I. sc. 2
The partners of his guilt and punishment, who join him in the garden, now surround him; and we have a vivid picture of hell in the midst of Paradise:
"Beelzebub. Fierce is the torturing flame, And deep the flood of venom in my soul. Madness rules all within, And my forced sighs like peals of thunder roll, Each glance is scorching lightning, and my tears Red drops of fire! From my seared front I would Shake back the serpent locks that shroud my face, To look upon this boasted work of heaven-- On these new demigods!... Spirits! the lustre of eternal day For ever quenched for you, and every sun That fires the empyrean! A lost, sorrowing race Heaven deems you now. Ye who were wont to tread The radiant pathways of the skies, now press The fields of endless night. For golden locks And mien celestial, slimy serpents twine Around your brows, hiding the vengeful glance; Your haggard lips are parted to receive A hideous air--while on them blasphemies Hang thick, and ever with the damning words Escape foul fumes of hell."
The remainder of the picture, in its minuteness of horror, partakes too much of the prevailing want of taste which disfigured the best productions of the Italians of the seventeenth century. We select, of course, some of the striking passages of the poem, though we by no means include all its beauties in our extracts.
Then Satan says:
"In deep abodes Of gloom, and horror, and profound despair, Still are we angels! Still do we excel All else, even as the haughty lord excels The humble, grovelling slave. If we unfold Our wings so far from heaven, yet, yet remember That we are lords, while others wear the yoke; That, losing in yon heaven a lowly seat, We raise instead, stupendous and sublime, A regal throne, whereon our chosen chief, Exalted by high deeds, mocks at his fate! As some vast mountain, bounded by the skies, Murmurs its kindling wrath against high heaven, Threatens the stars, and wields a mighty sceptre Of lurid flame, consuming while it shines, More deadly than the sun's intensest ray, Even when his beams are brightest!"
Can we not discover in the above passage the same spirit that animates Milton's lines?
"What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than He Whom thunder hath made greater? Here, at least, We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy; will not drive us hence; Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in hell; Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven!"
The same thought is expressed in Andreini's tragedy:
"Since greater happiness It is to live, though damned, in liberty, Than subject to be blest."
IV. sc. 2
Lucifer, the chief, then discovers himself to his companions in iniquity, and addresses them:
"O ye powers Immortal, valiant, great! Angels, for lofty, warlike daring born! I know the grief that gnaws your inmost hearts, A living death! to see this creature man Raised to a state so high That each created being bows to him. In your minds' depths the rankling fear is wrought That to heaven's vacant seats, and robes of light, (Those seats once ours, that pomp by us disdained,) These earthly minions one day may aspire[186] With their unnumbered hosts of future sons."
Satan then darkly alludes to the future incarnation of the Son of God; and Lucifer answers:
"And can it be that from so feeble dust A deity shall rise? That Flesh--that God--whose power omnipotent Shall bind us in these chains of hell for ever? And can it be those who did boast themselves The adored must stoop in humble suppliance To such vile clay? Shall angel bend a worshipper to man? Shall flesh, born from impurity, surpass Celestial nature? Must such wonders be, Nor we divine them, who at price so vast Have bought the boast of knowledge? * * * * * I--I am he who armed your noble minds With haughty daring; to the distant north Leading you from the wrathful will of Him Who boasts to have made the heavens. You I know; I know your soaring pride; your valor too, That almost wrung from heaven's reluctant hand The mighty victory. Yes, the generous love Of glory fires you still! It cannot be That He whom you disdained to serve above Shall now be worshipped in the depths of hell! * * * * * Ah! matchless is our insult! grave the wound If we unite not promptly to avenge it! Already on your kindled brows I see The soul's high thirst--and hope, by hate inflamed! Already I behold your ample wings Spread to the air, eager to sweep the world And those stern heavens to the abyss of ruin, And man, new born, with them to overwhelm!
Satan. Alas! command And say what thou wouldst do! With hundred tongues Speak, speak--that with a hundred mighty deeds Satan may pant, and hell be roused to action."
The conspiracy to draw man into sin and prevent the incarnation is then entered into.
"Lucifer. Most easy is the way of human ruin Opened by God to his terrestrial work; Since nature wills with mandate absolute Man shall his life preserve with various food, And oft partaken. Ay, it well may chance-- The bitter ruin in sweet food concealed-- That he may taste this day the fruit forbidden, And by the way of death, From naught created, unto naught return."
I. sc. 3
His plan for the destruction of man is hailed with joy; and Lucifer next calls up the Seven Deadly Sins to assist him in his infernal work. To each of these mysterious impersonations a different task is assigned, and detailed at length in the piece. They are severally commissioned to assail his intended victims with every variety of temptation. Pride and Envy are directed to fill the soul of Eve with discontented thoughts, and awaken vain imaginations of superiority; to suggest regrets that she was not formed before Adam, as every man hereafter must receive his being from woman.
"Lucifer. Tell her, the lovely gifts She hath received do merit not their doom-- Submission to the will of haughty man; That she in price doth far exceed her lord, Created of his flesh--as he of dust; She in bright Eden had her gentle birth-- He in the meaner fields."
Dulciato, who personates Luxury, declares the heart of woman peculiarly open to his fascinations.
"Even now fair Eve at yonder crystal fount Rejoices to behold the blushing rose In beauty vanquished by her vermil cheek; The regal lily's virgin purity Matched by the whiteness of her heaving breast; Already, charmed, she wreathes her flowing hair Like threads of gold, fanned by the wooing breeze, And deems her lovely eyes two suns of love, To kindle with their beams the coldest heart."
In the beginning of the second act we have a scene quite different. The angelic train descends to hymn the goodness of the Creator and the happiness of man.
