making any accusation against Vansleb, intrenched himself in a refusal pure and simple, either to allow him any indemnity or to pay the amount claimed by him for his advances.
Meantime, the poor monk's brother Dominicans who, on his arrival, had received him kindly, had evidently been affected by the disgrace to which an all-powerful minister had consigned the unfortunate traveller, and Vansleb's relations with them soon ceased.
Discouraged and broken-hearted, he left Paris, and after passing a few months with Counsellor Langeois at Atys, accepted the hospitality of M. Texier, the curé of Bourron, a small village near Fontainebleau. This kind priest's sympathy and affection alone, of earthly things, softened his rapid descent to the grave; for he only survived by nine months his arrival at Bourron, where he died June 12th, 1679, at the age of forty-four years.
During his oriental journey, Vansleb had scarcely been free from fever and ague, and he had contracted in Egypt an ophthalmic affection that gave him trouble. But neither of these maladies, nor both of them together, were sufficient to have caused his death. It seemed a sudden sinking of the moral forces rather than the physical that made him so sudden a prey to dissolution.
The man Vansleben's enemies represented him to be would not so easily have succumbed. The liar, the cheat, the libertine they painted would have had no heart to break.
Thus, in the obscurity of a small village, near the solitude of a great forest, Vansleb silently descended into the tomb. The earthly sounds that gathered around his existence had ceased, and the phantom of his fame was buried with his earthly remains. As his death had been obscure, so his last resting-place was hidden from the public gaze. At the peril of his life, he endowed France with the scientific riches that may still be seen in her royal collections; yet under the most prodigal of her monarchs he did not receive the recompense of a winding-sheet, or the poor commemoration of a gravestone.
Even England was more generous, at least in appreciation of his merit.
On Vansleb's return from Egypt, Dr. Bernard, of the University of Oxford, composed in his honor the following lines:
"Deseris Ægyptum spoliis majoribus auctus, Quam gens Hebræum sub duce Mose tulit!"[107]
Of Vansleb's merits as a savant there could be no question. Before he left London, his reputation was already established as an oriental scholar, although his knowledge at that time was small compared with what he afterward acquired. Latin, Greek, and Hebrew he knew well, and he spoke and wrote correctly and fluently the German, French, Italian, English, Arabic, modern Greek, Turkish, and Ethiopian languages. His principal published works are,
1. Conspectus operum Æthiopicorum quæ ad excudendum parata habebat Wanslebius. Paris, 1671, in 4to.
2. Relazione Dello Stato Presente Dell' Egitto. In Parigi, MDCLXXI.
3. Nouvelle Relation d'un Voyage fait en Egypte par le P. Vansleb, R.D., en 1672 et 1673. Paris, 1677.[108]
4. Voyage du Caire à Chio, et de Chio à Constantinople, fait de 1673 jusqu'à 1675.
5. Histoire de l'Eglise d'Alexandrie, fondée par St. Marc, que nous appelons celle des Jacobites Coptes d'Egypte, écrite au Caire même en 1672 et 1673. Par le P. J. M. Vansleb, Dominicain du Convent de la Minerve à Rome. Paris, 1677.
The works on Egypt and on the Church of Alexandria, it will be remarked, were published on his return from the east, precisely at the period of his severest trials. There is quite an interesting chapter in the history of criticism connected with Vansleb's work on the Church of Alexandria, a work of great merit, which covered nearly the same ground as that of a History of Abyssinia written by Ludolf. This, of course, was, in Ludolf's eyes, only another and a greater crime added to those of which he had already accused Vansleb.
Although Moreri, Le Grand, Michaud, and Renaudot were all more or less misled as to Vansleb's personal character, they testify unanimously as to the positive merit of the work in question, and to its superiority over that of Ludolf. It is remarkable that Father Papebrock and his illustrious colleague Bollandus were led astray, and indeed deceived, by Ludolf. They had confidence in him as a brother savant, but leaned too much upon him. Their error was naturally shared by the Journal de Trevoux, and thence extended to other Jesuits.
Although Vansleb's works were at first freely used, they were not freely quoted. Gradually they sank out of sight. Only rare catalogues chronicled them, and his unpublished MSS. had totally disappeared. Occasional echoes of his name might, at intervals, be heard in the sanctuaries of science, and these, rarely repeated during two centuries, became at last so feeble as no longer to be perceptible.
But sleep is not death, nor is night an eternal eclipse. The day of reparation was at last about to dawn, and the memory of Vansleb to arise vindicated from the tomb.
FOOTNOTES:
[106] To the learned German traveller Louis will be generous in favors, riches, and most excellent gifts.
[107] You bring with you from Egypt richer treasures than the Hebrews, led by Moses, took away.
[108] The Astor Library has a copy of this work.
Chapter III
M. Champollion Figeac, the well-known savant and orientalist, was for many years conservator of the Imperial Library of the palace at Fontainebleau. One day in 1856[109] he attended the sale of the library of the late Marquis de Coulanges. His daughter relates that on his return he appeared to be in a state of high mental excitement, the main symptom of which was the manifestation of extravagant joy. Convulsively embracing her, he exhibited a volume he had just purchased, and which appeared to be the cause of his superlative satisfaction. The volume was Vansleb's manuscript. Familiar with Vansleb's published works, M. Champollion and many other scholars had long regretted the loss of this manuscript. His joy at finding it can readily be understood. Finding an indorsement on the manuscript that indicated Bourron as the place of Vansleb's death and burial, M. Champollion immediately wrote to the curé of that village for information as to Vansleb, and as to the condition of his tomb. But the deceased monk had passed so short a time at Bourron that he had left absolutely no trace in the local traditions of the place, and no one there had ever seen or heard of his tomb. However, on a careful search of the registers, the entry of his burial was found, and his last resting-place sufficiently indicated.
In 1859, the church was completely renovated, and advantage was taken of that circumstance to search for and find the remains of the poor monk. After the necessary formalities of identification had been complied with, they were carefully re-interred, and M. Champollion, having interested the emperor in the matter, was authorized to have erected over the grave an appropriate and elegant monument, bearing the inscription of which the following is a translation:
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN MICHAEL VANSLEB, DOMINICAN OF THE MINERVA, LEARNED TRAVELLER IN THE EAST, BY ORDER OF LOUIS XIV. DIED, VICAR OF BOURRON, JUNE 12, 1679. RESTORATION OF HIS TOMB UNDER THE AUSPICES OF THE EMPEROR, NAPOLEON III., IN THE YEAR 1861.
But a more important rehabilitation remained to be made, and M. Champollion showed, if possible, greater zeal in this than in the merely material one. Vansleb's MSS. and letters were carefully examined and found to throw new and important light on capital incidents heretofore either totally suppressed or wrested to his disadvantage.
Too aged and infirm even to undertake a task which would have been to him only a labor of love, M. Champollion confided the papers to the Abbé Pougeois, the present curé of Bourron, who, under the inspiration of the learned orientalist, prepared a careful and elaborate memoir of the forgotten Dominican. It was eminently fitting, and poetic in its justice, that Vansleb's vindication should come from the double source of science and the church. On the completion of the Abbé Pougeois' work, it was, by order of the emperor, submitted for examination to M. Octave Feuillet, member of the French Academy, and the successor of M. Champollion at Fontainebleau. The report being entirely favorable, the Abbé Pougeois' memoir was ordered to be published at the expense of the emperor, under the title, Vansleb, savant, orientaliste, et voyageur. Sa Vie, sa Disgrace, ses Oeuvres. Par M. l'Abbé Pougeois, Curé de Bourron. Paris, 1869. The book is a large and handsome volume of 481 octavo pages. It has been freely used in the preparation of this article.
The current misrepresentations concerning Vansleb were taken up into the literary history of the period, and have been ever since repeated by successive historians and biographers. Nevertheless, some of them were apparently struck with the inconsistencies and contradictions involved in the charges against the defenceless monk, and gradually the most offensive of these were dropped. Among the modern biographical notices of Vansleb, that contained in Charles Knight's English Cyclopædia (article "Wansleben;" nearly identical with one in the Penny Cyclopædia) is generally fair. It states, however, that Vansleb "was called to account for moneys intrusted to his disposal, and disgraced for misapplying them." Although the writer of that notice doubtless had the warrant of half a dozen biographies for making the statement, it is utterly devoid of truth; so much so, indeed, that at the period of his death Vansleb was the creditor, not the debtor, of the French government. Colbert was to have paid Vansleb the miserable salary of two thousand francs per annum, and one thousand francs for the purchase of MSS. and valuable curiosities! Even allowing liberally for the difference in the values of money then and now, two thousand francs still remains a pitiable sum wherewith to remunerate one year's services of such a man as Vansleb.
With the miserable stipend of one thousand francs per annum, he purchased and sent (in 1671-72 and 1673) to the Royal Library, where they still remain, four hundred and fifty-seven valuable MSS. and books, Arabic, Turkish, Persian, Coptic, and Ethiopian, besides a large quantity of inscriptions on stone and metal, marbles, medals, and animals, living and dead.
If we must believe Vansleb's traducers, we witness the strange spectacle of a defaulter insisting upon and with difficulty obtaining an interview with his principal. And this not once, but twice and thrice. In one of his letters to Colbert, written March 20th, 1677, more than a month after his return to Paris, Vansleb claims as due him--First. The amount expended in preparation for the journey he was about to undertake when ordered back by the minister. Second. The balance of his last account rendered. Third. The amount still unpaid him for books, MSS., etc., sent to the Royal Library. Fourth. His salary up to the time he was definitely discharged, at the third and last audience accorded him by the minister. The letter referred to is dignified, firm, and moderate--as unlike as possible in its tone that of a defaulter and a dishonest man. Thus, he tells Colbert,
"Perceiving that I have good reason to expect from your excellency neither munificence nor liberality, nor even such an honorable recompense as I had every just reason to look for after such long and important labors, I at least do not anticipate from your excellency's justice, since you insist upon a rigorous settlement, a refusal to pay the balance due me for expenditures in the service of his majesty, and which I have not claimed until now, for the reason that I was warranted in presuming upon such a fair remuneration as would cover it. In as few words as possible, then, my lord, and with rigorous exactitude, there is due me--"[110]
And here follows the recapitulation already presented.
The injustice and indignity with which Vansleb was treated by Colbert is in marked contrast to the liberality usually displayed by Louis XIV. and his administration toward travellers whose merits were far inferior to those of the Dominican monk. On Tavernier, who brought back with him from his travels precious stones to the value of three millions, distinguished honors and letters of nobility were conferred. Sanson, the geographer, besides honorary titles, received a salary of two thousand livres. Vaillant, who made a journey somewhat similar to that of Vansleb, was honored with a position in one of the academies, and endowed with a pension. Tournefort, who travelled in the east under order of the court, was absent but two years, had all his expenses paid, and received a salary (in advance) of three thousand livres. He returned in 1702, at a period when the French finances were far from prosperous, and was awarded a recompense beyond his salary. Paul Lucas, toward the end of Louis XIV.'s reign, was also an eastern explorer. His travels were published by the king's command. They are filled with amusing but absurd stories, which diverted the king and made the traveller's fortune.
Vansleb's solid erudition was not so profitable. His published works, which are of a nature to interest none but the archæologist, the ethnographer, and the theologian, may soon be forgotten, and need no further notice than the few words we have given them; but it is eminently proper that we should, in his case, contribute our mite to the vindication of truth and the rehabilitation of a too long suffering reputation.
FOOTNOTES:
[109] He died in the palace at Fontainebleau May 9th, 1867, aged eighty-nine years.
[110] "Voyant que V. E. ne me fait plus rien espérer qui sente la magnificence et la libéralité, ni même quelque honnête récompense, que je croyais justement pouvoir espérer, après de si longues et de si grandes peines, je me promets pourtant de la justice de V. E., puisqu'elle veut traiter les choses à la rigueur, qu'elle ne me refusera pas le paiement de quelques restes de dépenses que j'ai faites comme les autres au service de sa majesté, et dont je n'ai osé parler jusqu'à présent, dans la pensée que j'avais qu'une honnête récompense me tiendrait lieu de tout cela. En trois mots, Monseigneur, parlant dans la dernière rigueur, il me reste encore," etc.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.
ANGELA.
VII. POISONOUS FOOD
"Herr Frank has not been here for four days," said Siegwart as he returned one day from the field. "He will not come to-day, for it is already nine o'clock. I hope the young man is not ill."
Angela started.
"Ill? May God forbid!"
"At least, I know no other reason that could prevent him from coming. He has become a necessity to me; I seem to miss something."
Angela concealed her uneasiness in true womanly fashion. She busied herself about the room, dusted the furniture, arranged the vases and trimmed the flowers; but one could see that her mind was not in the work.
"Would it not be well, father, to send and inquire after his health?"
"It would if we were certain that he was ill. I only made a conjecture. However, if he does not come to-morrow, I will send Henry over. We owe him this attention; he is sensible, modest, and very intelligent. We find at present in the cities and first families few young men of so little assumption and so much goodness and manliness."
Angela pricked her finger. She had incautiously wandered into the thicket, as if she did not know that roses have thorns.
"Many things tell of his kind-heartedness," she replied, with averted face. "He sends five dollars every week to the old blind woman in Salingen; he often takes the money himself, and comforts the unfortunate creature. The blind woman is full of enthusiasm about him. He bought the cooper a full set of tools, that he might be able to support his mother and seven little sisters."
"Very praiseworthy," said the father.
As Siegwart came home in the evening, Angela met him in the yard. She carried a basket and was about to go into the garden.
"Herr Frank is not unwell," said he; "I saw him in the field and went through the vineyard to meet him; but when he discovered my intention, he turned about and hastened toward the house. That surprises me."
Angela went into the garden. She stood on the bed and gazed at the lettuce. The empty basket awaited its contents, and in it lay the knife whose bright blade glistened before the idle dreamer. She stood thus meditating, lost in thought for a long time, which was certainly not her custom.
* * * * *
Herr Frank had returned from the city, and was roughly received by the doctor.
"Have you spoken to your son?" said he sharply.
"No! I have just alighted from the carriage," answered Frank in astonishment.
The doctor walked up and down the room, and Frank saw his face growing darker.
"You disturb me, good friend. How is Richard?"
"Bad, very bad! And it is all your fault. You gave Richard those materialistic books which I threw out of the window. He has read the trash--not read, but studied it; and now we have the consequences."
"Pardon me, doctor. I did not give my son those books. He was passing the window when you threw them out, and took them to his room."
"You knew that! Why did you leave him the miserable trash?"
"I had no idea of the danger of these writings. Explain yourself further, I entreat."
"You must first see your son. But I bind it on your conscience to use the greatest precaution. Do not show the least surprise. We have to deal with a dangerous disorder. Do not say a word about his changed appearance. Then come back to me again."
Greatly disturbed, the father passed to the room of his son. Richard sat on the sofa gazing at the floor. His cheeks had lost their bloom, his face was emaciated, and his eyes deeply sunken. Vogt's Physiological Letters lay open near him. He did not rise quickly and joyfully to kiss his father, as was his custom. He remained sitting, and smiled languidly at him. Herr Frank, grieved and perplexed, sat down near him, and took occasion to pick up the book.
"How are you, Richard?"
"Very well, as you see."
"You are industrious. What book is this?"
"A rare book, father--a remarkable book. One learns there to know what man is and what he is not. Until now, I did not know that cats, dogs, monkeys, and all animals were of our race. Now I know; for it is clearly demonstrated in that book."
"You certainly do not believe such absurdities?"
"Believe? I believe nothing at all. Faith ends where proof begins."
Herr Frank read the open page.