"Weave, weave the garlands light Of fairest flowers, In these primeval bowers, For the new being--and his consort bright! Let each celestial voice With melody rejoice, Praising God's work of latest, noblest birth; And let the tide of song To gratitude belong For man, the wonder of both heaven and earth."
The picture of the first pair, in their primeval innocence and enjoyment, full of gratitude to heaven and love for each other, is so captivating in its simplicity and beauty that it would alone be sufficient to redeem more sins against taste than the whole book contains. We do not imagine we are saying too much in calling it the original of Milton's delineation, as that of the infernal chief undoubtedly is. The same graceful and feminine qualities blend in the exquisite character of Eve; the same superiority of intellect, protecting gentleness, and exalted devotion are seen in Adam. They are surrounded by invisible spirits, the emissaries of Lucifer, who "with jealous leer malign," mock at the peaceful purity and happiness that blasts their envious sight, and hurl vague threats against the beings who, while innocent, are safe from their hostility. Eve weaves for Adam a garland of flowers, which he places on his brow as a chain of love. In reference to this Lurcone says,
"Chains of infernal workmanship Shall shortly bind you in a subtle fold Which mortal stroke can never loose."
At the prayers of Adam and Eve, offered with thanksgiving for their blessings, the evil spirits precipitately fly--the agonies of hell burning in their hearts. Adam gives names to the various animals, passing in review before him.
Scene third is occupied by Lucifer, in the form of a serpent, Vainglory, a gigantic figure, magnificently attired, and his attendant spirits. The arch-demon exults over his expected success, the ruin of so smiling a scene:
"Serpent. How lovely smile these flowers, These young fair buds! and ah! how soon my hand These pathways shall despoil of herbs and flowers. Lo! where my feet have pressed their fragrant tops, So graceful, they have drooped; and at my touch, Blasting and burning, the moist spirit is fled From the scorched petal. How do I rejoice Among these bowers with blighting step to pass, To poison with my breath their buds and leaves, And turn to bitterness their purple fruits!"
Volano acquaints Satan with the decision of the infernal council, and Vainglory and the serpent hide themselves under the tree of knowledge. Eve enters; the wondrous beauty of the tempter, gorgeously described, fascinates her admiring gaze. He is half-hid in the clustering foliage. Unconscious of evil, she approaches nearer, surprised at his aspect; for the fiend exhibits a form like the fabled inhabitants of the sea, human to his breast, the rest of his body enveloped in scaly folds. Vainglory is invisible, but is supposed to be secretly exerting his influence. The serpent, accosting Eve in the accents of flattery, enters into conversation with her, informing her that he was placed in Eden to take charge of its fruits and flowers, and gifted with superiority over the brute creation. He boasts of his knowledge, which he vaunts as superior even to hers and Adam's, notwithstanding that he occupies a lower rank in the scale of the creation. He intimates that her knowledge and Adam's is far from corresponding to their superior excellence of form and high capabilities. Eve inquires how he can regard Adam's knowledge as trifling. "Doth he not know," she cries, "the hidden virtue of each herb and mineral, each beast and bird, the elements, the heavens, the stars, the sun?" The serpent replies:
"Ah! how much worthier to know good and evil! This is the highest knowledge; this doth hold Those mighty secrets dread, sublime, which could Make you, on earth, like God."[187]
"Doth not this ignorance," he says, "outraging your liberty with unworthy yoke, make you inferior even to the savage beasts, who would not submit to such a law?[188] Or is it that God fears you will equal him in knowledge? in the essence of divinity? No! if you become like him by such means, there would still be difference," etc.[189]
The Serpent then enters upon the immediate object of his design, employing his subtle and persuasive eloquence to overcome Eve's scruples and induce her to eat of the forbidden fruit, whose taste is to impart to her heavenly wisdom. The whole scene of the temptation is admirably managed. The advances of the arch deceiver--now cautiously sounding her, now eagerly urging her to disobedience--the unsuspecting credulity, the increasing curiosity of Eve, are drawn with the pencil of a master.
The Serpent's arguments become still more specious and pressing:
"Thus I live Feeding on this celestial fruit; Thus to mine eyes all paradise is open-- Mine eyes, enlightened by the knowledge stored In this most wondrous food."[190]
The Serpent speciously insinuates that man is degraded by being compelled to seek his food from the same source with the inferior creation:
"Ah! 'tis too true that drawing sustenance From the same source with brutes that throng the field, In this, at least, renders you like to them. Surely it is not meet or just that ye, Noblest creations of all-forming power, The favored children of the Eternal King, In such unworthy state, 'mid rocks and woods, Should lead a life of vile equality With baser animals!"
The temptation takes place necessarily in dialogue. The thoughts are natural and elevated, and the language even magnificent. Eve asks the Serpent what is the cause of his apparent anxiety that she should eat of the prohibited fruit; he explains it by informing her that he will be lord over Eden when she and her partner, by means of the mystic food, shall have ascended to mingle with deities. This is a new and remarkable trait, of which Milton has not availed himself.
"But this, my rightful empire o'er the ground, While man exists and breathes earth's vital air, Is changed to base and grievous vassalage-- Since man alone is chosen, by heaven's command, Lord of this lower world, this universe Just sprung from naught. But when, by virtue of this loveliest Of all fair Eden's fruits, secured and tasted, Ye shall be made as gods--full well I know Ye both, forsaking this frail sphere, will soar To eminence divine, leaving to me The heritage of power, the sovereignty O'er every living thing, by your ascent To higher bliss secured. Full well thou know'st How pleasing is the consciousness of empire! Pleasing to God, to man, and to the serpent!
Eve. I yearn to obey thee. Ah! what would I do?
Serpent. Say, rather, leave undone! Pluck it, and make Thyself a goddess in the highest heavens, And me a god on earth!"
Here occurs an exquisite touch. Eve, having never before experienced a painful moral emotion, is ignorant of its meaning. The tempter, with consummate art, interprets her very fear into encouragement.
"Eve. Alas! I feel An icy tremor through my shuddering frame, That chills my heart.
Serpent. _It is the languishing Of mortal nature 'neath the glorious weight Of that divinity which, like a crown, O'erhangs thy head!_[191] Behold the lovely tree, More rich and lustrous in its living beauty Than if, indeed, it pointed toward the skies Branches of gold with emeralds bedecked; Than if its roots were coral, and its trunk Unspotted silver. Lo! the gem-like fruit, Glowing with gifts of immortality! How fair it shows! How to the vivid rays Of sunlight, with a thousand changing hues It answers, like the train of brilliant birds, When to the sun their broad and painted plumes Expanded, glitter with innumerous eyes!"
II. sc. 6
In evil hour her rash hand plucks the fruit; and the act closes with the exulting gratulations of the Deceiver and Vainglory.
In the succeeding interview with Adam, in Act iii., the intoxicated Eve has not begun to taste the consequences of her crime; she comes to persuade her companion to partake her guilt.
"Eve. How I rejoice, not only to behold These flowers, these verdant meads with waving trees, But thee, my Adam! 'Tis thou alone in whose blest presence seems This scene more fraught with ever new delight, More bright the fruits, and every fount more clear!
Adam. No blossom that adorns this blissful plain Such beauty can unfold to greet mine eyes As those sweet flowers whose charms I gaze upon In the fair garden of thy beauteous face! Be calm, ye plants of earth; nor deem my words False to your loveliness! Ye, with the silvery dews of evening sprinkled, When the sun sends his ardent glance abroad, Make glad the bosom of the grassy earth; But droop ye also with declining day. While the fair living flowers that on the cheek Of my loved Eve are cherished--watered ever By the sweet dews of joy that o'er them flow When to her God she bends in grateful praise-- Warmed into life by the twin radiant suns That light the heaven of her face--there live In grace and bloom perennial, and adorn Their own unrivalled paradise."
Death, in the eyes of Adam, is more welcome than separation from his beloved; as in Paradise Lost, he rushes on his fate voluntarily, without partaking in any of those dreams of greatness which had beguiled his frail consort. When the mortal sin is completed by his participation, Volano with his trumpet summons the infernal spirits, who crowd the scene with shouts of exultation expressed in lyrical measures. The Serpent and Vainglory are worshipped for their success. The evil spirits vanish before the voice of the Eternal, who descends with his angels to pronounce sentence upon the guilty pair. The solemn account to which the Judge calls them, their guilty evasion and detection, and the stern malediction on the earth cursed for man's sake, with the punishment denounced on the human offenders and on the serpent, are described in the scriptural language, and with a simplicity which is in itself sublime. No concetti are here allowed to mar the impressive greatness of the scene. An angel remains after the departure of the Almighty, and clothes the shivering pair with the skins of wild beasts, reminding them that the roughness of their new raiment signifies the suffering they are to sustain in the journey of life. Then the stern Archangel Michael, the minister of divine vengeance, appears and commands them to leave paradise, while the cherubic host, who had hitherto hovered round them, forsake their accustomed charge and reascend to heaven. The flaming sword of Michael chases the unhappy fugitives from their lost home, and his lips confirm their own apprehensions:
"Michael. These stony fields your naked feet shall press, In place of flowery turf, since fatal sin Forbids you longer to inhabit here. Know me the minister of wrath to those Who have rebelled against their God. For this Wear I the armor of almighty power, Dazzling and terrible. Yes, I am he Who, in the conflict of immortal hosts, Dragged captive from the north the haughty chief Of rebel spirits, and to hell's abyss Hurled them in mighty ruin. Now to the Eternal King it seemeth good That man, rebellious to his sovereign will, I should drive forth from his fair paradise With sword of fire. Hence, angels, and with me Speed back to heaven your flight! Even as like me ye have been wont to joy On earth with Adam--once a demi-god, Now feeble clay. Then, armed with fiery sword, A cherub guardian of this gate of bliss Shall take your place."
III. sc. 8
The chant of the departing angels mingles with lamentation over the fall an intimation of peace in the future.
The poem does not end with the expulsion from Eden; a second part, as it were, is contained in the last two acts, in which the dim promise of a Redeemer is shadowed forth, the triumph of hell is turned to rage and shame, and penitence is comforted with hope. This completion of the great plan gives a new grandeur to the piece, since it is thus made to embody the most solemn and striking of all morals.
In Act iv. Volano summons the spirits of the elements to meet Lucifer, who calls a council. The spirits still utter their songs of triumph over the fall of man; but the mien of their leader is deject, his clear-sighted vision already discerns in the just wrath of God against the human offenders the latent promise of mercy. He foresees the pardon of man, and his restoration through a Redeemer to the heavenly blessings from which his destroyer vainly hoped his transgressions had cut him off. He is racked with anguish at the prospect of his work being undone; but it is no time now to pause; he must build up still higher the edifice of his own greatness and his defiance of Omnipotence. The deep pride of his character is further illustrated in the infernal council. He causes to issue from the earth four monsters hurtful to man: Mondo, Carne, Morte, and Demonio--World, Flesh, Death, and Devil.
Adam and Eve appear in their fallen condition, the prey of a thousand fears and ills, haunted by miseries before unknown. They bitterly deplore the changes that have passed on the creation. The animals manifest terror at their presence. Four monsters beset Adam--the impersonations of Hunger, Thirst, Fatigue, and Despair, that threaten to follow him unceasingly. Death menaces them with mortal peril; the heavens grow dark, thunders roll, and the air is convulsed with tempest. The scene closes in gloom and horror.