"All this sounds very silly," said he. "Vogt asserts that man has no soul, and proves it from the fact that men become idiotic. If the functions of the brain are disturbed, the soul ceases, says Vogt. He therefore concludes that the spirit consists in the brain. The man must have been crazy when he wrote that. I am no scholar; but I see at the first glance how false and groundless are Vogt's inferences. Every reasonable man knows that the brain is the instrument of the mind, which enables it to participate in the world of sense; now, when the instrument is destroyed, the participation of the mind with the outward world must cease. Although a man may be an expert on the violin, he cannot play if the strings are broken or out of tune. But the player, his ideas, the art, still remain. In like manner the spirit remains, although it can no longer play on the injured or discordant fibres of the brain."
"You must read the whole book, father, and then those others there."
"But, Richard, you must not read books that rob man of all dignity."
"Of course not. I should do as the ostrich. When he is in danger, he sticks his head into the bushes not to see the danger. A prudent plan. But I cannot close my eyes to the light, even if that light should destroy my human respect."
Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank returned to the doctor.
"Great God! in what a condition is my poor Richard!" said the oppressed father.
"He will, I hope, be rescued. My stay at Frankenhöhe was to end with the month of May; but I cannot forsake a young man whom I love, in this helpless state of mental delirium."
"I do not understand the condition of my son; and your words give me great anxiety. Have the goodness to tell me what is the matter with Richard, and how it came about."
"It would be very difficult to make your son's condition clear to you. In you there is only business, lucrative undertakings, speculative combinations. The bustle of the money market is your world. You have no idea of the power of an intellectual struggle. You know the thoughtful, intellectual nature of your son; and here I begin. In the first place, I will remind you that Richard wishes to be governed by the power of deduction. With him fantasies and passions retreat before this force, although usually in men of his years, and even in men with gray hair, clearness of mind and keen penetration are often swept away by the current of stormy passions. Richard's aversion to women is the result of cool reflection and inevitable inference, and therefore on this question I do not dispute his views. I know it would be useless, and I know that the study of a pure feminine nature would overcome this prejudice. The same force of logical inferences places Richard in this unhappy condition. He read the writings of the materialist. There he found the physiological proofs that man is a beast. From these proofs Richard drew all the terrible consequences contained in those destructive doctrines. As the intellectual life predominates in him, and as he has a strong repugnance to materialistic madness, his nature must be stirred in its profoundest depths. If Richard succumbs, he will act in his habitual consistent manner. All moral basis lost, morality would be foolishness to him, since it is useless for beasts to curb the passions by moral laws. As with immortality disappears man's eternal destiny, it would be foolish to "fight the giant fight of duty." If he is convinced that man is a beast, he will live like a beast--although he might cloak his conduct with the varnish of decency--and thus suddenly would the sensible Richard stand before his astonished father a ruined man. This is one view; there is still another," said the doctor hesitatingly. "I remember in the course of my practice a suicide who wrote on a slip of paper, 'What do I here? Eat, drink, sleep, worry, and fret; much suffering, little joy; therefore--' and the man sent a bullet through his head. This suicide thought logically. This earthly life is insupportable; it is foolishness to a man who thinks and is at the same time a materialist."
"What prospects--horrible!" cried Herr Frank, wringing his hands. "Accursed be those books; and I am the cause of this misfortune!"
"The involuntary cause," said Klingenberg consolingly. "You now have a firm conviction of the devastating effects of those bad books. But how many are there who consider every warning in this connection an exhibition of prejudice or narrow-mindedness! How few readers are so modest as to admit that they want the scientific culture to refute a bad book, to separate the poison from the honey of sweet phrases and winning style! How few can see that they cannot read those bad books without detriment! No one would sit on a cask of powder and touch it off for amusement; and yet those hellish books are more dangerous than a cask full of powder. To me this is incomprehensible. Poisonous food is always injurious; yet thousands and millions drink greedily from this poisonous stream of bad reading which deluges all grades of society."
"I will do immediately what must be done," said Herr Frank as he hastily rose.
"What will you do?"
"Take from my son those execrable books."
"By no means," said Klingenberg. "This would be a psychological mistake. Richard would buy the same books again at the book-shop, and read them secretly. A man who has the resolution of your son must be won by honorable combat. Authority would here be badly applied. Therefore I forbid you to interfere. You know nothing of the matter. Treat him kindly, and have forbearance with his sensitiveness. That is what I must require of you."
Greatly afflicted, Herr Frank left the doctor. Overwhelming himself with reproaches, he wandered restlessly about the house and garden. He saw Richard standing at the open window with folded arms, dreamy and pale, his hair in disorder like a storm-beaten wheat-field--truly a painful sight for the father. He went up to his room, where the small library stood in its beautiful binding. A servant stood near him with a basket. The works of Eugene Sue, Gutzkow, and like spirits fell into the basket.
"All to the fire!" commanded Herr Frank.
The doctor had compared bad literature to poisonous food. The comparison was not inapt; at least, it gave Richard the appearance of a man in whose body destructive poison was working. He was listless and exhausted; in walking, his hands hung heavily by his side. His eyes were directed to the ground, as if he were seeking something. If he saw a snail, he stopped to examine the crawling creature. He sought to know why the snail crawls about, and, to his astonishment, found that the snail always followed an object; which is not always the case with man, animal of the moment, who goes about without an object. If a caterpillar accidentally got under his foot, he pushed it carefully aside and examined if it had been hurt. It seemed to him logical that creeping and flying things had the same claims to forbearance and proper treatment as man, since according to Vogt and Büchner's striking proofs, all creeping and flying things are not essentially different from man.
He paid particular attention to the spiders. If he came to a place where their web was stretched, he examined attentively the artistic texture; he saw the firmly fastened knot on the twig which held the web apart, the circular meshes, the cunning arrangement to catch the wandering fly. He was convinced that such a spider would be a thousand times more intelligent than Herr Vogt and Herr Büchner, with half as big a head as those wise naturalists. The enterprising spirit of the ants excited not less his admiration. He always found them busy and in a bustle, to which a market-day could not be compared. Even London and Paris were solitary in comparison to the throng in an ant-hill. They dragged about large pieces of wood, as also leaves and fibres, to construct their house, which was laid out with design and finished with much care. If he pushed his cane into the hill, there forthwith arose a great revolution. The inhabitants rushed out upon him, nipped him with their pincers, and showed the greatest rage against the invader of their kingdom, while others with great celerity placed the eggs in safety. He observed that the ants gave no quarter, and considered every one a mortal enemy who disturbed their state.
The young man sat on a stone and examined a snail that crawled slowly from the wet grass. It carried a gray house on its back, and beslimed the way as it went, and stretched out its horns to discover the best direction. Its delicate touch astonished Frank. When obstacles came in its way which it did not see nor touch, it would perceive them by means of a wonderful sensibility.
How stupid did Richard appear to himself, beside a horned, blind snail. How many men only discover obstacles in their way when they have run their heads against them, and how many wish to run their heads through walls without any reason! He arose and looked toward Angela's home. He was dejected, and heaved a sigh.
"All is of no avail. The activity of the animal world affords no diversion, the benumbing strokes of materialism lose their effect. The rare becomes common, and does not attract attention. There walks an angel in the splendor of superior excellence, and I endeavor in vain to distract my mind from her by studying the animals. I follow willingly the professors' exact investigations, into the labyrinth of their studied arguments to make it appear that I am only an animal, that all our sentiment is only imagination and fallacy. It is all in vain. Can these gentlemen teach me how we can cease to have admiration for the noble and exalted? Here man forcibly breaks through. Here self, irresistible and disgusted with error, brings the nobility of human nature to consciousness, and all the wisdom of boasted materialism becomes idle nonsense."
"Thank God! I see you again, my dear neighbor," said Siegwart cordially. "Where have you kept yourself this last week? Why do you no longer visit us? My whole house is excited about you. Henry is angry because he cannot show you the horses he bought lately. My wife bothers her head with all kinds of forebodings, and Angela urged me to send and see if you were ill."
A new life permeated Frank's whole being at these last words; his cheeks flushed and his languid eyes brightened up.
"I know no good reason as an apology, dear friend. Be assured, however, that the apparent neglect does not arise from any coolness toward you and your esteemed family." And he drew marks in the sand with his cane.
"Perhaps your father took offence at your visits to us?"
"Oh! no. No; I alone am to blame."
Siegwart gave a searching glance at the pale face of the young man who, broken-spirited, stood before him, and whose mental condition he did not understand, although he had a vague idea of it.
"I will not press you further," said he cheerfully. "But, as a punishment, you must now come with me. I received yesterday a fresh supply of genuine Havanas, and you must try them."
He took Richard by the arm, and the latter yielded to the friendly compulsion. They went through the vineyard. Frank broke from a twig a folded leaf.
"Do you know the cause of this?"
"Oh! yes; it is the work of the vine-weevil," answered Siegwart. "These mischief-makers sometimes cause great damage to the vineyards. Some years I have their nests gathered and the eggs destroyed to prevent their doing damage."
"You consider every thing with the eyes of an economist. But I admire the art, the foresight, and the intelligence of these insects."
"Intelligence--foresight of an insect!" repeated Siegwart, astonished. "I see in the whole affair neither intelligence nor foresight."
"But just look here," said Richard, carefully unfolding the leaf. "What a degree of considerate management is necessary to fix the leaf in such order. The ribs of this leaf are stronger than the force of the beetle. Yet he wished to fold the eggs in it. What does he do? He first pierces the stem with his pincers; in consequence of this, the leaf curls up and becomes soft and pliable to the frail feet of the insect. This is the first act of reflection. The piercing of the stem had evidently as its object to cause the leaf to roll up. Then he begins to work with a perfection that would do honor to human skill. The leaf is rolled up in order to put the eggs in the folds. Here is the first egg; he rolls further--here is the second egg, some distance from the first, in order to have sufficient food for the young worm--again an act of reflection; lastly, he finishes the roll with a carefully worked point, to prevent the leaf from unfolding--again an act of reflection."
Siegwart heard all this with indifference. What Richard told him he had known for years. His employment in the fields revealed to his observing mind wonderful facts in nature and in the animal world. The wisdom of the vine-weevil gave him no difficulty. He looked again in Frank's deep-sunken eyes and noticed a peculiar expression, and in his countenance great anxiety.
He concluded that the work of the vine-weevil must have some connection with the young man's condition.
"You see actions of reflection and design where I see only unconscious instinct."
Frank became nervous.
"The common evasion of superficial examination!" cried he. "Man must be just even to the animals. Their works are artistic, intelligent, and considerate. Why then deny to animals those powers which operate with intelligence and reflection?"
"I do not for a moment dispute this power of the animals," replied the proprietor quickly.
"You find mind in the animals?" interrupted Frank hastily. "This conviction once reached, have you considered the consequences that follow?"--and he became more excited. "Have you considered that with this admission the whole world becomes a fabulous structure, without any higher object? If the spider is equal to man, then its torn web that flutters in the wind is worth as much as the crumbling fragments of art which remain from classic antiquity. Virtue, the careful restraining of the passions, is stark madness. The disgusting ape, lustful and brutish, is as good as the purest virgin who performs severe penances for her idle dreams. It is with justice that the criminal scoffs at the good as bedlamites who, with fanatical delusion, strive for castles in the air. Every outcast from society, sunk and saturated in the basest vices, is precisely as good as the purest soul and the noblest heart; for all distinction between right and wrong, good and evil, is destroyed."
Angela's father gazed with solicitude into the perplexed look and distorted countenance of the young man.
"You deduce consequences, Herr Frank, that could not be drawn from my admissions," said he mildly. "There is no conscious power in animals--no reflecting soul. The animal works with the power that is in it, as light and heat in the fire, as in the lightning the destructive force, as the exciting and purifying effects in the storm. The animal does not act freely, like man; but from necessity--according to instinct and laws which the Almighty has imposed upon it."
"A gratuitous assumption! A shallow artifice," exclaimed Frank. "The animal shows understanding, design, and will; we must not deny him these faculties."
"If the lightning strikes my house and discovers with infallible certainty all the metal in the walls, even where the sharpest eye could not detect it, must you recognize mental faculties in the lightning in discovering the metal?"
Frank hemmed and was silent.
"What a botcher is the most learned chemist compared with the root-fibres of the smallest plant," continued Siegwart. "Every plant has its own peculiar life; this I observe every day. All plants do not flourish alike in the same soil. They only flourish where they find the necessary conditions for their peculiar life; where they find in the air and earth the conditions necessary for their existence. Set ten different kinds of plants together in a small plat of ground. The different fibres will always seek and absorb only that material in the earth which is proper to their kind; they will pass by the useless and injurious substances. Now, where is the chemist who with such certainty, such power of discrimination, and knowledge of substances, can select from the inert clod the proper material? A chemist with such knowledge does not exist. Now, must you admit that the fibres possess as keen an understanding and as deep a knowledge of chemistry as the man who is versed in chemistry?"
"That would be manifest folly."
"Well," concluded Siegwart quietly, "if the vine-weevil weaves its wrapper, the spider its web, the bird builds its nest, and the beaver his house, they all do it in their way, as the root-fibres in theirs."
Richard remained silent, and they passed into the house.
Angela and her mother looked with astonishment and sympathy on their friend.
Soon in the mild countenance of Madam Siegwart there appeared nearly the same expression as in the first days after the death of Eliza--so much did the painful appearance of the young man afflict her. Angela turned pale, her eyes filled, and she strove to hide her emotion. Frank only looked at her furtively. Whatever he had to say to her, he said with averted eyes. Siegwart expended all his powers of amusement; but he did not succeed in cheering the young man. He continued depressed, embarrassed, and sad, and constantly avoided looking at Angela. When she spoke he listened to the sound of her voice, but avoided her look. Presently a low barking was heard in the room and Hector, who had growlingly received Frank at his first visit, but who in time had become an acquaintance of his, lay stretched at full length dreaming. Scarcely did Richard notice the dreaming animal when he exclaimed,
"The dog dreams! See how his feet move in the chase, how he opens his nostrils, how he barks, how his limbs reach for the game! The dog dreams he is in the chase."
"I have often observed Hector's dreams," said Siegwart coolly.
Frank continued,
"Have you considered the consequences that follow from the dreams of the dog? Dreams show a thinking faculty," said he hastily. "Animals, then, think like men; thoughts are the children of the mind; therefore, animals have minds. Animals and men are alike."
Angela started at these words. Her mother shook her head.
"You conclude too hastily, my dear friend," said Siegwart coolly. "You must first know that animals dream like men. Men think, reflect, and speak in dreams. The dreams of animals are very different from those mental acts."
"How will you explain it?" said Richard excitedly.
"Very easily. Hector is now in the chase. The dog's sense of smell is remarkable. By means of the fragrant wind Hector smells the partridges miles away. He acts then just as in the dream; feet, nose, and limbs come into activity. Suppose that in the surrounding fields there is a covey of partridges. The air would indicate them to Hector's smelling organs; these organs act, as in the waking state, on the brain of the animal; the brain acts on the other organs. Where is there thought? Have we not a purely material effect? The cough, the appetite, the sneezing, the aversion--what have all these to do with mind or thought? Nothing at all. The dream of the dog is an entirely muscular process, the mere co-working of the muscular organs; as with us, digestion, the flowing of the blood, the twitching of the muscles--facts with which the mind has nothing to do."
"Your assertion is based on the assumption that partridges are near," said Richard; "and I will be obliged to you if, with Hector's assistance, you convince me of this fact."
"That is unnecessary, my dear friend. Suppose there are no partridges in the neighborhood. The same affection of the brain which would be produced by the smell of the partridges could be produced by accident. If it is accidental, it will have the same effect in the sleeping condition of the dog.[111] Affections accidentally arise in man the causes of which are not known. We are uneasy, we know not why; we are discouraged without any knowledge of the cause. We are joyful without being able to give any reason for it. The mind can rise above all these dispositions, affections, and humors; can govern, cast out, and disperse them. Proof enough that a king lives in man--the breath of God, which is not taken from the earth, and to which all matter must yield if that power so wills."