In the fifth act, Temptation, in alluring forms, invites the fallen pair to new crimes. Flesh, in the figure of a lovely young woman, accosts Adam, showing him how all things breathe of love; and Lucifer, in human shape, persuades him to yield to her enticements. Here occurs one of the most exquisitely delicate and beautiful touches in the poem, and one that none but a true poet could have conceived. The guardian angel of man yet hovers, unseen, at a distance; when he sees him thus sore beset, he comes to his assistance. The protector is invisible; but his warning voice, soft as the promptings of a dream, sounds in the sinner's ear:
"Angel. 'Tis time to succor man. Alas! what dost thou, Most wretched Adam?
Lucifer, (to Adam.) Why remain'st thou mute? Why art thou sad?
Adam. I seem a voice to hear, Sorrowful yet mild, which says, 'Alas! what dost thou, Most wretched Adam?'"
V. sc. 3
Following the promptings of the angel, which are continued through the scene, Adam proposes that Lucifer and his companion shall kneel with him in prayer. Thus he escapes the temptation and danger. Lucifer and his demons refuse to pray, and, assuming their proper shape, next assail him by force; but from this peril he is also guarded.
We then behold Eve wandering desolate and desponding, affrighted at all that meets her eyes. Her lamentation has much simple beauty.
"Eve. Dar'st thou, O wretched Eve! Lift up thy guilty eyes to meet the sun? Oh! no; they are unworthy--well thou know'st! Once, with unfaltering gaze they could behold His beams, and revel in their golden light; Now thy too daring look His dazzling rays rebuke; Or, if thou gaze upon his face, a veil Of blindness shrouds thy sight. Alas! too truly I dwell in darkness, if my sin has stained With horrid mists the pure and innocent sun! O miserable Eve! If now I turn my feet where fountains gush To taste the limpid current, I behold The crystal wave defiled, or scorching sands Usurp its place. If, famished, I return To pluck the grateful fruit from bending trees, Its taste is bitter to me; or the worm With blasting touch doth revel on its sweetness. If, wearied, I recline among the flowers, Striving to close my eyes, lo! at my side The serpent rears its crest, or hissing glides Among the clustering leaves. If, to escape Faint from the noontide heat, I seek the shade Of some thick wood, I tremble at the thought Of wild beast lurking in the thicket's gloom; And start with dread if but the lightest leaf Stir with the wind."
She also is assailed by a new temptation personified under the name of World. This allegorical personage, arrayed in rich and gorgeous vestments, crowned with gold and gems, endeavors to captivate her imagination by artful flatteries; by visions of splendor and regal power reserved for "the queen of the universe." From a visioned palace comes a troop of nymphs laden with ornaments, with which they offer to adorn their mistress, dancing and singing around her; but Eve, deaf to World's flatteries, resists and flies from him; both she and her consort are too penitent to listen to evil solicitations, and at Adam's rebuke the troop disappears in confusion. Then Lucifer and his devils, armed for man's destruction, rush in to seize their victims. The fierce and final struggle between the powers of heaven and hell, for the dominion of earth, takes place; for the arch-fiend encounters Michael and his angels, sent to rescue the frail beings of clay, who, in terrified astonishment, witness the battle. It would be doing injustice to the poem not to give some extracts from this striking scene.
"Michael. Tremble, thou son of wrath, At the fierce lightning of this barbed spear, The smiting hand of him who leads heaven's host. Nor against God, but 'gainst thyself thou wagest War, and in thine offence offend'st thyself. Back to the shades, thou wandering spirit of hell, From this celestial light shut out for ever! Drop thy dark wings beneath the glory which The Father of all light, who formed the suns, Imparts to me! Hence, with the noxious band Of God's accursed foes; nor tarry here, An evil host, with your infernal breath These precincts to pollute, to scatter gloom Through man's pure air of life! No more thy hissing vile, serpent of hell, Shall harass innocence!
Lucifer. Loquacious messenger Of heaven's high will, clothed in the vaunted garb Of splendor--failing in the attribute Of daring soul--minion of heaven's indulgence! Angel of softness! who in solemn ease, In seats of sloth, nests of humility, Dost harbor--on thy face and in thy heart The coward stamped--a warrior but in name; Spread, spread thy wings, and seek thy Maker's arms,[192] There shelter, there confide thee! too unequal The strife would be 'twixt fear and bravery: Betwixt the warrior and the unwarlike one, The weak and strong; betwixt a Michael vile And a proud Lucifer. But if thy boldness Aspire to rifle from my mighty hand This frail compound of clay, This animated dust, I here declare Against thee war, bitter and mortal war, Till thou shalt see, by this avenging hand, The wide creation of thy God laid waste!
Michael. The doleful victory, Of fierce and desperate spirit, which thou gainedst Against heaven's forces once--against this man, Whom thou confused hast vanquished--conquest poor Already snatched from thee! while in the chains From which thy prey is freed thou art involved-- May teach thee with what justice thou canst claim The palm of honor!"
The haughty monarch of hell then reminds Michael of his first great rebellion against the Most High, and his success in dragging into ruin "the third part of heaven's host," (terza parte di stelle.) Vaunting these proofs of his might, he boldly threatens destruction to the throne of God himself: bidding the inhabitants of heaven flee from a place which can no longer afford them a refuge of safety!
"Michael. Wherefore delay to check the impious vaunts Of this proud rebel? Written indeed with pen of iron, marked In living characters of blood, upon The page of everlasting misery, Shall be thy glory for this victory! To arms! to arms, then; for the swift destruction Of outcast devils!--and let man rejoice, Heaven smile, hell weep!