The dog stretched his strong legs without any idea of the important question to which he had given occasion.
"Herr Frank," began Madam Siegwart earnestly, "I have learned to respect you, and have often wished that my son, at your years, would be like you. I see now with painful astonishment that you defend opinions which contradict your former expressions, and the sentiments we must expect from a Christian. Will you not be so good as to tell me how you have so suddenly changed your views?"
"Esteemed madam," answered Frank, with emotion, "I thank you for this undeserved motherly sympathy; but I beg of you not to believe that the opinions I expressed are my firm convictions. No, I have not yet fallen so deep that for me there is no difference between man and beast. I can yet continue to believe that materialism is a crime against mankind. On the other hand, I freely acknowledge that my mind is in great trouble; that every firm position beneath my feet totters; that I have been tempted to hold doctrines degrading to the individual and destructive to society. I have been brought into this difficulty by reading books whose seductive proofs I am not able to refute. Oh! I am miserable, very miserable; my appearance must have shown you that already."
He looked involuntarily at Angela; he saw tears in her eyes; he bowed his head and was silent.
"I see your difficulties," said the proprietor. "They enter early or late into the mind of every man. It is good, in such uncertainties and doubts, to lean on the authority of truth. This authority can only be God, who is truth itself, who came down from heaven and brought light into the darkness. We can prove, inquire, and speculate; but the keenest human intellect is not always free from delusion. As there is in man a spiritual tendency which raises him far above the visible and material, God has been pleased to lead and direct that tendency by revelation, that man may not err. I consider divine revelation a necessity which God willed when he created the mind. As the mind has an instinctive thirst after truth, God must, by the revelation of truth, satisfy this thirst. Therefore is revelation as old as the human race. It reached its completion and perfection by the coming of the Lord, who said, 'I am the truth;' and this knowledge of the truth remains in the church through the guidance of the Spirit of truth, till the latest generation. This is only my ultramontane conviction," said Siegwart, smiling; "but it affords peace and certainty."
Angela had gone out, and now returned with a basket, in which lay a little dog, of a few days old, asleep. She set the basket carefully down before Frank, so as not to awaken the sleeper.
"As you appreciate the full worth of striking proofs, I am glad to be able to place one before you, in the shape of this little dog," said she, appearing desirous of cheering her dejected friend. But Frank did not receive from her cheerful countenance either strength or encouragement, for he did not look up.
"This little dog is only eight days old," she continued; "its eyes are not yet open; it can neither walk nor bark; it can only growl a little; and it does nothing but sleep and dream. I have noticed its dreams since the first day of its birth. You can convince yourself of its dreaming." She stooped over the basket and her soft hair disturbed the sleeper.
For a moment Frank saw and heard nothing.
"See," she continued, "how its little feet move, and how its body jerks. Hear the low growl, and see the hairs round the mouth how they twitch, how the nose shrinks and expands--all the same as in Hector. The little thing knows nothing at all of the world--no more than a child eight days old. We certainly, therefore, will not deceive ourselves in assuming that all these movements are only muscular twitchings; that neither the pup nor Hector dreams like a man."
Frank first looked at the dog in great surprise, and then gazed admiringly on Angela.
"O fraulein! how I thank you."
She appeared most lovely in his eyes. He suddenly turned toward her father.
"Your house is a great blessing to me. It appears that the pure atmosphere of religious conviction which you breathe victoriously combats all dark doubts, as light dissipates darkness."
FOOTNOTE:
[111] This argument is not conclusive, nor is it at all necessary. Animals have memory; and there is no more reason why their waking sensations, emotions, and acts should not repeat themselves in dreams than there is in the case of men. The difference between the soul of man and the soul of the brute is constituted by the presence of the gift of reason, or the faculty of knowing necessary and universal truths in the former, and its absence in the latter.--ED. CATHOLIC WORLD.
* * * * *
Angela stood in her room. She knew that the spirit of unbelief pervaded the world, taking possession of thousands and destroying all life and effort. She saw Richard threatened by this spirit, and feared for his soul. She became very anxious, and sank on her knees before the crucifix and cried to heaven for succor.
Night was upon all things. The black clouds, lowering deep and heavy, shut out all light from heaven. The wind swept the mountains, the forest moaned, and thunder muttered in the distance. Klingenberg sat before his folios. A fitful light glimmered from the room of Richard's father. Richard himself came home late, took his supper, and retired to his chamber; there he walked back and forth, thinking, contending with himself, and speaking aloud. Before his door stood a dark figure--immovable and listening.
It knocked at the door of the elder Frank. Jacob, a servant who had grown gray in the service of the house, entered. Frank received him with surprise, and awaited expectantly what he had to say.
"We are all wrong," said Jacob. "My poor young master has now spoken out clearly. He is not sick because of the foolish trash in the books. He is in love, terribly in love."
"Ah! in love?" said Herr Frank.
"You should just have heard how he complains and laments that he is not worthy of her. 'O Angela, Angela!' he cried at least a hundred times, 'could I only raise myself to your level and make myself worthy! But your soul, so pure, your character, so immaculate and good, thrusts me away. I look up to you with admiration and longing, as the troubled pilgrim on earth looks up to the peace and grandeur of heaven.' This is the way he talked. He is to be pitied, sir."
"So--so--in love, and with Siegwart's daughter," said Frank sadly. "The tragedy will change into comedy. Even if they were not so unapproachably high, but like other people on earth, my son should never take an ultramontane wife."
"But if he loves her so deeply, sir?"
"Be still; you know nothing about it. Has he lain down?"
"Yes; or, at least, he is quiet."
"Continue to watch him. I must immediately make known to the doctor this love affair. He will be surprised to find the philosopher changed into a love-sick visionary."
TO BE CONTINUED.
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.
THE PHILOSOPHICAL DOCTRINES OF ST. AUGUSTINE COMPARED WITH THE IDEOLOGY OF THE MODERN SCHOOLS.
"St. Thomas treats the peripatetic philosophy in such a manner that Plato himself would have willingly accepted it as Platonic."--Gerdil, Ed. Rom. t. ix. p. 58.
BY THE REV. FATHER CARLO VERCELLONE, BARNABITE.
Introductory Note
The Dublin Review has recently commenced a series of articles with the view of promoting philosophical unity among Catholic scholars, and of urging upon them the necessity of a combined effort against modern scepticism. We are very glad that Dr. Ward has turned the powerful stream of his great literary engine in this direction. We are in perfect accord with him on this point, that false philosophy lies at the foundation of all the worst errors of the day, and that these errors can only be effectually subverted by a true and sound philosophy. We desire, therefore, as we have always desired and endeavored, to do what we can in this magazine, both to promote agreement among Catholics in sound philosophical principles, and to refute those false principles in modern times so generally adopted, which are better designated by the term pure psychologism than by any other name that we know of. We desire to make it clearly known, however, that by this term we intend only to designate the philosophical doctrine of Des Cartes, and that which constitutes the primary principle of the systems of Locke, Hamilton, Mansel, Mill, Kant, Spencer, and other uncatholic writers. We call it pure psychologism, because it acknowledges no other first principle of thought and reason than the consciousness which the thinking subject has or seems to have of itself under various phases or modifications. We do not apply the term to any recognized school of Catholic philosophy, or to the system of any respectable author whose works are in good repute in the church, and we believe that there is no one among them who would not repudiate the epithet if applied to his doctrine by an opponent. In the sense in which we have defined it, it is the heresy of nominalism carried to its utmost logical consequences--that is, to complete subjecticism or scepticism in the order of pure reason. Opposed to it is the realism sustained in theology by every orthodox writer, and in philosophy by every one whose philosophy is not in direct contradiction to his theology. This realism is the affirmation of the objective entity, distinct from and superior to the thinking subject of that which reason immediately apprehends as intelligible, necessary, self-evident, universal idea, together with the objective entity of that which is perceived as existing under sensible phenomena. It is the denial or doubt of this objective reality which nullifies the effect of all reasoning from principles or from evidence in proof of Catholic dogmas. We meet with a scepticism in regard to the real existence of God, of truth, of the external world, of the soul itself, which renders logic vain. It is only a return to first principles and to a belief in reason, therefore, which can give us a basis on which to reintegrate the rights of faith against the modern irrationalists and misologists--that is, haters of reason. The restoration and improvement of philosophy is an object of primary importance to the religious, moral, and political welfare of the world. It is in vain to think of looking for this improvement elsewhere than in the investigation and development of the philosophical doctrine of Plato, Aristotle, the great fathers and doctors of the church, the scholastic metaphysicians, and their successors. As there is no real progress in theological science except in the continuity of scholastic theology, so there is none in metaphysical science except in the continuity of scholastic philosophy. As, in theology, all sound Catholic authors work together harmoniously in defending and propugnating those essential doctrines which are clearly defined and universally admitted, at the same time discussing among themselves in a friendly manner those opinions which are as yet only probable, so it should be in philosophy. The most important thing is to maintain that philosophical truth in which all sound Catholic authors are agreed against the sceptical principles of modern sophists. Advance in the science of this truth; with that increase of clearness in conception and statement, and of unanimity in opinion, which is its natural consequence; can only be gained by exhaustive study and argumentation of obscure and disputed questions, carried on in a truly catholic, impartial, and conciliatory spirit.
The author of the article before us was one who labored most zealously in this direction. He was a learned Barnabite monk, occupying a high position among the erudite scholars of the Roman court and schools. He held the position of consultor to one of the Roman congregations, and was a member of the commission on oriental affairs, preparatory to the Council of the Vatican, at the time of his decease. The present essay was read before the Academy of the Catholic Religion at Rome, on the 27th of August, 1863, and published by the Propaganda press. We have taken it from an edition of F. Vercellone's Dissertazioni Accademiche di Vario Argomento, published at Rome in 1864, and dedicated to Cardinal De Luca. There can be no doubt of F. Vercellone's competency to discriminate in philosophical matters between the doctrine prescribed by authority, and that which rests only on the judgment of eminent schools and authors, and on the arguments by which this judgment is supported. His position gave him unusual facilities for understanding the reason and true import of the judgments pronounced by the holy see on philosophical questions, so that whatever he has written with a bearing on points which have been a subject of controversy among Catholic writers must have the greatest weight, and be entitled, at least, to be considered as safe opinion. For this reason, as well as for the intrinsic value it possesses, we have thought the essay now presented to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD to be especially worthy of translation into English, and of careful study by all who are interested in the advancement of sound philosophy.--ED. CATH. WORLD.
DISSERTATION.
In contradiction to that most grave and deplorable error by which many unbelievers of our own day, more than those of an earlier period, love to confound religion with philosophy, we firmly hold the principle which was efficaciously and unanimously sustained by the ancient sages, pagan as well as Christian, that religion is the chief end to which philosophy is directed. If this were not so, we should never have seen what forms one of the chief glories of the holy church. I mean, that the eagle of all human philosophy, the incomparable Augustine, claims the first and most glorious place among the renowned and venerable company of the holy fathers; I mean, that to the holy fathers generally belongs the merit of having initiated the whole Christian world into a philosophy much more severe, more legitimate, and more conclusive than that which was previously a most rare privilege, one, also, more or less temporary and successive, of Cortona, of Elea, of Athens, of Alexandria, and of some other cities; so that not a few of these fathers have left us, in their works, an immense harvest for the benefit of philosophy, partly the fruit of their own genius and thought on various topics, partly in the form of precious monuments of that admirable wisdom of more ancient times which was itself, as it existed among the heathen, not altogether free from the influence of the true religion, and therefore descended by a just title of inheritance to Christianity. And if philosophy revived and arose from its ashes two centuries, at least, before our language and literature, as this preceded by several hundred years those of foreign nations, to whom does the praise more justly belong than to the renowned Benedictine of Aosta, a man whose genius and metaphysical power equalled his sanctity? If, besides, the philosophy of Aristotle was exhibited to the world in a Christian form--that is, purified, completed, rigorous, true, irrefutable, as Augustine and the other fathers had done to the Platonic wisdom--to whom belongs the merit but to a seraphic cardinal and an angelical Dominican? Perhaps the modern depreciators of scholasticism, the chief enemies of the Catholic clergy, the persecutors of religious orders, have on their side philosophers worthy to be compared with an Anselm, a Bonaventure, a Thomas? Whoever has received from God the grace of appertaining to the Catholic Church can easily see, with his own eyes, if he is not altogether a faster in science, how many and great services the true religion renders to philosophy; by simply opening at random any one of the sacred and precious volumes, either of the illustrious ancient fathers or of the venerable princes of the schools. But those of us who are honored by the privilege of representing in the chairs of instruction, or cultivating and illustrating in books the Catholic philosophy, have far greater reason to know and esteem the masterpieces of the doctors and the fathers. Such can see, by contrast with these, that what is called the modern philosophy, although sustained and kept on foot, here and there, by some authors of unusual and vast speculative ability, nevertheless never satisfies in the least any one who attempts to revive it, always lacking a valid direction, always liable to sudden changes and vacillations--a sure sign of internal contradiction--agitated, discomposed, tormented by all the follies of the most mediocre and turbulent intellects. Such persons as these, not observing that logic (permit me here to use the language of St. Augustine) is properly the intellectual judgment of entire humanity, that it cannot be made anew, as it cannot either be unmade, but only obtained by inheritance and amplified and extended by felicitous discoveries; not considering, I say, any of these things, they believe that out of the present age there ought to issue a new and magnificent rational philosophy; just as there certainly has issued a new and stupendous literature, a geometry totally renovated and enlarged to most gigantic proportions, and a system of physics in great part constructed anew, corrected by experiments and elucidated by better hypotheses. But I pray and hope that the time of undeceiving has arrived, and that the Catholic masters (the others will turn back when this happens) will apply themselves in earnest to pick up again the thread of perfect and classical tradition in science. This I come to-day to recommend; and I have confidence that I can better persuade men to undertake it by example, and, as it were, by means of something actually done, if you, with your accustomed benignity, will deign to bear with my proposition, and to give it the support and weight of your authority.
I invoke the authority of this respectable assembly for an end I have greatly at heart, and which seems to me of supreme importance both to scientific advancement and religious edification; that is, to obtain that our philosophers, divided, not by their own fault but by that of our ancestors of the last century, into ontologists and psychologists, should once for all give their attention and open their eyes to the history too long belied and alone worthy of consideration--the history, I say, ever new, brilliant, and unsurpassable, of our own philosophy; and instead of consuming all their strength in a war among our excellent doctors--which it is high time to break off--should apply themselves rather to lay a new grasp on the ancient wisdom of Catholicism with one hand, and with the other to repulse and discomfit the audacious and execrable crowd of modern errors. Assuredly, when the doctrine as well of the fathers relatively to the Platonic system, as of the greater schoolmen to the metaphysics of Aristotle, shall have been first placed in a better light and looked at in its multiform aspects by means of various and judicious investigations, it will be made universally manifest that the Platonism and Aristotelianism of the heathen were not in any wise identical with the ontologism and psychologism of the Catholic masters; that the war between the Academics and Peripatetics was annihilated and put aside by the rigor and integrity of Catholic thought; that, in fine, the Plato of the holy fathers does not disdain the psychologism of St. Thomas, and that the Aristotle of the chief schoolmen does not reject the ontologism of St. Augustine. Since this may appear to some as a thing which is more specious in assertion than capable of solid proof, I will draw out that exemplification of it which I have promised, and will come to facts; setting forth certain brief considerations in relation to ideology--that is to say, in relation to the most controverted theme and the most grave and obstinate question of the modern schools in rational philosophy, especially among Catholics. I will describe and mark out, first, from original testimonies, the Augustinian conception, or, indeed, the genesis of his ideology; in the second place, I will search into the modern origin of the division between the ideology of the Catholic ontologists and that of the psychologists equally Catholic; finally, I will make evident how the reconciliation of the children with the father and of the modern scission with the ancient unity, suffices to consolidate the hope of a peace which all desire, and which, by combining the forces of our best minds, may render Catholic philosophy more harmoniously operative against the better united forces of the modern enemies of truth.
A man who in his whole life had done nothing except to write the twenty-two books of The City of God ought justly to be esteemed the first and most admirable philosopher on the earth. Never was it better known or more loudly proclaimed than in our day, that the philosophy of history carries off the palm on the field of human speculations. In recommending, therefore, the philosophical excellence of St. Augustine, we can prove the justice of our opinion by this one argument, which is by itself sufficient. Let us compare whatever modern writers have been able to do in this class of books with The City of God; if no work of modern times, can be found either so original, so extensive, so erudite, or so profound as The City of God, written fourteen centuries ago, we must necessarily agree that a return to this centre of Catholic wisdom is the only method of giving impetus and improvement to philosophical speculations. But we will not now extend our search so far as this. I will confine myself to the eighth book, which includes a notice and an appreciation of the different systems of the entire pagan philosophy, and forms an introduction to that long and sublime parallel between natural reason and revelation, carried on throughout the succeeding books in a manner equally novel and splendid, with a view to the illustration of the whole field of Catholic theology by the highest efforts of human wisdom and the best sentiments of the pagans themselves. The most vital part of the preliminary views, introducing the subject of the eighth and succeeding books, is as follows:
There are two points, he says, which must be firmly held: that Catholics ought not to deny that which is good in the philosophy of the pagans; and that, on the other hand, they are bound to reject and refute all the falsehood contained in it. The first is proved by that which the apostle says. What is known of God is manifest in them; for God has manifested it to them. For the invisible things of him are beheld from the constitution of the world, being understood by means of those things which are made, even his eternal power and divinity. Moreover, at the Areopagus, when he affirmed that in him we live and move and are, he added, as some also of your own poets have said. The second is proved by another text. Beware lest any one deceive you by philosophy and vain seduction according to the elements of the world.[112]
This being laid down, the duty of Catholic philosophers is that already touched upon--the separation of the good gold in pagan philosophy from the counterfeit; and as all the philosophy is divided into three parts, natural, rational, and moral, "we shall hold," continues St. Augustine, "that natural philosophy for false which does not place God as the only principle and true creator of all other natures; we shall hold as false that rational philosophy which does not maintain that God alone is the intelligible reason of all minds; we shall repute as false that moral which does not prove that God alone is that good which is worthy to be the end of a virtuous and perfect course of life." Now, the great multitude of pagan philosophers was far distant from any recognition or profession of the three heads we have given; scarcely was there a small number of privileged persons among the disciples, I hardly know whether to say in preference of Plato or of Pythagoras, who made any near approach to Catholic truth, aided, in all probability, by some knowledge of Jewish traditions.
"No one having even a slight knowledge of these things is ignorant that there are those philosophers called Platonists, from their master, Plato."(1) "Perhaps those who enjoy the greatest celebrity as having the most clearly understood, and the most closely followed Plato, who is with justice esteemed to be far superior to the other philosophers of the Gentiles, hold a similar opinion concerning God, namely, that in him is found the cause of subsistence, and the reason of intelligence, and the regulating principle of life."(2) "If, therefore, Plato has said that the wise man is one who is an imitator, a knower, and a lover of the one true and supremely good God, by a participation with whom he is blessed, what need is there of discussing the rest?"(3) "This is, therefore, the reason why we prefer these to the others; because while other philosophers have employed their talents and efforts in searching out the causes of things, and what is the method of learning and living, these, having the knowledge of God, have found where is the cause of the constitution of the universe, and the light of perceptible truth, and the fountain whence we may drink felicity."(4) "All those philosophers who have held these opinions concerning the true and supreme God, that he is the framer of those things which are created, and the light of those things which are knowable, and the good of those things which ought to be done, whether they are more properly called Platonists, Ionics, or Italics, on account of Pythagoras, we prefer to the others, and regard them as nearer to ourselves."(5)[113]
It is very necessary, he says, to exclude all merely verbal questions, since it is of things not words that he is treating. I wish to demonstrate that the philosophy of the pagans, when it is good and true, accords wonderfully with Catholic truth, and gives rise naturally to Catholic philosophy--that is to say, the principal and most excellent philosophy of mankind; similarly, I wish to demonstrate that, in so far as the pagan philosophy is in discordance and repugnance to Catholic truth, it is false, corrupt, and in need of better and more rational emendations.
No one, certainly, will exact of me that I make a minute examination of the innumerable and varying systems or opinions of pagan antiquity; it is enough that I prove my proposition by confining myself to the best philosophy of all paganism. If I make good my assertion respecting the best system of doctrine which ever appeared in Gentile philosophy, it will be evident enough that the same assertion holds even more strongly in reference to other systems, more or less inferior to this one. But this is certain, that gentilism had no philosophy worthy to be compared, much less preferred, to the doctrine of those authors who acknowledged, and, in the best manner of which they were capable, proclaimed the existence of one only supreme and true God, "from whom we derive the principle of our nature, the truth of our knowledge, and the happiness of our life."[114] I turn, therefore, to these authors with the purpose of examining what is good and what is bad in them; "but I find it more suitable to discuss this subject with the Platonists, because their writings are better known; for not only the Greeks, whose language is preëminent among the nations, have made them celebrated by greatly extolling their excellence; but the Latins also, moved by their excellence or their renown, have studied them with greater ardor than any others, and by translating them into our language have made them still more famous and renowned."[115]
From all this, not a few consequences, whose value you above all others are able to judge and appreciate, are immediately deduced with a clearness greater even than we could desire. The first is, that the noblest and greatest problem of modern philosophy, to wit, that the protological and encyclopædic principle cannot be placed elsewhere than in the principle of creation, understood in conformity with the tradition of the Catholic Church; this principle, I say, was stated and solved amply, doubly, irrefutably, by St. Augustine; first, in his Soliloquies, where one by one the partial principles of all the sciences are recovered; secondly, in this eighth book of The City of God, where the one only rule is laid hold of and exhibited by which to distinguish the only true system among various and opposite philosophical systems. The second consequence is, that those persons must cover their eyes with both hands who will not see and admit that St. Augustine preferred the Platonic doctrine, and specifically preferred the Platonic or Pythagorean ideology, in the clearest terms in which it was possible for him to express his meaning. The third is, that St. Augustine not only derived his ideology from the very principle of creation, in the way of an inference more or less remote; but held it, rather, as an integral part of the principle itself, and made of it a second cycle, one lying between the first, which respects the origin of substances, and the third, which assigns the good of operations. The final consequence is, that this second cycle, relating to rational intelligence, has been passed over by the moderns; which may serve as a useful admonition to them, to convince them thoroughly that no one can take St. Augustine's place in philosophy; that modern philosophy, with all its power, lags very far behind the Augustinian speculations, and that if all other books are understood and studied to the neglect of St. Augustine, this will turn not to his disadvantage but to ours. Thus we see, by a most striking example, that he alone not only saved, by the principle of creation, physics and ethics; but moreover, by that middle cycle, which is as it were central to the other two, saved rational philosophy, without which the other two result less necessarily, and, so to speak, revert back to nullity.
The first of the consequences above enumerated was noted by me in this place many years ago; and has been better exhibited for the benefit of science by the illustrious F. Milone in his book entitled, La Scuola di Filosofia Razionale Intitolata a S. Augustino; wherefore I will abstain from considering it any further at present. I will restrict myself on this occasion to taking advantage of the other consequences which follow to a marvel from the ideology, but especially from the genesis of the ideology of St. Augustine. Indeed we have a great number of authors, beginning with the most exalted of all, that is, the seraphic and angelic doctors, and terminating with writers who are still living in Italy, France, and Belgium, who have collected from the Augustinian writings a most extensive list of disputed questions concerning ideology and human knowledge; but, above all, we have two more remarkable collections in the works of those two fathers of the Oratory of France, who are equal to any in learning and merit--Thomassin and Martin.[116] That which may perhaps have something new and original in it, in our own investigation, is the more exact indication of the primitive fountain and source whence these large streams take their issue; that source, namely, from which St. Augustine derived the logical moment of that ideology which he bases, constructs, and amplifies with such great strength; which was the concept, original with him, of that most vast and sublime theory of human cognitions formed by him alone. It appears to me that I have made it clear to all, from those things which have been laid down and the testimonies adduced, that St. Augustine concentrates and hinges the three branches of the natural encyclopædia in one sole principle unfolded in three members: the principle being that of creation; the three members being physics, logic, and ethics; which are respectively the sole cause of existence, the sole light of knowledge, the sole end of virtue. From this every one can see and touch with the hand that St. Augustine found his ideology in the principle of creation, regarded it as a part of the principle of creation, distinguished it from the two extreme cycles, and from the two opposite members of the principle of creation. If any one had denied the ideology of St. Augustine in his time, St. Augustine would have been bound to say that such a person denied the principle of creation; if some one else had vaunted a contrary system of ideology, he would have been bound to judge that system to be contrary to the principle of creation; if any one had demanded from St. Augustine the substantial formula of his ideology, the origin of that ideology, or the proofs of the stability, security, and irrefutable validity of that ideology, he would always have been obliged to answer by appealing to the universal principle established by reason and the Catholic faith, that is, to the principle of creation. Therefore the genesis of the Augustinian ideology, if it had not been already traced out or properly considered before to-day, would be now as clear and certain as the light, and with the eighth book of The City of God, we might predict that it would be immortal.
In scientific themes a twofold labor must be undergone; on the one hand, in ascertaining, and in elucidating on the other, the matters to be treated of; and the one who must apply himself rigorously to one part of this is rarely able at the same time to attend to the other. This is the case with myself; for, having been obliged to point out the seat and position of the Augustinian ideology in that encyclopædic principle which I have above defined, I could not bring forward the second cycle except as implicated and restricted by the other two, the first and third. I am glad to be able now to supply, at least partially, this defect, by alleging one quite peculiar testimony, which, fortunately, leaves in the background the two cycles with which we are not concerned, and brings forward with admirable distinctness the one which specially concerns us in ideology.
"Now, those authors whom we with justice prefer to all others," (says St. Augustine, speaking of the Platonists, Pythagoreans, and others of the best stamp,) "have distinguished those things which are perceived by the mind from those which are attained by the sense; not taking from the senses those things for which they have a capacity, or granting to them what is beyond their capacity. But the light of minds by which all things are learned [see here clearly the second cycle] they affirmed to be God himself, by whom all things were made."
Lumen autem mentium esse dixerunt ad discenda omnia eumdem ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia.[117] The principle of creation, then, in so far regards our rational intelligence as it places on the one hand the sensible perception we have of it, and on the other the intelligence which we have in addition as our great prerogative. Rational cognition comes from the conjunction of intellect with sensibility; and therefore the greater part of the ancient philosophers, grossly taking our cognition for an act tied to a mere sensible perception, and badly mixing up sense with intellect and the sensible with the intelligible, knew little or nothing of the contra-position of the one to the other. Some of them, giving every thing to the sensible, fell into Epicureanism, into materialism, into atheism, denying God, and thus the principle of creation; others, paying attention only to the intelligible, rushed into fatalism and pantheism, denying created substances, and thus again the principle of creation. These are the philosophers whom we Catholics cannot prefer to the others; whom St. Augustine says, non prodest excutere, it is lost time to discuss them. But those, on the contrary, quos merito ceteris anteponimus, began from a fundamental distinction between the intelligible and the sensible, and therefore also between the intelligence and the sensibility; discreverunt ea quæ mente conspiciuntur ab eis quæ sensibus attinguntur; nor did they take away from the senses their proper office and necessary value in the act of defending as their principal aim the intelligence, which is so true that they regarded rational cognition as a sort of marriage, and a true coöperation, of the mind with the senses. If, then, concludes the most glorious father of Catholic philosophy, the best sages of antiquity, and we with them admit and give value to the sensibility, that is necessary in order to maintain the principle of creation, since otherwise all the substances created by God, which are sensible natures, disappear. Likewise if the same sages, and we as much as or even more than they, admit and defend intelligence, this is of equal if not greater necessity, in order to keep the same principle of creation. In fact, with the sensibility alone, non est discere, we can learn nothing, as the brutes, certo nusquam discunt certainly never learn any thing; but only minds endowed with intelligence, who have as a light ad discenda omnia, eumdem ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia--as a light for learning all things, that same God himself who created all things. Since, therefore, by the principle of creation, God is the only light of all minds, so, by denying to minds that divine, creative light, all rational intelligence is denied, and the principle of creation is totally destroyed, just as much as by taking away all substances.
But perhaps some one of you, considering that St. Augustine had been instructed in the Platonic doctrine, as we read in the Summa of Aquinas, will remain doubtful whether the genesis which I have traced out is not that of the Platonic or Pythagorean ideology, whichever we may choose to call it, rather than of the Augustinian. I think that I have in the preceding portion of this dissertation cited from the original texts enough of St. Augustine's own expressions, which always revert to these constant formulas, qui nobiscum sentiunt, quos merito ceteris anteponimus, to render it certainly and for ever incontestable that in these passages it is St. Augustine who cum istis sentit; it is he who hos ceteris anteponit; and by consequence he it is who embraces, explains, and defends the Platonic ideology, amending it where it sins, and supplying to it what it lacks. But, conceding that there is a difficulty here in our way, corroborated by an expression of the angelic doctor, I wish it to be noted distinctly that I do not resolve it principally by alleging any solitary expression whatever of the angel of the schools himself, but by a series of formulæ as distinctly marked in their significance as they are harmoniously located in the structure of his thought and of his boundless learning. Whenever there shall be for the first time produced a copious and well-arranged history of our philosophy, we shall see among other things relating to that most glorious Aquinas, a fact which gives lustre to his works, and is a memorable one in human philosophy; and the fact, which is one completely manifest and palpable, is this, that while he pays so little deference to the Platonic philosophy, while he habitually interprets the ideas of Plato only in the sense ascribed to them by Aristotle and other philosophers, the most hostile to him; while, consequently, he does not notice the Platonic ideology except to reject and confute it, he nevertheless gives us to understand, and professes a hundred times, that he has nothing to oppose to the ideology of St. Augustine; that he agrees that it is not the secondary truths which serve as the rule of our judgments, but rather the one only and primary truth which is the divine light and God himself; that he agrees that our soul is an image of God principally by the intelligence which we possess, into which the light of that first and one truth falling produces there an image of the intelligible things, as like as possible in the spiritual order to that figure which bodies cast upon a mirror by virtue of the exterior material light; that he agrees that our intellect is like wax which receives the impression of the primary truth as if from a seal; that he agrees that those universals from which metaphysics works under the form of principles, mathematics under the form of axioms, morals under the form of unchangeable, imperishable laws, these universals, (questi generali,) I say, and nothing else, St. Thomas admits to be eternal, in the eternal light of the eternal truth, which is the light of the divine intelligence.[118] Is there any great need of certifying that these formulæ to which St. Thomas agrees are not a single one of them taken from Aristotle, but are without exception taken from St. Augustine himself? Therefore St. Thomas, who had to treat the ideology of Plato, as it was presented to him, as absurd, sustains and honors as much as we could wish the Augustinian ideology; that is to say, he makes Augustinian and not Platonic the ideology of the eighth book of The City of God.[119]
What should hinder us from passing for an instant to those other books altogether similar to this one, Of the Trinity, Of the Literal Interpretation of Genesis, and the Confessions? The last five books of The Trinity are, indeed, a complete ideology which for novelty, sublimity, insight, and scientific force cannot be equalled in the whole range of human science. I will cite only one passage, however, which amid so many others is especially noteworthy, that one, namely, in which Augustine protects and defends, (who would believe it?) against Plato himself, that ideology which is nowadays called Platonic. Here it may be seen in express words.