Lucifer. To the intemperate boast Of lips too bold, but rarely doth the daring Of truth succeed. To arms! and thou with me Sustain the contest. Ye, my other foes Invincible, avoid the impious strife, Effeminate followers of a peaceful chief! ... Alas! he who already hath received From heaven small grace, of ill a plenteous dole, On earth must also prove his strength unequal, Despite the powerful spirit, to the stroke Of power supernal, driving to the abyss Of gloom again! It is well meet, the wretch Vanquished in battle should lose too the light Of this celestial sun! Angels and God! Ye are victorious! Ye at length have conquered! Proud Lucifer and all his vanquished train Have dearly paid the forfeit. They forsake The day; they sink to everlasting night.
Michael. Fall from the earth! baffled and wounded fall, Monster of cruel hell, Down to the shades of night, where thou shalt die An everlasting death; Nor hope to spread thy wings again toward heaven, Since impious wishes fire thee desperate, Not penitence. And thou art fallen at length, Proud fiend, despairing in thy downward course, Even as exultingly thou thought'st to soar To height divine: Once more thou know'st to sink Thundering to hell's dark caverns. Thou didst hope, Fool! to bear back with thee thy prisoner, man; Alone thou seek'st thy dungeon vast, profound, Where to its depths pursued, the added flames Of endless wrath thou bearest, to increase Its ever-burning fires!... Thou wouldst have made this fair world with thine ire A desolated waste; where at thy breath Summoning to devastation, clouds and winds, And lightnings tempest-winged, and thunders loud, Vengeful should throng the air, should shake the hills; And make the valleys with their din resound. And lo! in skies from thy foul presence freed, The spheres with louder music weave their dance, And the majestic sun with purer rays Gladdens the azure fields on high. The sea Reclines in tremulous tranquillity, Or joyous pours upon the glistening strand His pearls and corals. Never wearied sport His glossy tribes, and swim the liquid sapphire. Lo! in a green and flowery vesture robed, How shine these valleys in rejoicing light! While the sweet, grateful notes of praise ascend From every soaring habitant of air, That now, a pilgrim in the scented vale, Makes vocal all the woods with melody. Let all, united on this glorious day Of scorn and shame to hell, exulting raise The hymn of joy to heaven; and widely borne By eager winds, the golden trumpets sound To tell in heaven of victory and peace!
Adam. O welcome sound that calls me back to joy Whence sad I fled! Ah me! I fear to blot, Tainted by sin, the holy purity Of angels' presence! O thou who wear'st the glorious armor wrought With gems celestial! Archangel bright! Dread warrior, yet most mild! thy golden locks Hiding with helmet of immortal beams! Wielding in thy right hand the conquering spear! Close the rich gold of thy too dazzling wings, And turn a gentle and a pitying look On him who prostrate at thy feet adores!"
The archangel is no longer the avenger; and he raises with pity the repentant sinners.
"Michael. Rise both, ye works of God Thus favored; banish from your bosoms dread Of portents unpropitious. If our Master With one hand smite, the other offers you Healing--salvation!"
Adam and Eve, delivered from their foes, are comforted by the heavenly messenger, who assures them of forgiveness on condition of future obedience. With his promise we conclude our extracts.
"Michael. Now since in heaven the star of love and peace Shines forth, and in ambitious hell's despite The victor to the vanquished yields the palm, Raise still your humble, grateful looks above: Bend to the soil your knees, and suppliant Praise for his mercy your forgiving Lord. So in reward for penitence and zeal God will your Father be, and heaven your home."
V. sc. 9
We have occupied so much space in the analysis and extracts from this remarkable work, that little room is left for further observation. It is impossible to present all the beauties of the poem, and allowance must be made for showing them in another language; yet some idea may be afforded of the general character of the piece. The original abounds with striking passages that have of necessity been left unnoticed, strangely mingled with the tumid extravagances and heterogeneous conceits belonging to the age in which it was written. These faults, however, are but trifling in comparison with its merits; and the wonderful conception, the glorious plan, is not marred by them. When the superior personages appear on the scene, the inspiration of the poet is triumphant over the defects of his school; not a line of their language is disfigured by aught which the most fastidious of modern tastes could condemn. It is only in the management of inferior and of allegorical personages that the faults alluded to can be perceived; and even here the rich and noble genius of the poet has mastered many of his difficulties.
The author of Adam could hardly have anticipated, in the representation of his work on the stage, a success commensurate with its merits; since the trickery of scenic effect could but poorly indeed embody the creations of genius. Fancying an attempt to make them apparent to the senses of a rabble audience, we can scarcely wonder that the whole should have been stamped with ridicule. But any reader of the poem will concede that the sublime conception of Paradise Lost belongs to Andreini as the originator. He ascended with success "the highest heaven of invention;" and when he puts words into the mouth of Deity, and interprets the hymnings of angelic choirs, he shows himself equal to the task.
The extension of the reputation of this wonderful production would considerably increase our sense of obligation to Italian literature.
FOOTNOTES:
[184] A copy of this rare poem in the original Italian may be found in the Astor Library.
[185]
"These puissant legions, whose exile Hath emptied heaven."
Paradise Lost, Book i.
[186]
"Into our room of bliss thus high advanced Creatures of other mould."
Par. Lost, Book iv.
[187] See Paradise Lost, Book ix. line 705.
[188]
"Shall that be shut to man which to the beast Is open?"
Paradise Lost, B. ix.
[189]
"Or is it envy? and can envy dwell In heavenly breasts?"
Paradise Lost, B. ix.
[190]
"Henceforth to speculations high and deep I turned my thoughts; and with capacious mind Considered all things visible in heaven Or earth."
Paradise Lost, B. ix.
[191]
"Eve. O me! lassa ch'io sento Un gelido tremor vagar per l'osa Che mi fa graccio il core.
Serpent. E la parte mortal che già incomincia A languir, sendo dal divin gravata, Che sovra le tue chiome In potenza sovrasta."
[192] See Paradise Lost, Book iv. line 940.
FÉNELON.[193]
BY THE LATE REV. J. W. CUMMINGS, D.D.
Ladies and Gentlemen: It would be possible to fix a point of time in the reign of King Louis XIV. unequalled in brilliancy by any other in the eventful history of the French nation. Such a period would present to us the great monarch crowned with the glory of his early successes, unsullied as yet by the shame of his later weakness and degradation. A tableau of the court of Versailles would show us the throne surrounded by groups of men illustrious in every department of human greatness. To name a few only: military fame would find its representatives in Condé, Turenne, Luxembourg, Vauban, and Villars; poetry, in Malherbe, La Fontaine, and Boileau; the drama, in Racine, Corneille, and Molière; political science, in Mazarin, Colbert, and Louvois; philosophy, in Pascal and Descartes; eloquence, in Bourdaloue, Flechier, Massillon, and Bossuet; painting, in Poussin and Lesueur; archaeology, in Mabillon and Montfaucon; general literature, in La Rochefoucauld, La Bruyère, Balzac, and Madame de Sévigné. Yet among all the great men of that wonderful period there is not one, probably, who, if given a choice, would not willingly exchange his reputation with that of Fénelon, who in early life moved in that brilliant court as an obscure priest, and in the fulness of manhood was sent away from it into honorable exile.
I would it were in my power, ladies and gentlemen, to lay before you such a sketch of the life of Fénelon as would fully explain to you by what secret a Roman Catholic priest, who devoted himself so entirely to preaching and to proselytizing for his church, became popular to such an unwonted degree, and remains so to this day, not less in the Protestant world than among men of his own creed.
I have neither the time nor, I fear, the ability to do justice to so excellent a theme. I do hope, however, that my brief remarks may have the effect of so far engaging the curiosity of the younger portion of my hearers as to lead them to study Fénelon's life and writings. Nobody ever rose from the perusal of either without feeling an inclination to love himself less, and to extend a larger and warmer charity to his fellow-men, whatever their condition or their creed.
François de Salignac de la Mothe, Marquis of Fénelon, was born in the chateau of Fénelon in the year 1651, and came of distinguished lineage on the side of both parents. His early education was judicious, his father and mother training him in morals and religion both by word and example, and his able preceptor making it his aim to teach him the love of study for its own sake.
The child's brain was not developed at the expense of the rest of his body, and abundant daily exercise in the fresh open air united with regular and frugal habits to form a sound body for the dwelling of a noble and gifted soul.
His decided fondness for Greek and Latin literature made him a great reader, yet without effort or constraint, and led gradually to the formation of that mixture of grace and melody in his style for which he stands preëminent among the greatest French writers.
He spent five years in Paris at the Seminary of St. Sulpice, and took orders at the age of twenty-four. His first impulse was to dedicate his life to the foreign missions; and he was prevented only by the influence of his family from coming to America and settling among the Indians in Canada.
A mission was provided for him in the heart of Paris, and there, while visiting the sick, instructing the ignorant and the young, comforting and relieving the poor, and exercising all the various duties of the Christian ministry, he acquired that knowledge of the human heart, and of the mode of touching and persuading it, that fitted him, no less than his long and patient devotion to books, for the work of improving his fellow-men. A new field of observation and benevolent labor was the institution known as "Les Nouvelles Catholiques," a seminary under royal patronage for the education of young ladies, chiefly recent converts to the church. The Abbé Fénelon presided for ten years over both the ladies in charge and their pupils, giving both the benefit of his learning, his refinement, his gentle and cheerful religious spirit, and his high-minded and enlightened devotion. To his knowledge of the heart of woman, of her weakness and her strength, gathered while in this position, we owe his earliest book, the Treatise on the Education of Girls, a work which made its author widely known, and procured for him in time the appointment of tutor to the grandson of Louis XIV.
In 1685, the king signed the revocation of the edict of Nantes. The effect of this measure was to reduce his Protestant subjects, amounting to about two millions, to the cruel alternative of abjuring their faith or quitting France for ever. Of the many that left, some found their way to the United States, and the descendants of the Huguenots have contributed their share to the prosperity and advancement of the land of liberty. The king undertook to bring about the conversion of those who remained, and, happily for the Protestants of Saintange and Annis, the missionary selected for them was the Abbé de Fénelon. Royal orders had been given that the missionary should be supported by a detachment of dragoons. The proffered assistance was gently but firmly declined. "Our ministry," said the abbé, "is one of harmony and peace. We are going to our brethren who are astray; we shall bring them back to the fold by charity alone. It is not by means of violence and constraint that conviction can be made to penetrate the soul." His reasoning prevailed, and he was allowed to depart alone. The stern Calvinists of Poitou soon came to look upon this new pastor with kindness and affection, and, in return, his influence saved them from further annoyance on the part of the civil authority.
In 1689, a happy event for the world of letters occurred in the appointment of Fénelon to be the tutor of Louis, Duke of Burgundy, the son of the dauphin. He applied himself to his new task with untiring and conscientious devotion, and the account of his manner of fulfilling it is exceedingly interesting. His first care was to study well the character and disposition of his pupil. The result of this investigation was any thing but encouraging. The Duke of Saint Simon, who was well acquainted with the young prince, states that he was naturally stubborn, haughty, and unkind. He was endowed with strong passions, and fond of every sort of animal gratification. His temper was so violent that in his fits of rage it was dangerous to attempt to control him. He would tear and break whatever came to his hands, and be carried away by such outbursts of fury that his life seemed to be really in danger. He was fond of the pleasures of the table and of the chase, naturally cruel, and brimful of a pride that led him to look upon other men as objects of usefulness and amusement, rather than as beings equal to himself.