"Plato, that noble philosopher, ... related that a certain boy who was asked some questions, I know not precisely what, in geometry, answered like a person extremely skilled in that branch of study; whence he attempted to prove that the souls of men have lived here before they were in their present bodies.... But we ought rather to believe that the nature of the intellectual mind was so created that, being naturally coördinated by the Creator to intelligible things, it sees them in a certain incorporeal light sui generis, in the same way that the bodily eye sees those things which are circumjacent to it in this corporeal light for which it has been created with a natural capacity and congruity."[120]
This passage being only an incident in connection with the whole context, we find him saying a little above that this incorporeal light is nothing else than the truth; that these intelligible things are the eternal reasons, and a little below, that this light and these things are "something eternal and unchangeable;" that our soul is made naturally in the image of God, inasmuch as "it can use reason and intelligence to know and form a conception of God," and as noted in another place, "although the mind is not of the same nature with God, nevertheless the image of that nature which is more perfect than any other must be sought and found in that part of our nature which is more perfect than any other."[121]
Joining together and recapitulating all this in the Confessions, he says in formal terms:
"Behold how much I have wandered about in my memory seeking thee, O Lord! and I have not found thee outside of it; ... for where I have found the truth, there I have found my God, the truth itself."[122]
Moreover, in those most stupendous books of the Literal Interpretation of Genesis, he undertakes to distinguish partitively the vision in the light of the truth from all the other manners of vision conceded to the nature of the human soul, and terminates with a final contrast which presents the fundamental opposition between the intelligent soul and its intellectual light in these words:
"Even in that kind of things seen by intellectual vision, (intellectualium visorum, understand here that which he is wont to call intellectum rationale,) those which are seen in the soul itself, as virtues, the contraries of which are vices, are one thing; ... the light itself by which the soul is illuminated, so that it is able to see in a true intellectual apprehension all things either in itself (rational knowledge) or in that (intellectual knowledge;) for that indeed is God himself; but this created existence, although made rational and intelligent (these two terms correspond to the two members, either in itself, or in that) after his image, when it attempts to gaze upon that light trembles with weakness, and can do but little; yet it derives from thence whatever it does understand according to its ability. When, therefore, it is rapt into that region, and, being withdrawn from the senses, is brought more directly face to face with that vision, not by any local presence in space, but in a manner peculiar to itself; it even sees in a way superior to its ordinary power that by the aid of which it also sees whatsoever it does see in itself by understanding."[123]
The few moments which remain to me will barely suffice for the briefest possible exposition of the contrast between the belligerent ideology of modern Catholics and the certain and incontestable ideology founded by the prince of all our philosophers, of which I have just given a sketch in his own words. I feel bound to say one thing here which has probably not been attended to, but is nevertheless not the less true or the less demonstrable to a wise critical judgment. However much it is to be lamented that the modern philosophy of the Catholic masters, through a miserable obliviousness of St. Augustine and St. Thomas, has brought once more into vogue and patronized so long, in great measure so blindly also, the Gentile dispute between the ideology of Plato and that of Aristotle; this most obstinate war, more bitterly waged in our day than ever before, has no right to be considered as excusable. Whoever will look a little into the interior of this matter, will be persuaded that the great mass of questions of this kind should rather be regarded as vain and superfluous, than as founded on unreasonable or unjust opinions. The Catholic ontologists and the Catholic psychologists sustain one and the same thing in two contrary parties; but that which all in common wish to maintain appears to the members of one party to be badly comprehended and worse defined by those of the other. All say unanimously, We ought to hold that theory alone as good and perfect in which is maintained the capital distinction between God and his creation; in which is firmly established the knowledge of God on the one hand, and that of things created on the other; in which neither the reality of the divine nature, which is the principle of every other reality, nor the reality of that which is created, apart from which that principle itself is no longer such, and all knowledge is overturned and destroyed from summit to foundation, is compromised. This all profess and maintain. But when it comes to the definition of a theory sufficient for such a lofty scope, the one party divide themselves from the other through the diverse aspect in which they regard, on the one side, that most sublime and universal truth which they hold as anterior to the mind, and, on the other side, the multitude of created natures which are perceived by the internal or external sensible faculty. To make my meaning clearer, there are two points to be made secure in ideology: the truth by which all things which are true exist; and the true things which furnish the argument by which their principle, that is, the truth, is proved. The psychologists observe the following maxim, which is irreprehensible. It is impossible to prove the existence of the creator without asserting and proving the existence of the creation; since we cannot attain to the scientific notion of the truth except by the medium of the knowledge of actualities. The ontologists contemplate the matter from another entirely diverse side, reasoning with equal evidence in this form. To know a thing to a certain extent, is to distinguish to the same extent whether it be true or false; but we must necessarily distinguish whether a thing be true or false by the light of truth--the truth, however, is God; therefore, without an interior and divine light, neither man nor angel can know any thing whatsoever. But take care, exclaim the psychologists, that you do not by such a method destroy physical cognition; in fact, if every thing is known in the truth, which is eternal and immutable, created things, which are mutable and temporal, cannot be known at all. You ought rather to take much greater care, reply the ontologists, lest by your mode of reasoning you deny and destroy metaphysical cognition; in fact, the universal cannot be any kind of created thing, since every creature is completely individual and particular; wherefore, it follows, from your statement, that the universals are nothing either physically or metaphysically. The psychologists rejoin by saying, God in creating things renders them knowable; therefore, when we know them, this comes from the fact that they are thus created--that is, precisely knowable. The ontologists with equal force respond, We agree entirely that created things are knowable because they are created; but since they would not be created except for the divine action of the creator, so they would not be any more knowable except for the divine action which creates their knowledge in the human mind; wherefore, in the same way as the drawing of a substance from nothing requires omnipotence, which is entirely from God, the giving of intelligence to a created spirit requires the truth, which is entirely from God, and is God himself. But, reply again the psychologists, you are obliged to admit the reality of the created apart from the divine reality; therefore, also, its cognoscibility. And you, reply the ontologists, ought further to maintain the contra-position of intelligence to sensibility. We, who profess that the intelligibility of things consists in a divine light, easily secure the contra-position of intelligence and sensibility by means of the contra-position of God and created substances visible in the creation; whereas, taking away the divine light, the creation alone remains to form the object of the sensibility on one part, and the object of intelligence on the other. But in that case it is impossible to secure one's self scientifically, logically, demonstratively, as is necessary, from confounding intellect with sense, which results--note it well!--in the denial of the creation of man itself, and the reduction to nullity not less of revealed religion than of natural morality.[124]
I will not proceed any further, but will leave it to the historians of Catholic philosophy to continue, if they see fit, this chain of parallel arguments, which describe the whole cause of combat between the two great modern schools. The sketch I have given will, I hope, suffice to convince you, first of all, of that which is chiefly commendable, honorable, and worthy of attention in this dispute, which, in many other respects, is so excessively wearisome. I have demonstrated that the two contrary parties look toward one and the same end--which is, to make valid in ideology the Catholic principle of creation; that both govern themselves by the same criterion--which is, the genuine and Catholic interpretation of the principle of creation, more or less known naturally, and perfectly defined in Catholic doctrine. All this is due to the praise of the two schools, and to the glory of that philosophy to which both pride themselves in belonging. This, however, would go but a little way toward the attainment of that peace at the present day so necessary, and always so desirable. Since, therefore, all truths are in agreement with each other, and are harmoniously united in one only and self-same truth, I have consequently wished to demonstrate by actual proofs that, aside from human weakness and the errors of certain teachers on both sides, the living and substantial arguments on either side which are brought forward in an opposite sense are not really opposed to each other, being drawn from the difference of terms, and the fact that they apprehend and contemplate from opposite sides that truth which is, above all others, universal and comprehensive in the principle common to both parties. This consideration, most powerful for promoting the peace we all desire and recommend, ought so much the more to be held as good and sound, as the Augustinian formula in which all the force of Catholic philosophy is concentrated with the most luminous evidence, appears divided into two parts, and distributed between the argumentation of the two opposite schools. For, while the one sustains that first clause which forbids to take away from the senses their proper capacity--neque sensibus adimentes id quod possunt--the other stands firmly by the last clause, which declares that the light of the mind is God, lumen autem mentium ad discenda omnia esse ipsum Deum a quo facta sunt omnia. But would it not be a great fault of the ideologists, to whatever school they might belong, if they should wilfully dismember and destroy the organism of Christian protology? Is it, perhaps, not true that the Catholic masters of modern psychologism and ontologism all completely agree in that maxim, as new in itself as it is felicitous for the whole human encyclopædia, and clearly distinct to us?
"The whole discipline of wisdom pertaining to the instruction of man is the correct discrimination of the creator from the creation; the worship of the one as possessing supreme dominion, and the acknowledgment of the simple subjection of the other."[125]
Let us then bring these things back to their origin, and the philosophers of our times will recognize that they have much the advantage in antiquity and merit of the philosophers of another class who are the chiefs of natural science; the psychologists will observe that they have a psychological formation in St. Thomas against which Catholic ontologism cannot have any just complaints; on the other hand, the ontologists will observe that there is an ontological form in St. Augustine to which nothing is wanting of that which Catholic psychologism can hold as correct. The time is past for beginning philosophy over again da capo; whoever wishes to participate in it, let him gather it from the most choice, weighty, and authoritative traditions. That peace which for so many ages it has been impossible to conclude, was already made centuries ago. There was no ideological dispute, (whoever maintained that there was?)--no! there was only diversity of method of exposition and of language, between St. Augustine and his most faithful disciple, who was in every sense the Angelical; and this was wrought by the infinite Providence, so that Catholic intellect might remake philosophy twice over by the two opposite ways, from intelligence to sense, and from sense to intelligence. It is a shame to mention the Platonists with dispraise, when our glory is a Catholic Plato; it is a vile thing to lose one's self in reproaches against Aristotle, after that a Catholic Aristotle has filled the whole church with the fame of his wisdom.
The learned Caramuele affirmed that if that ancient Plato of heathenism could have seen the Aristotle who diverged from him so widely, as St. Thomas re-cast him, corrected and entirely altered, he would have been forced to applaud him, and to declare himself satisfied with him. Cardinal Sigismund Gerdil announced and demonstrated[126] that in the ideology of St. Thomas more than one principle is encountered wonderfully conformed to the principles of St. Augustine. The Scuola di Filosofia Razionale of the excellent F. Milone is for this reason more precious and valuable in my eyes, that he, contrary to Gioberti, who is only one among numberless others, marks out a theory of peace between the ontological and psychological method, between St. Augustine and St. Thomas. It is a matter of the most transparent certainty that, if the ontologism of Catholic authors is reduced to a profession of the philosophical doctrines of St. Augustine, well understood and better exposed and elucidated, nothing can be more secure and more respectable among Catholics than ontologism; nor is it less certain and transparent that, if the psychologism of Catholic authors turns to a maintenance of the philosophical doctrines of St. Thomas, well and symmetrically arranged, and with fine language reduced to science and made accessible to our age, nothing can be more adapted to our time, or more suitable, or more irreprehensible than the same psychologism. Let Catholic philosophers follow the example of the holy church, who, since the time of St. Augustine and St. Thomas, has turned toward no one a regard more steady and fixed than to Augustine and Thomas.
In the name of these most authoritative and most blessed doctors, I pray for Catholic philosophy the just and desired tranquillity, which can only be obtained from a direction less arbitrary in the selection of questions, and more capable of embracing all the grand problems. Ideology distinguishes naturally between the objective and the subjective; in it the ontologists are accustomed to establish with sound reasoning the objectivity of the truth, and likewise the psychologists the subjectivity of signs and knowledge. If both the one and the other desire to become victors in such a grand combat, let them make place, as they ought, the ontologists to larger considerations respecting the created, non adimentes sensibus id quod possunt; and the psychologists to a greater security of the intelligibility of things, non dantes sensibus ultra quam possunt. Then, the choice will be free to all to select between the two opposite methods, and they can, in respect to that divine light, quo illustratur anima, profess indifferently the original formula of Catholic ontologism in St. Augustine, or the imitative exposition of Catholic psychologism in St. Thomas. With these peace-makers, so glorious, so well-deserving, so venerable, it appears to me that we ought at once to treat of peace. May these saints aid from heaven my humble undertaking!
FOOTNOTES:
[112] Rom. i. 19, 20; Acts xvii. 28; Colos. ii. 8. These texts are given according to St. Augustine's rendering. This gives "a constitutione mundi" instead of "a creatura mundi," as in the Vulgate. The author, following St. Augustine, Tertullian, and Cardinal Tolet, understands St. Paul to say that God has been manifested to men through his works ever since the world began.--Abridged from the note of the author.
[113] De Civ. Dei, lib. viii.; (1) cap. 1; (2) cap. 4; (3) cap. 5; (4) cap. 10; (5) cap. 9. This last quotation is abridged.--Trans.
[114] Civ. Dei, lib. viii. cap. 9.
[115] Ibid., lib. viii. cap. 10.
[116] Thomassin, Dogm. Theol. de Deo. Martin, _S. Aur. Aug. Hipponen. Epis. Philosophia_. Ed. Jul. Fabre. Parisiis. 1863.
[117] Civ. Dei, lib. viii. c. 7.
[118] Nothing is more noteworthy than this passage of the Summa. (Pars Prima, Qu. 15, a. 1, ad. 1.) Et sic etiam Aristoteles, lib. 3. Metaphys. improbat opinionem Platonis de ideis, secundum quod ponebat eas per se existentes, non in intellectu. In many other places, St. Thomas cites the doctrines of Plato on the faith of Aristotle. In support of the allegations of the text, consult the Summa. P. 1, qu. 16, a. 6. Ibid. ad. 1, et qu. 12, a. 2, et qu. 88, a. 3, ad. 1. Ibid. qu. 84, a. 5. Ibid. qu. 16, a. 7.
[119] F. Milone, in his Neapolitan edition, adds the following note: "Throughout this entire passage we find a mixture of the Platonic and the Augustinian, (p. 1, qu. 15, a. 3,) where St. Thomas appears to intend to collect from St. Augustine the true meaning of Plato, or again to remand to Plato the admirable design of the ideology of St. Augustine. Sed contra, ideæ sunt rationes in mente divina existentes, ut per Augustinum patet; sed omnium quæ cognoscit, Deus habet proprias rationes; ergo omnium quæ cognoscit habet ideam. Respondeo dicendum, quod cum ideæ a Platone ponerentur principia cognitionis rerum et generationis ipsarum, ad utrumque se habet idea prout in mente divina ponitur. Et secundum quod est principium factionis rerum, exemplar dici potest, et ad practicam cognitionem pertinet; secundum autem quod principium cognoscitivum est, proprie dicitur ratio, et potest etiam ad scientiam speculativum pertinere. There is not, I say, in all our own Marsilius, a more respectful and favorable comment upon Plato; but the key is found in that observation on which the whole thing depends, ut per Augustinum patet." Worthy of consideration under this head are also the articles 3, 4, and 5, under the 79th question.
[120] De Trin. lib. xii. § 24. Vide etiam Retract. lib. 1 cap. 4. Arnob. Contra Gentes, lib. 11. § 14. Tertull. De Anima, cap. 24 and 28.
[121] De Trin. lib. xii. § 2, 3, 5, 12, 23. Ibid. lib. xv. § 10. Ibid. lib. xiv. § 6, 11.
[122] Lib. x. cap. 24.
[123] De Gen. ad Litt. lib. xii. cap. 31, § 59.
[124] The Civilta Cattolica, (series v. vol. viii. 585) seems to have wished to continue the series of these opposing arguments of the antagonistic schools, where, in the name of those whom I call psychologists, it speaks thus: "To maintain the essential distinction between the sense and the intellect, it is not necessary to attribute to the latter the immediate perception of a divine object, as, to maintain the essential distinction between the body and the spirit, it is not necessary to ascribe to the second a divine existence. It suffices that as the spirit is differentiated from the body by the immateriality of its essence, so the intellect should be differentiated from the sense by the immateriality of its cognoscitive power." If it be so, the ontologists will respond, that in the above passage the word sense signifies only that with which we perceive bodies; so that to sense is given as its term or object that which is corporeal, and to intellect that which is spiritual. Now, S. Augustine had at first adopted the same language; but afterward he recognized its imperfection, and in his Retractations (lib. i. cap. 1, 3, 4) declares that the word sense ought to include also the intimate sense with which the soul perceives what passes within itself. Then this has as object that which is spiritual. Therefore the spirituality of its object cannot any longer serve to differentiate intellect from sense. (Vid. La Scuola of F. Milone, p. 32, et seq.)
[125] St. Aug. lib. 83, Quæst. ad qu. 81.
[126] Difesa di Malebr. diss. prelim. § 25.
MY CHRISTMAS GIFT.
On the eve of Christmas Day, Ere the moon began to rise, I fell to dreaming. When a fairy did display, Spread before my wond'ring eyes, Bright jewels gleaming Like the stars at night. Then to me--"Choose which to send As a present to your friend, And thus your friendship plight." Ah! how rare the jewels seemed Ere those words were spoken. After, I no longer deemed Gems a fitting token. "Jewels may her garments grace: 'Tis not there that I would place Something to remind her thought Of the friendship of my heart. Not all gems that may be bought Would of that be counterpart." "Hoity, toity!" said the fairy, "This is extraordinary! Don't you know 'tis customary?" "Yes," said I; "but on this morn Could I but her heart adorn With some little gift of mine, Then 'twould have a fitting shrine." Gathering up her jewels rare, Said the fairy, "Don't despair. Send her what her heart can wear." Reaching out my eager hand-- "Have you in all fairy-land Such a boon at my command?" Raising up her eyes to heaven-- "Only there such gifts are given. Gifts that make the heart more fair God bestows. The price--a prayer."
God knows the prayer is said, my friend. I doubt not He the gift will send.
A HERO, OR A HEROINE?
XVI. GOOD-NIGHT
During the latter part of Margaret's stay at Shellbeach, the doctor noticed that he never saw her alone; and as formerly he had observed, with amusement, Miss Spelman's many admirable reasons for leaving the room, he imagined that Miss Lester had been the cause of the change. "She wants to prevent my going too far," he said to himself; and then with a rather bitter laugh, "She need not be afraid." He often met her riding alone on the Marchioness, or caught sight of her at sunset on the beach with her little dog, but they had very little satisfactory conversation of any kind together. Once or twice she made allusions before him to a "period of importance," or to a "momentous decision," or to the "turning-point of her existence," which was at hand; but it was always as a joke, and she seemed to enjoy his surprise and embarrassment.
"She does not want me to forget July 18th, the date of our absurd agreement," he said mentally. "What a fool I was to allow such a nonsensical arrangement! I wish I were well out of the scrape."
At last, on the evening of the appointed day, Miss Spelman gave a little tea-party and Dr. James was present. He had resolved that he would decline; but he was curious to see what Miss Lester would do and say, and so, at some inconvenience to himself, he made his appearance among the guests. He happened once to have expressed his dislike to pink bonnets, and indeed to that color for any part of a lady's dress; and lo, on this occasion Margaret came to meet him, radiantly smiling in rose-colored muslin, with delicate roses to match in her hair and on her breast! It was extremely becoming, the doctor perceived, and he saw also that her spirits were at their height. He inwardly groaned at the prospect of the evening before him. It was pleasant, however; even he acknowledged it. Margaret's mischievous remarks were few, and she seemed to have the power of drawing people out and making every one appear his best; every one, the doctor felt, except himself. In vain he exerted himself to be agreeable and unconscious; he was grave and preoccupied. The thought of that dreadful letter which he had promised to write that very evening weighed on his mind, and he was perplexed by doubts and questions concerning it, himself, and Miss Lester. Was he not taking her words too literally? Had she the remotest idea of writing to him? or would it not end in his making an utter fool of himself? No; never before had she been so handsome, so gay, so universally kind. Little Miss Spelman caught the infectious cordiality, and beamed upon her guests with overflowing hospitality.
The windows and doors stood open, the sweet breath of roses was in the air, and suddenly from the garden came the sound of instruments. A serenade! Miss Spelman and every one looked at each other in surprise, for the music was not such as was obtainable in Sealing. But a glance at Margaret convinced all that she was the author of this unexpected pleasure. She said in a low voice to her aunt, "This is my contribution to the general festivity;" and it was indeed a delightful addition. The band played at intervals through the evening, the music varying from grave to gay, from solemn to pathetic.
The Shellbeach tea-parties were early affairs, and at ten o'clock the guests reluctantly departed, almost all driving home to Sealing, and a few from the neighboring houses walking slowly along the road, with the sweet notes of the music still in their ears. Dr. James lingered. Why, he could not have told; and it was with a start that, turning away from the window, he saw that he was the very last. He apologized; but Miss Selina coming to him, kindly took his hand,
"You are a true friend, you know, Dr. James," she said, "and should feel yourself at home."
Margaret was at the door, bidding good-night to the last guests, when the doctor, after warmly shaking Miss Spelman's hand, came into the hall for his hat. She walked with him down the little path to the front gate, while the air of the "Last Rose of Summer" came to them from the garden, and for the first time that evening he saw that her face was serious.
"I would like to walk home with you, in this lovely moonlight," she said.
"Well, will you not come? I will gladly accompany you back."
"No; there will not be time. You forget that you and I have an engagement at eleven o'clock this evening." Then, as he did not know how to reply, she continued, "I shall send you a note, to-morrow morning, at seven, and the boy will bring me back, not an answer, for it will not be that, but a corresponding note from you."
"Yes, Miss Lester, it shall be ready, if you say so."
"I do. Good night, Dr. James. Give me your hand; we are friends, are we not?"
"I believe we are. Yes, Miss Lester, I know we are friends to-night."
"And we shall be friends to-morrow; remember that I say so. Good-night."
She leaned on the little gate, and watched him as he walked away without once turning back. The music stopped, and a voice was heard calling, "Margaret!" She slowly walked into the house, and, sitting quietly down by her aunt on the sofa, told her that Jessie Edgar's marriage was fixed for the first day of September, and she was going to Newport, to be with Jessie till the wedding.
"Yes, my dear," returned Miss Selina rather plaintively. "I must not be selfish; but when do you think of leaving me?"
"To-morrow."
Poor Miss Spelman was astounded, shocked, and hurt; but Margaret pacified and consoled her. She assured her that it was a great deal better than if they had had this separation hanging over them for weeks, and if she had been obliged to take a formal leave of every body.
"Now I have bidden them good-by in the pleasantest way," she said; "they are all pleased with me, and so must you be, too, dear, dear Aunt Selina! We are too good friends to disagree about this."
"But you will come back after the wedding, dear? You feel this is your home, do you not?"
"I will come back, but not immediately. I mean to pass next winter in New York; and you will come and make me a long visit, to make up for my living on you so long here." And Margaret drew so bright a picture of the good times they would have together in New York that Miss Spelman bade her good-night quite happily. Margaret's movements were always so sudden that the quiet old lady was not, after all, as surprised as might have been expected.
"It was just like her," she said; "such decision of mind, such energy of character!"
XVII. CONQUERED BY CONQUERING
Margaret, meanwhile, who had quietly completed all her arrangements and packed her trunks, went to her room, and, after laying aside her rose-colored dress, and putting on her wrapper, sat down to her table and wrote her letter. It did not seem at all difficult to her to write, though she once or twice laid down her pen and thought for a few minutes, with a grave face.
She wrote no rough copy, and made no alterations; but went on firmly, line by line, till she had signed her name, when she read it carefully over, sealed and directed it. It took her about half an hour, and then she went directly to bed, and slept as soundly as a child.
Dr. James's state of mind grew worse and worse, as he approached his home, and, after leaving Rosanna at her stable, he walked up and down before the house many times, before he went in to write his letter. Never before had any letter given him such trouble. He wrote and rewrote it; left it and walked about his room; took refuge in a book, and then put it down in despair. At last he resolved to try for the last time, and keep what he should write; and this was his letter:
"MY DEAR MISS LESTER: I have a humiliating confession to make to you; but before I make it (afterward it would be impossible) I feel obliged to say to you that your conduct since you have been at Shellbeach has compelled my respect and admiration. I appreciate the courage and earnestness with which you adopted your change of life, and, instead of seeking in it only your own amusement, made your stay here not only a pleasure to your friends, but a blessing to persons whose number I can only guess at, but whom your own heart knows.
"I know, Miss Lester, you are wealthy; I knew it long before you came here. And your wealth, I acknowledge it to my shame, has been a temptation to me. I believe you consider all men mercenary, and fortune-hunters. I think you are mistaken; and I wish you to take the humiliation of what I am going to say as a proof that you are wrong. Miss Lester, I know I do not love you, and here is the proof: If I think of you as my wife, the thought of what your money would be to me comes first to my mind. Having said that, I can say no more; but I am, always yours faithfully,
"FRANCIS JAMES.
"SHELLBEACH, July 18, 1868."
The clock struck one as the doctor signed his name, tore up the unfinished letters which lay around him, and hastened to extinguish his light and go to bed. He was angry with himself, and disgusted with his letter; and for the first time for years, found that he could not sleep. One minute he repented of what he had done, and called himself a fool; the next, he said to himself, "I must tell her the truth; she deserves it." He then asked himself what she did deserve? It was plain to him what her plan of action was to be: she wished to part friends, because she supposed that she would by her letter give a dreadful blow to his hopes, and consign him to despair. At this, he laughed with pleasure, to think that his letter would undeceive and disappoint her. Then rose up clearly before him the always recurring temptation of his great need of money, and all the good he could do with it. What a chance had been offered him! Would he ever have such another? Might he not, if he had gone to work differently, won her heart? Other men had done such things; and he was better worthy of her, he was sure of it, than the society-men she had so often spoken of with contempt. Had he not heard that "any man can have any woman"? No, that was not right; it was, "Any woman can have any man." Then, had she tried to ensnare him? had she really endeavored to please him? He could not say she had; but he remembered, with some discomfiture, her apparent enjoyment in shocking and teasing him. She was an enigma; but he believed her honest, and was glad he had told her the truth.
To tell all Dr. James's reflections of that night, would take considerably longer than it took him to make them, which was two or three hours; so we will leave him to his uncomfortable pillow, and not return to him till he opened his chamber-door, at seven o'clock in the morning, and saw Tommy McNally waiting with a letter in his hand. The doctor handed the boy his own, and walked into his study, where he sat down at his table and contemplated the square white envelope and graceful monogram, and his own name written in a large, firm hand. He slowly opened the letter, struck by its neatness and the fair, distinct writing, and read as follows:
"SWEET BRIER COTTAGE,} July 18, 1868.}
"MY DEAR DR. JAMES: When, six months ago, I promised to write you this letter, I certainly had no idea that I should say in it what I am about to say now. Whether, if this possibility had occurred to me, I should have made that promise, or whether I should have come to Shellbeach at all, it is profitless to consider.
"I know you always speak the truth frankly, and I am resolved, in all my dealings with you, to do the same; for I feel that I shall thus best show my appreciation and approbation of your character, and of the plain truth which I know you will write to me to-night. You deserve honest treatment, and you shall have it. I consider the time I have spent here to be the great lesson of my life, and one which I on no account regret, though I weigh well the significance of the words. I have learned to know and value the useful and unselfish life and work of one man, and from him to believe in the capacity for noble things in other people whom I once despised. In recognizing your superiority, I have grown humble; and from your wisdom and good sense, I have come to be aware of my own ignorance and conceit. I know how strongly you will object to hearing this, but be patient a little longer. You have given me a lesson you will be glad to hear of, and it is this: I believe that a useless life will never again content me, and that to do some active good will be the only way to make my life happy.
"But you will say all this is not to the purpose, and not in the bond. You are very right; and though I beat round the bush, I do not mean to beg the question, and I know very well that honor, esteem, appreciation, good resolutions, etc., etc., were not to be the subjects of this letter. Truly then, I love you, and I have never loved before. I believe that to be your wife, in this little town, with no society and no excitements, to share your work and your poverty, (if poverty indeed it were,) would be a happy lot. I tell you this, because I trust you; I know it is not maidenly, but it is honest. I shall not see you again; for I know you do not love me, and that your letter will tell the truth. I thank you for your kindness, and your wise and good advice. I hope it has not all been lost upon me. I hope you will sometimes let me know what you are interested in, and how you are prospering.
"Good-by, and believe me your true friend,
MARGARET LESTER.
"Once more, I do not regret any thing."
Poor Dr. James! He read the last word, and sat like a man in a dream staring at the letter before him. Suddenly he started up, seized his hat from its peg, put it on, and rushed to the door; then came back, threw his hat away from him and sat down again, burying his face in his hands. Fool, fool that he had been! What had he thrown away? Was there ever a woman like this? What would it not be for him, for any man, to go through life with such a companion; who would never hold him back from what was right; who would not fear to meet any thing for the sake of truth and justice? What woman in a hundred would have done this? knowing, too, that her love was not returned. And how did she know it? Oh! how much more clear-sighted she had been than he, with all his wisdom and experience! If he had not shut his eyes, if he could have had the least suspicion of this, what a difference might it not have made? Then he resolved to seek her, to go through fire and water if need be, if he could only find her, and bring her back, and never let her leave him again.
At that moment, the words he had written to her came before him, and threw him again into despair. No; all was lost! He had insulted her, causelessly and needlessly; he had said that he valued her money more than herself! Her money! Would she had not a cent; would she were dependent and friendless, that he might work for her, share with her all that he had, and win name and fame for her!
When Mrs. Day, his housekeeper, put her head into his room, exclaiming that the breakfast-bell had rung half an hour ago, he followed her to the dining-room and swallowed his cold coffee without a word, with a meekness that touched the heart of his Gorgon. She proposed boiling him an egg, or cutting a few shavings of ham; but the doctor declined her attentions (to her great relief) and hurried to the stable for Rosanna. He drove twenty miles away to his most distant patient, whom he alarmed by his gloomy face and abrupt manner; he drove Rosanna back to Sealing at a rate she was unaccustomed to, and walking up the street--it was then late in the afternoon--encountered Tommy McNally, roaring at the top of his voice, and rubbing his eyes as if he wished to leave in them no powers of vision. Dr. James stopped and asked rather crossly what ailed him:
"O doctor! she's gone away, and she's given me this," holding up a dollar bill and continuing to cry, "and one for each of us; and she's gone away, and we won't see her any more!"
"Do you mean Miss Lester?"
"Yes, doctor," said Tommy, beginning to dry his eyes. "I've been to the station and seen her go off; and she told me to be a good boy and help mother."
"Mind you do it," said the doctor, hurrying away and home to his cold dinner. That evening he called on Father Barry, and heard that Margaret had been there on her way to the cars, and had left directions for all her protégés, especially the McNallys. Father Barry seemed quite dejected about her departure, and much surprised at it; but the doctor, of course, chose to throw no light on the subject.
Chapter XVIII
"THE HEARTBREAK OF TO-MORROW."
A few days after, as soon as Dr. James could make up his mind to do so, he called on Miss Spelman, and found the house quite as forlorn as he had expected, and his old friend very glad to receive sympathy. She said she had heard from her niece that very day.
"It was an amusing, affectionate letter," said Miss Selina, "just like her. Poor child! she will be easy now she is with her friend. She was very much changed, doctor."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, she had grown so quiet and so strange--that is, she seemed to me strange; she would sit so long without speaking a word; and then she was much more affectionate--I mean more demonstrative--than when she first came; but she seemed to have lost her good spirits."
"I thought she seemed much as usual whenever I saw her."
"Yes, she was gayer than ever when any one was here; but that was only put on. Poor child! she felt Jessie's marriage, and that she was so soon to be separated from the friend of her childhood."