Such was the pupil confided to the care of Fénelon; and under his wise and gentle guidance the headstrong, selfish, and cruel boy became kind, generous, modest, and remarkable for perfect and unfailing self-control.
The besetting sin of the young prince was a perverseness of temper always hard to manage and ready, for the slightest cause, to break out into open rebellion, on which occasions no one had been able to control him. Fénelon's manner of correcting this fault is full of instruction. He avoided direct attacks and punishments, seeking, by gentle remonstrance and good-natured raillery, to lead the boy into being ashamed of his fault. When there was a prospect of being listened to, he would make use of simple maxims showing the folly and wickedness of angry passion, and explaining his remarks by familiar illustrations likely to be easily understood and remembered. Sometimes he yielded without remonstrance, avoiding all recourse to authority or personal influence unless he was well assured that it would prove successful. The little work known as Fénelon's Fables was composed piecemeal, each fable being called forth by some fault the prince had committed, or for the purpose of helping him to remember some moral point, and leading him gradually on in the system of improvements his tutor had adopted.
One day, when the prince had made all around him unhappy by indulging in repeated bursts of spleen and disobedience, Fénelon took a sheet of paper and wrote in his presence the following sketch, which we find among the fables:
"What great disaster has happened to Melanthus? Outwardly nothing, inwardly every thing. He went to bed last night the delight of all the people; this morning we are ashamed of him; we shall have to hide him away. On rising, a fold of his garment has displeased him, the whole day will therefore be stormy, and every body will have to suffer: he makes us fear him, he makes us pity him, he cries like a child, he roars like a lion. A poisonous vapor darkens his imagination, as the ink he uses in writing soils his fingers. You must not speak to him about things that pleased him an hour ago; he loved them then, and for that very reason he hates them now. The amusements that interested him a little while ago are now become intolerable, and must be broken up; he wishes to contradict and to irritate those around him, and he is angry because people will not get angry with him. When he can find no pretext for attacking others, he turns against himself; he is low-spirited, and takes it very ill that any body should try to comfort him. He wishes for solitude, and he cannot bear to be left alone; he comes back into company, and it exasperates him. If his friends are silent, their affected silence goads him; if they speak low, he fancies they are talking about him; if they speak loud, it strikes him they have too much to say. If they laugh, it seems to him that they are making game of him; if they are sad, that their sadness is meant to reproach him for his faults. What is to be done? Why, to be as firm and patient as he is intolerable, and to wait quietly until he becomes to-morrow as sensible as he was yesterday. This strange humor comes and goes in the strangest fashion. When it seizes him, it is as sudden as the exploding of a pistol or a gun; he is like the pictures of those possessed by evil spirits; his reason becomes unreason; if you put him to it, you can make him say that it is dark night at twelve o'clock in the day; for there is no distinction of day or night for a man who is out of his head. He sheds tears, he laughs, he jokes, he is mad. In his madness he can be eloquent, amusing, subtle, full of cunning although he has not a particle of common sense left. You have to be extremely careful to pick your words with him; for although bereft of sense, he can become suddenly very knowing, and find his reason for a moment to prove to you that you have lost yours."
It is easy to understand the effect of a lesson like this on a high-spirited but self-conceited boy. He sought to overawe those around him and finds out that he has made himself unmistakably ridiculous! The instructor who wishes to correct his pupil's faults will succeed oftener by wounding his vanity than he will by flattering it.
His fables at another time present in charming images the happiness of being good.
"Who is," says one of them, "this god-like shepherd who enters the peaceful shade of our forest? He loves poetry and listens to our songs. Poetry will soften his heart, and render him as gentle as he is proud. May this young hero grow in virtue as a flower unfolds in the genial air of spring. May he love noble thoughts, and may graceful words ever sit upon his lips. May the wisdom of Minerva reign in his heart. May he equal Orpheus in the charms of his voice and Hercules in the greatness of his achievements. May he possess all the boldness of Achilles without his fiery temper. May he be good, wise, and beneficent, love mankind tenderly, and be much loved by all in return. He loves our sweet songs, they reach his heart even as cooling dews reach the green sward parched by the heat of mid-summer. Oh! may the gods teach him moderation and crown him with endless success. May he hold in his hand the horn of plenty, and may the golden age return under his sway. May wisdom fill his heart and run over into the hearts of his fellow-men, and may flowers spring up in his footsteps wherever he may go."
These fables gave a moral and practical meaning to the details of mythology which the prince was studying, and furnished him also with models of style. They speak to him and of him as one who is in time to be a king; but it will be observed that no traits of character are praised except those which it was desirable he should possess.
The main difficulty with the young prince still recurred--his impetuous outbreaks of temper, accompanied by the stubborn determination to make every body around him yield and allow him to have his way, however unreasonable. This dangerous condition of mind was always treated by Fénelon's advice in the same manner. The Duke de Beauvilliers, who was his governor; the Abbé de Fénelon, and his assistant tutor, the celebrated historian Fleury; even the officers of his household and his domestics, all treated him with proof not of apprehension but of humiliating compassion. When his ill-humor grew furiously excited, they kept aloof and avoided him as one who had lost the use of his reason by some sad distemper. If the fit held out, his books were taken from him, and instruction was refused him, as being altogether useless in the deplorable condition into which he had now fallen. Left alone, denied all sympathy, given time to cool down, made to feel that his rage was undignified and ineffectual, the boy soon grew weary, ashamed, and at length repentant. He would then sue for pardon, which was only granted after many promises on his honor that he would not behave so foolishly and wickedly again.
One of these promises of amendment, made in writing, has been preserved and it reads as follows:
"I promise, on my word of honor as a prince, to the Abbé de Fénelon to do on the instant whatever he may tell me, and to obey immediately when he may forbid me to do any thing; and if I fail, I hereby submit myself to every sort of punishment and dishonor. Done at Versailles, Nov. 29th, 1689, Signed LOUIS."