Miss Spelman seemed to think the doctor needed consolation, and from little remarks and insinuations, he imagined that she considered him suffering from disappointment; he did not try to undeceive her, for was it not true?
He found Martha Burney a great comfort; to her he sometimes talked of Margaret, and from her he learned to understand things in her character which had been puzzling to him before. And the more he became convinced that Margaret had spoken the truth in saying that she loved him, the more he wondered at and admired her for so completely concealing it from him in their intercourse; and the better he understood that her apparent levity and exaggerated spirits were no doubt assumed in order to hide her deeper feelings. He thought much of all these things, and wondered more; but he kept his secret and hers, and only suspected sometimes that Miss Burney knew more than any one else about the matter.
Dr. James was a disappointed man, and he made no effort to disguise it from himself; but he was not a man to sit down in despair and waste his life in regrets. So, recognizing the fact that he had thrown away a great chance of happiness, and been wholly to blame for it, he resolutely turned the energy of his thoughts into other channels, and worked harder than ever. But Sealing became unutterably wearisome to him; it was only by iron determination that he went through with his daily round of duties, and as for society, he confined himself exclusively to making the calls that he imposed on himself, and going for relaxation to Father Barry and Miss Burney.
In the middle of August he left Richards in charge, and went for a week to his mother and sisters in Maine.
XIX. A LAST LOOK
Soon after Dr. James's return from Maine, he was apprised by his friend Philip of his approaching wedding, to take place at Newport, on September first. Philip urged his and Jessie's wish that he should be a groomsman; but this Dr. James, knowing that Margaret would of course be a bridesmaid, declared would be out of the question. He unwillingly promised to be present at both wedding and reception, because he had no reason to give for declining; and he looked forward to the day with mingled feelings of dread and impatience. He bought a dress suit for the first time for years; and when he was arrayed in state, gloves and all, surveyed himself from head to foot with strong disapprobation. He had spent the night at a hotel in Newport, and, having completed his toilet, descended to the parlor, where he had an opportunity of beholding his tout ensemble in the long glass between the windows.
"I look like the ass in the lion's skin," he said to himself; "only I suppose that was too big for him, while every thing I have on is too small for me. I sha'n't be myself again till I get off these vanities."
He arrived at the church full half an hour before the time, he was so afraid of being late, and chose his seat up-stairs, where he could see better without being conspicuous. He observed the showy dresses and latest fashions with wonder and disapproval, and speculated on the probable cost of the ladies assembled to their husbands and fathers, till the clock pointed to twelve and the bridal party arrived. First came a troop of little girls in white, with pink and blue sashes, carrying baskets of flowers; then Mrs. Edgar with Philip; the six bridesmaids followed, headed by Margaret, each accompanied by her groomsman, and the doctor noticed that Miss Lester's companion was a tall, handsome fellow, with a fair mustache; last came the bride, on the arm of an elderly man, whom Dr. James supposed to be her uncle.
The ceremony was soon over, and the church rapidly becoming deserted, when Dr. James descended from his post of observation, and got into a carriage to go to Mrs. Edgar's house. He found the two handsome parlors quite full, and stood for a few minutes at the door observing the scene before him.
The bride and bridegroom stood at the end of the room, with the pretty children playing in the bay-window behind them. Philip looked as proud and beaming as might have been expected, and Jessie was just what the doctor thought she would be: very pretty and refined, looking timid and rather flushed at receiving so many congratulations. His eyes scarcely rested on her; for he was immediately conscious of Margaret standing near her, apparently dividing her attentions pretty equally between three gentlemen. Her dress was white, very rich and flowing; she held a beautiful bouquet, and there were rose-buds in her hair and on her dress. The next thing he knew, one of the gentlemen-managers was asking his name, he was led up and presented, and found himself embraced by Philip, and greeted with a sweet smile by Jessie.
"He is the best fellow in the world," said the bridegroom; and Jessie added,
"We are very glad to see you, Dr. James; it was very kind of you to come."
Then he turned to find Margaret by his side, with the smile he knew so well, and the cordial, outstretched hand. His face flushed painfully, but he was not called upon to speak, for Philip remarked,
"Oh! yes, you are old acquaintances, are you not? Where is Mrs. Edgar? I want her so much to see him. Oh! there she is at the end of the other room. I suppose it wouldn't do for me to leave Jessie." And he turned to his bride with a face full of happiness.
"I will go with Dr. James," said Margaret at once; and he found himself walking, with her on his arm, through the crowd of people, some of whom regarded him with curiosity.
"You were at the church, were you not?" began Margaret at once; "and was she not a lovely bride? I was very much afraid it would be a showery wedding; but Jessie behaved very well, only she arrived at home a perfect Niobe, and had to be consoled in private before she could face all these people."
"Why should she have to be consoled?"
"Now, that's just what I say, Dr. James; why does she marry him if it doesn't make her happy? Philip, however, seems to understand her, and I leave to him the task of comforting. She is very fond of her mother, and it is very hard for her to live so far away, you know."
"Miss Lester, you look thin and pale," the doctor said very abruptly; he did not mean to say it, the words came almost involuntarily.
"Yes, this has been a wearing time for all of us; I am glad it is nearly over. Here we are. Mrs. Edgar, this is Philip's friend and mine, Dr. James."
The doctor received the kindest greeting, and was overpowered with questions about his mother, who had been a school friend of Mrs. Edgar, and his sisters. He tried to answer them intelligibly, thinking, however, only of Miss Lester, and conscious that she had turned away to be polite to other guests. Mrs. Edgar then introduced him to Jessie's sister Isabel, a fresh little girl of sixteen, who looked full of fun and mischief, and she in turn presented him to a friend, a tall young lady, who immediately began to talk to him so fast that he could hardly keep up with her. Mrs. Edgar suggested that he should get some ice-cream for himself and them, and then occupied herself with other people, considering that her duties of hospitality to him were performed. Dr. James went obediently into the next room and returned, after some difficulties, with ices and cake, and did his best to be polite. Soon Isabel was sent into the other room to see about the children, and the talkative young lady became engaged in conversation with an equally voluble young gentleman, so that Dr. James found himself again alone. He put down his untasted cake, and seeing a glass of wine near him, which seemed to belong to no one, he drank it and felt rather better. The solitariness one sometimes feels in a crowd came over him, and he looked from one strange face to another, feeling himself completely out of place. Mrs. Edgar was absorbed in duties of hospitality; Jessie and Philip in the distance, during a pause in the stream of guests, were engrossed in each other; even Margaret seemed to have completely forgotten him, and he saw her earnestly talking with her handsome groomsman. He regretted that he had refused to be a groomsman; no doubt he would have been assigned to Margaret, as the corresponding "best friend," and then she would have been talking to him instead of to that fellow; from which it will be seen that he had already arrived at a stage of lover-like inconsistency, since his sole motive for declining his friend's invitation had been his dread of encountering Miss Lester.
He saw that many people were going, and it came to him as a happy thought that he might go too. He interrupted Mrs. Edgar to shake hands again with her, observed that Margaret was near the door, and next made his way to Philip, with whom he had a little talk, unsatisfactory, of course, but one's best friend must be excused for being preoccupied on such an occasion. Philip parted from him with resignation, saying that he must come to California and settle, that he would do splendidly there and make a fortune. Such a prospect seemed to the doctor dreary in the extreme; and owning to himself that he did not at all begrudge to Philip his pretty and delicate bride, he bade her a friendly farewell, and approached Margaret. He was glad to interrupt the groomsman in the sotto voce remarks he was making, and to have Margaret turn at once to him and leave her companion to his own reflections.
"Good-by, Miss Lester. I go back to Sealing this afternoon."
"Good-by, Dr. James. I am very glad you came." That was all; how soon these words were said! Again he met the straightforward look of those clear, brown eyes; again he felt the kind pressure of her hand. Her glove was off and so was his, (not accident on his part,) and he felt that her hand was cold. He was on the point of saying, "How pale you are!" but remembered just in time, that he had made that remark before.
In another minute he was outside the door, and driving to the hotel. As he drew his tight boots from his aching feet, and resumed his comfortable, familiar clothes, he said to himself,
"This episode in my life is closed. I must shut her completely out of my existence, and go on as if there were no such woman as Margaret Lester."
So he took the five o'clock train, and arrived safely in Sealing that night.
XX. MISS BURNEY LEAVES SHELLBEACH
One evening, two or three weeks after the wedding at Newport, Dr. James was sitting with Miss Burney in her little parlor. They often used that privilege of fast friends, silence; and it was after an unbroken pause of full a quarter of an hour that Martha looked up from her sewing, and said:
"Why did you never notice that I have not resumed my school-work this year?"
"I have noticed it; but supposed you had some good reason, which you would tell me when you were ready."
"I am ready now. I have given up teaching for the present, and perhaps for ever." The doctor made no reply, only showing by his attentive face that he was listening.
"Margaret has offered me a home, and I have accepted it."
"I imagined you were too proud to accept assistance from any body."
"From any body else except her. In the first place, she is rich and can afford it; secondly, it makes her happy to help people; thirdly, I love her and she loves me, and that is the best reason of all."
"You are right; and what decided you to take this step?"
"It seems she has had it in her mind ever since last spring; however, she only said to me, just before she left here, that she hoped I would make no arrangements for the winter, without first telling her my plans. Two weeks ago, I received a letter from her, saying that she had decided not to live any longer with Mrs. Edgar; but, after passing the month of September at Newport, to take a house for herself in New York. She said she could not live alone, and that she must have some one for company and for the sake of appearances. She begged me to be that somebody, because there was no one else with whom she could feel independent, and free to do what she chose. I considered the subject a week, and then wrote her my consent to do as she wished, for next winter at least. It will be a great advantage to me, of course, as well as a pleasure. Still I should not think of it on that account for a moment, if I did not believe that such an arrangement would be a good thing for her as well as for me. I do believe so, and therefore I am going to try the experiment."
"You will not repent it, I am sure. And when do you go?"
"Next week."
"Has she bought her house?"
"She has not decided yet, and wants my help about furnishing, etc.; so the sooner I go the better."
"Is she in New York now?"
"Yes, at a private boarding-house, where I am to stay with her till the house is ready."
Dr. James had made up his mind that nothing would astonish him again, yet this did take him by surprise; after he thought about it, however, he only wondered such an arrangement had not occurred to him before. Miss Burney was a great loss to him; for there was no other woman whose society was any pleasure to him, and Father Barry was now the only person with whom he had any sympathy, and of him he saw more and more.
He begged Martha Burney to write to him, but she was a miserable correspondent; her letters were few and far between, and never told him what he wanted to know. He was obliged to go to Miss Spelman for all his information regarding these two people in whom he was so deeply interested. He heard from her that Margaret had bought a very pretty little house, furnished it, and was comfortably established with Martha. She said Margaret always wrote in excellent spirits, and seemed to her to be enjoying her winter very much.
The doctor's "young man" Richards, thanks to the careful instructions and preparation he had received, was now become of great assistance, and, being left in charge, had very successfully treated several cases, and even performed very well one or two surgical operations, so that people began to feel considerable confidence in him. Dr. James encouraged this as much as possible; for the idea of giving up his practice at Shellbeach and vicinity had taken strong hold on him. Finding that he left his patients in competent hands, he often went away on business for a week at a time, and felt his own work considerably lightened.
At Christmas time, Miss Spelman went to New York, and staid a month, and returned eloquent about the delights of her niece's establishment, and the charming people she had met. The doctor, by careful questions, learned from her that Margaret was occupied with countless good works and charities, though Miss Selina seemed to have only a vague idea what they were. She described to her attentive auditor how she breakfasted in her own room, every day, at ten o'clock, or as much later as she liked, (which had always been her idea of comfort,) and then had the carriage to do what she chose till luncheon at two, when she saw Margaret for the first time; for she was always full of her charitable engagements till one, when she came home to dress. After luncheon, in time for which some pleasant person always dropped in, they drove, visited, or shopped, and dined at six. Then Miss Spelman told of the opera, and concerts, and a dinner-party that Margaret gave while she was there, and of the old friends she had met, and of the many calls and great attention she had received; and she went on, telling about herself, with only now and then a word about Margaret, till the doctor was quite tired of listening. He was very curious about Margaret's morning work; of that his old friend, having seen nothing, could give no information; and after the account of the gayeties of Miss Lester's household, Doctor James grew more restless than ever.
XXI. SEEK YE FIRST THE KINGDOM OF GOD
January wore away, and February, and at last, on one of the first days of the first month of spring, a raw and dreary day, when Dr. James had been glad that no patient needed his attendance, he had made a bright little fire, and was sitting in his study chair, deeply engaged with the last number of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, which Father Barry had lent him. Richards came in from the post-office, laid the doctor's mail upon the table, and then went home to his mother's house. Dr. James very deliberately finished the article he was reading, stared at the fire for a few minutes, and then carelessly took up his letters and glanced at the handwritings. There was one from his sister Lucy, one from a medical friend at the West, and--what was this?--one in a clear, firm hand, which gave him a start, and brought him very quickly out of his reverie.
"From Margaret Lester! What can she have to say to me?"
A misgiving came over him as he held the letter in his hand, and he delayed opening it. What might not her boldness and independence be capable of! He smiled contemptuously as he realized that his imagination was running away with him.
"She is engaged, I suppose," and he quickly broke the seal.
"MY DEAR FRIEND: I write to you because this is the very happiest day of my life, and because I owe that happiness, after God, to you.
"Do you remember your words, 'For the direction of practical, systematic good works, I advise you to go to the Catholic priest'? Well, I established myself in New York with the object of making myself happy by doing as much good to the poor as I was able; and as soon as I asked myself how I should begin, I thought of your words, and said to myself, 'I found how true that advice was in that quiet little town; now, why should it not hold good in a great city like this, where there is so much more misery, and where opportunities for doing good are so much greater?' So I said to my cook, whom I found to be a good Catholic, going to her confessions and communions regularly, 'Where does your priest live? For I want to go and see him.' She gladly told me where to find him, and I went where she directed me, and found an old, white-headed Frenchman with most courtly manners, before whom I felt as unpolished as a school-girl. I told him the simple truth, and asked to be instructed as to how I could aid the poor. Well, we sat down, and he gave me a little sketch of the different Catholic charities in New York, and each one, as he described it, seemed to me best of all; and I saw how much more good I could do by aiding those perfectly organized charities than by working on my own responsibility. He ended by telling me of a lady who would take me with her and show me all these institutions.
"From that day began for me a life of revelations. I had always dreamed of lives of heroism; and I began to see that they were not only possible, but of every-day occurrence among those men and women devoted to works of mercy. Then came the question, What is it that inspires such self-sacrifice, such complete abnegation and ignoring of self, such all-embracing charity and purity of motive? For in no case could I see a trace of any personal advantage to be gained from these almost superhuman labors. And then, Dr. James, I began to look into the doctrine of that church which all my life I had been taught to regard as the teacher of falsehood, superstition, and idolatry.
"The result has been that a week ago I was baptized a Roman Catholic, and this day, for the first time, I have received our Lord Jesus Christ in the most holy communion.
"O my friend! God's goodness has been great to me, and I am as happy as a person should be who has found there is such a thing as heaven upon earth. This is why I have written to you, because my heart, in its gratitude to God, turns next to you; and also because I wish you to hear from no one except myself of this great change in my life.
"And now, I cannot end my letter without one more word. I have another saying of yours in my mind; was it not this? 'Do as well as you know how, and then be at peace.' That is true; yet it is not all that will be required of us. We ought to try to know the best thing, and then do what we know as well as we can.
"Good-by, and God bless you.
"MARGARET.
"P.S.--Martha Burney, after trying her best to dissuade me, had the justice to examine what I was about, and she was received into the church this very day."
Father Barry received this news by the same mail as Dr. James, and from him Margaret heard at once. The pious priest wrote a letter full of joy and congratulation, of good advice and blessing; but to her other letter no answer was received. Two weeks passed, and no word came. Miss Selina had written a reproachful and admonitory letter, assuring Margaret that it was not too late, and while life was spared her she could draw back. She insinuated that a plan of rescue could be easily arranged, and offered her home as an asylum to the fugitive.
Margaret laughed over this letter, and showed it to her friends with great glee. However, she wrote back a kind and soothing answer, which softened her aunt a little, though the subject continued a very sore one for a long time. To think that she should have been a month in the same house with Margaret, never suspecting the machinations of which the poor child was being made the victim! But when she applied to Dr. James for sympathy, he said abruptly,
"I don't agree with you at all, ma'am. Miss Lester has done right because she has consulted her own conscience, and been brave enough not to stop for what the world or her friends would say or think."
He then changed the subject; and Miss Spelman was so much scandalized that she never spoke of it again.
XXII. ALL THINGS SHALL BE ADDED UNTO YOU
On the 18th of March, Margaret had returned to luncheon from visiting some sick persons; Martha had staid at home to cut out work to be given to poor women. She entered Margaret's room as she was dressing, holding one hand behind her.
"I have had a note from Dr. James to-day," said Martha. "He is in the city, and we shall see him to-morrow."
Margaret looked up inquiringly.
"You have something else to tell! I see it in your face. Why do you make me wait?"
"I have something else to tell, and this shall tell it for me," she answered, laying a letter down on Margaret's table, and going out of the room. Margaret, with trembling fingers, tore it open and read as follows:
"NEW YORK, March 18.
"MY DEAR MISS LESTER: It has not been from disapprobation, nor neglect, nor indifference that I have left your letter so long unanswered. It is because I earnestly desired, if possible, to give you some good news in return for that which you sent me.
"You speak of owing your conversion partly to me, and I am very happy that this should be true; but your letter has done a greater work for me than you thought it could when you wrote it. Miss Lester, I ought to have been where you are now a year ago; but pride of intellect, perversity of will, and, latterly, another obstacle, have stood in my way, and I might have kept on blind and miserable for the rest of my life. You have found the church of God through its treasures of charity, displayed in its works of mercy to the poor, the weak, and the sinful; it was your heart, so to speak, that carried you there. I have found the same church entirely by my mind. I have seen repeatedly shallow prejudices, groundless suspicions, and fanatical attacks met by calm, strong, logical arguments. I have seen the carping opinions of sects dwindling away before the majesty of a revealed faith. I have recognized that intellect, learning, science, philosophy, shine brightest in that church which the scoffers of the day assert to be in her dotage and dissolution. I have been forced at last, to admit her divine authority, and the consequent infallibility of her teaching, and there was but one thing left for me to do. How long would I have resisted light, conviction? I cannot tell. Cowardice, pride, and something else held me back; then your letter came, as a push from a friendly hand to a wretch clinging to the feeble branch which threatens to give way in his grasp and precipitate him into the abyss below, yet fearing to take the leap which will land him on firm ground.
"We have landed on the rock--you and I. God grant that we may stand on it for ever.
"I have much more to say, but can write no more. I have been for a week making a retreat at the house of the ---- fathers, and I shall be baptized in their church to-morrow morning, Feast of St. Joseph, after the nine o'clock mass. You will come, will you not? Pray for me.
FRANCIS JAMES."
Margaret read this letter steadily through to the end, and then fell on her knees by her little table, where Martha found her some time after, when she came to summon her to luncheon.
"He has asked me to be his godmother," remarked Martha, as they were sitting at the dining-table.
"Has he? I should think he would have asked me," responded Margaret.
"Don't you remember what you told me once about the spiritual relationship between sponsors and their god-children, and what it precludes?"
Margaret slightly smiled, and the subject was dropped.
On arriving next morning at St. ---- church, Margaret found that the first pew was reserved for Martha and herself, and soon Dr. James appeared and knelt with them. To the surprise and delight of Margaret, who should enter the sanctuary to celebrate mass but Father Barry; and it was he who, at the conclusion of the holy sacrifice, administered the sacrament of baptism.
Margaret's cup of happiness was very full when, going into the house afterward, by invitation, she was able to exchange congratulations with her good friend Father Barry, and grasp, with a glowing face and speaking eyes, the hand of the newly-baptized. They both agreed to dine with her; and then she went home with Martha, wondering over the changes which one year had brought about in her life, and thanking God in her heart for her conversion and for that of the person dearest to her in the world.
The dinner that evening was a very delightful one. Margaret and the doctor were surprised to find all embarrassment between them gone. All their past intercourse seemed far away and like what had happened in a dream, and they felt that they were beginning their friendship over again on a new and true basis.
Margaret had many questions to ask of Father Barry about Sealing, and the different families she was interested in, and he had a great deal to tell her, as well as questions to ask in his turn. And Margaret told all about the beautiful religious houses she had visited, and about kind Abbé Saincère, who had done her so much good, lent her books and led her gently on till she was safely in the fold.
Martha Burney had to tell of her horror when she found what Margaret was wrapped up in; how she scolded, and argued, and ridiculed, and at last went in secret to see the abbé, to remonstrate with him. How she was won by his gentleness and courtesy, and how, still in secret and with his assistance, she read and learned about the church, till on Margaret's asking one day why she made no more fuss about her becoming a Catholic, she said the reason was because she was going to be one herself as soon as she could be prepared.
Then Dr. James told about his plans: how Richards was all ready to step into his place, and in a great hurry to have the establishment, dispensary, etc., under his own control; how he was a good-hearted young fellow, and the doctor thought would be merciful to the poor; and his mother would come and live with him, and take the place of the tyrannical housekeeper. Then, for himself, Dr. James announced his intention of removing to New York as soon as his affairs at Shellbeach were settled.
Margaret was quieter than usual, and more simply dressed than the doctor had ever seen her before, in a plain black silk absolutely without ornament, except that she wore round her neck an amber rosary, which she said she had obtained abroad when she was a heathen. There was in her face an expression of serenity and quiet happiness that was new to it, and Dr. James thought he had never seen her so attractive and lovable.
The evening flew away; Father Barry was to return to Sealing the next day, and the doctor with him for a week or two, but he would soon come back to New York to live. At parting he said in a low voice to Margaret,
"I am to receive communion in Father Barry's church a week from Sunday; you will pray for me?"
"I will not forget," she answered with a happy smile.
XXIII. MARGARET'S BIRTHDAY
The story draws to a close, and there is little more to tell; the rest is such plain sailing that it might almost be taken for granted. There is one little scene, however, pleasant to write and possibly pleasant to read, which took place on August 15th of that same year, in the church at Sealing; and in explanation of which a short account should be given of what happened after Dr. James had come to live in New York.
He had taken rooms in that city and begun to work among the poor, doing much although with small means. He began to go regularly every day to Miss Lester's house in the afternoon; then they walked and drove together, and learned to know each other well. He was often with her in the morning, too, and together they visited many a sick and suffering soul, leaving behind them comfort, encouragement, and substantial relief. They every week knelt together at the altar of the little French chapel Margaret loved so well, and received God's greatest gift of love to man, and it was a time of pure, unclouded happiness.
It was June; and there had been a week of very warm weather. The fashionables had fled from the city, or shut themselves up in their houses, excluding every ray of light and sun. Dr. James, weary from his morning's labors, had been home, refreshed himself a little, and then, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, stood on the steps of Margaret's house, and was ushered into the shady parlor. The green blinds were closed, the carpets were gone, cool white matting was on the floors, and great bunches of roses stood about on tables and mantel-pieces. Margaret came to meet him, fresh and cool in her light dress, and holding in her hand a very beautiful line engraving of the Dresden "Madonna and Child."
"See, Dr. James, what Martha has given me for a birthday present."
"Why did you not tell me beforehand that this was your birthday, that I might have given you a present?"
"Truly, because I forgot it till I found this on the breakfast-table this morning. It seems I told Martha at Shellbeach that this was my birthday, and she remembered it. Was she not kind?"
"I want to speak to you about leaving the city," said the doctor; "the hot weather has come, and it will not be healthy for you to be here. The cholera may be about, they say, and you go into places where you will be sure to catch it."
"So do you."
"But a doctor is pretty safe; he can guard against infection in a great measure."
"Well, a great many other people stay in New York and do not get sick. The religious and priests stay in their houses, and they go among more wretched people than I do."
"Yes; but Miss Lester, you are not a religious; your life has not been wholly consecrated to God, as theirs have."
"I can't see why, because I have not a vocation for a religious life, that should make any difference."
"Plainly, then, because your life is precious, if not to yourself, to other people; to me. It should not be lightly thrown away."
"I shall not throw it away; I don't believe in contagion. God will preserve my life, if he wishes it to be spared."
"Yes; but God is not called upon to work a miracle in your behalf; and if you wilfully expose yourself to danger, he may not interpose to avert the consequences."
Margaret was silent, and the doctor continued, with an effort,
"I said your life was precious to me; and though you did not notice it, I say it again. I have never had courage till to-day to speak to you about the letter I wrote you at Shellbeach; but it is possible for me to do so now. You did not seem angry with me when I saw you at the wedding. Had you forgotten it, or didn't you care for my rudeness?"
"I cared for it; that is, of course, I was sorry, perhaps hurt; still, not for a moment angry or offended. I knew that you were not cruel but kind, for you told the truth; and any thing except the truth would have been unkindness. I honored you for writing it."
"Yet it was not the truth; although in writing it I sincerely and honestly believed it to be the truth. I said I did not love you; I believed I did not love you; but I had no sooner read your letter than scales seemed to fall from my eyes. You see, I was sure that you were perfectly indifferent to me; and I thought you would write me a polite letter, expressing friendship, esteem, etc., and regret if I had suffered disappointment; and then that you would go off to New York and leave me to support the downfall of my hopes as best I might. I was sure of this, and your parting words that night seemed to confirm me in it. 'She wishes to part friends,' I thought to myself, 'because she believes she is going to ruin my hopes of happiness.' I was filled with unpleasant and bitter feelings. I read your letter, and the ground seemed to go from under my feet, and I realized what a blind fool I had been. I felt then but one longing, which I feel still, although I know its uselessness and absurdity: that you might be, by some chance, stripped of your fortune to the last cent, that I might lay my poor little pittance at your feet and implore your acceptance of it.
"Oh! if I could tell you what I endured. Shellbeach became unbearable to me; all life and interest seemed to have left me. How I missed you! You can never imagine it, and I cannot describe it. The more I thought of you, the more wretched I became, and after that wedding I felt tenfold worse. I went home to my mother for a change; and then resolved to put you completely out of my head, and, as an assistance, resumed my study of Catholicity, that I had for a time neglected. Then, though I blush to own it, and would not risk my standing in your estimation by telling you of it except that it proves my love for you, the only thing which deterred me from entering the church was the thought that I should lose your esteem, and that it would completely cut me off from any chance I might ever have again of winning you for my wife. Your second letter came, and seemed as an answer from heaven, 'Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith?' You know the rest--but I cannot go on. Even supported by the blessed sympathy we have in our faith, I cannot ask for what my heart craves."
"Dr. James, you seem to feel as if you were before me as a criminal before his judge. Now you have done only what was right and true toward me, and you owe me no apology for any thing. You and I, I believe, have done each other real good, and we have mutually helped each other into the church; we stand on equal ground, and I will accept no other position."
Dr. James looked searchingly at her, and said in a low voice,
"You do me good and make me feel like myself. Then, Margaret, though I am not worthy of you, will you be my wife?"
Margaret laid her hand in his,
"I will, if God allows me so much happiness."
XXIV. THE SEVENTH SACRAMENT
Margaret was unwilling to leave New York; but the doctor insisted, and a compromise was effected. She was to stay through July, and complete the preparations for her marriage; for that was to take place in August, and they would go for their wedding journey to visit Mrs. James in Maine. Margaret expressed a strong wish to be married at Sealing, and the plan was very pleasant to Dr. James; so a week before the day appointed, she went to her aunt, Miss Spelman's. There she spent a happy week, visiting her friends among the poor, and hearing from them about the goodness and kind deeds of their favorite doctor, whom they seemed to regard in the light of a good angel. Martha Burney was also at Miss Spelman's, and the doctor came two days before the fifteenth, so it was a very merry and happy household.
The feast of the Assumption of Our Lady was as beautiful a day as ever shone on a happy bride; the bells rang as if for a public celebration; for Dr. James was beloved by every one and Margaret was very popular. The time was nine o'clock; for the bride and bridegroom were fasting. Margaret's dress was white, with veil, orange-blossoms, and every thing as it should be; she had inclined very much to be married in her travelling dress; but the doctor wanted white, and she thought besides, that a gay, showy wedding would give pleasure to many of the guests.
Father Barry said that it was like the marriage feast in the Gospel; for the deaf, the halt, and the blind were well represented. Margaret's "friends" were many, and the more aristocratic inhabitants of Sealing and Shellbeach were rather surprised to find themselves in close neighborhood with the McNallys, O'Neills, and O'Flahertys, who were put in the best places, and were perfectly at home in their own church.
The high altar, and those of the Blessed Virgin and St. Joseph, were covered with flowers; and a fine new set of vestments and sacred vessels, presented by the bride and bridegroom elect, were used for the first time.
It seemed to Margaret and to Dr. James a beautiful circumstance, though a natural one, that they had neither of them ever seen a nuptial mass before this, their own. Nor had they realized what marriage might be, until they studied the wonderful office of that church that has elevated the natural union of man and woman to the dignity of a sacrament, which St. Paul declares to be typical of the union of our Lord with his spouse, the church. They were profoundly impressed with the thought that the holy of holies was to be offered upon the altar on that day, the happiest of their lives--for them, for their happiness and blessing; and that, as God was to descend from heaven, as it were, in their honor, so they should offer their new life for his greater honor and glory.
How is it possible that Catholics should ever forego this privilege of the nuptial mass, and avail themselves only of the form absolutely required by the church? Do they not realize that in sanctifying the first day of their wedded life by assisting together at the sacrifice of the mass, and as their first united action, receiving their Lord unto their hearts, they draw down a blessing on all that is to follow?
Never had Margaret felt so pure a joy as when, kneeling beside the one she loved best in the world, she heard the solemn benediction pronounced upon them, and the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob besought to "himself fulfil his blessing" upon them. Never had Dr. James realized so fully his happiness as when he heard the beautiful prayer offered for his bride, and the virtues of Rachel, Rebecca, and Sarah invoked for her.
And when, in the little instruction which Father Barry gave them, he said they might indeed hope that Jesus and Mary had been present at their wedding, as at that of Cana in Galilee, they felt as if they had received a favor similar to the one then bestowed; for, as the water was turned into wine, was not their natural rejoicing changed into a joy more pure and sublime than earth can bestow?
The married couple, and every Catholic in the church, remained on their knees for some time after mass was ended, and, as one of the spectators afterward said, "The happy pair behaved as if they were by no means the most important persons present." Martha Burney heard the remark, and immediately replied,
"You must remember that they recognized the presence of the Lord Jesus, surrounded by legions of holy angels;" to which remark the first speaker was too much astonished to make any answer.
On his return to Miss Spelman's house, Dr. James was greatly surprised to find standing at the gate an elegant little doctor's chaise, with a very beautiful horse; a plainly dressed man stood by its head, whom the doctor recognized as a mechanic whose life he had saved when he was lying at death's door with smallpox. As he spoke to him pleasantly, the man took off his hat and said,
"If you please, doctor, this is a present from all your patients."
It was the kind thought of a kind heart, and the author of it, himself indebted to the doctor's devoted care, had gone in person to every house within twenty miles, inquiring who had been treated by Dr. James, and proposing to each a small contribution.
"They only wanted to give too much," he said to the doctor afterward; "but all, even the very poorest, gave something."