This touching engagement upon honor by a boy under ten years of age was made in the first year of Fénelon's charge over him. He had already begun to make some progress, in spite of a disposition the ugliness of which had been previously set down as incorrigible.
The tutor had determined to master his pupil's rudeness, as an indispensable condition of any improvement, moral or literary.
One day he had recourse to a stratagem that might present his conduct to him in a new light. The young duke stopped one morning to examine the tools of a carpenter, who had been summoned to do some work in his apartment. The man, who had learned his part from Fénelon, told him in the roughest manner possible to go about his business. The prince, little accustomed to hear such language, began to resent it; but was interrupted by the workman, who, raising his voice and trembling with rage from head to foot, screamed to him to get beyond his reach. "I am a man," cried he, "who, when my temper is roused, think nothing of breaking the head of any person that crosses me." The prince, frightened beyond measure, ran to his master to tell him that a crazy man had been allowed to come into the palace. "He is a poor laborer," said Fénelon coldly, "whose only fault is giving signs of violent anger." "But he is a bad man," cried the boy, "and must leave my apartment." "He is worthy of pity rather than punishment," added his tutor. "You are surprised at his being angry because you disturbed him at his work; what would you say now of a prince who beats his valet at the very time that he is trying to do him a service?"
On another occasion the young man, piqued by the tone of severity which his tutor had found it necessary to assume, answered him in the most arrogant manner, "I will not allow you, sir, to command me; I know what I am, and I know what you are." Fénelon answered not a word; for remonstrance or reproof would have been useless. He determined, however, to give his pupil a lesson he should not easily forget. For the rest of that day he did not speak to him, his sadness alone evincing his displeasure. On the following morning he entered the duke's chamber immediately after his being awakened. "I do not know, sir," said he to his pupil with cold and distant respect, "if you recollect what you told me yesterday, namely, that you knew who you are and who I am. It is my duty to make you understand that you know neither one nor the other. You fancy then, sir, that you are more than I. Some lackey may have told you so; but I hesitate not, as you force me to it, to tell you that I am far above you. There is no question here of birth, which adds nothing to your personal merit. You cannot pretend to surpass me in wisdom. You know nothing but what I have taught you, and that is nothing compared with what remains for you to learn. As to power, you have none whatever over me; but I have authority full and entire over you. The king and monseigneur the dauphin have told you so often enough. You may think that I consider it a great thing to hold the situation I fill near your person. Let me tell you that you are altogether mistaken. I have accepted it only to obey the king and to please monseigneur, not certainly for the painful advantage of being your preceptor. To convince you of all I have said, I am about to lead you to his majesty, and to beg him to give you some other tutor, who will meet, I hope, with more consoling success than I have."
This speech threw the prince into the greatest consternation. "O my master!" he exclaimed, bursting into tears, "if you abandon me, what will become of me? Do not make the king my enemy for life. Forgive me for what I said yesterday, and I promise you never, never, to displease you again."
Fénelon did not yield easily, although on the following day he consented to be reconciled to his pupil.
His main dependence, however, in forming the character of the boy, was the sound religious principles which he never grew tired of instilling into his mind by word and example. He would at any moment interrupt literary instruction to explain some point of duty upon which his pupil might desire to converse. He taught him to look up to God, not with servile fear, but to love him; and to love to think and speak of him as the author of all that is beautiful in nature and in man. Fénelon gives us himself an instance of the empire of religion over his soul in a beautiful sketch which he wrote after his pupil's death. "One day," he says, "when he was in a very bad humor, and when he was seeking to conceal some act of disobedience, I asked him to tell me before God what he had done. 'Before God!' he exclaimed with great anger; 'why do you ask me "before God"? But since you do so ask me, I cannot deceive you; I therefore acknowledge my guilt.' He spoke thus, although he was at the moment frantic with rage. But religion had over him so much power that it forced from him the painful avowal."
It is difficult to record without emotion what Fénelon says further on of this noble youth, whom he came to love with paternal tenderness, and whose untimely death filled his heart with sorrow. "He would often tell me in our unrestrained conversations, 'I leave the Duke of Burgundy outside the door when I am with you, and I am nothing but little Louis.'" He closes the sketch by this splendid tribute to the change which had been wrought in his pupil's whole character: "I have never known a person whom it was more easy to tell of his own faults, or who would listen more readily to unpalatable truth." In proof of the excellent literary and scientific training of the prince, we find that the great Bossuet, after examining him for several hours, expressed himself satisfied and surprised at the young man's proficiency; and thus bore testimony to the ability and success of his tutor. Two works besides the Fables deserve to be mentioned as fruits of this course of education. One, Fénelon's Dialogues, in which he presents to his royal pupil the different personages of history, speaking their true sentiments, and making known the secret motives of their actions. The other is the far-famed prose-poem, The Adventures of Telemachus, Son of Ulysses, which has won for its author the glory of having produced the most perfectly-written book in the French language.
Little more remains to be said of the Duke of Burgundy. Fénelon labored long and faithfully to make him fit to ascend the throne of France; he lived to see this work, involving such immense future good or evil, completed, and completed to his entire satisfaction. By an early death the dear young prince, in whom such vast expectations were centred, was lost to the love of his master and of France. Had he lived to reign in place of the weak and dissolute Count d'Artois, afterward Louis XV., the page of history setting forth in letters of fire and blood the scenes of the destruction of the French monarchy, might perhaps have remained unwritten.
Fénelon had not been made bishop, when he became acquainted with Madame de Guyon. He approved of the writings of this gifted woman as sound in the light of Catholic theology. He defended her character as free from the slightest ground of reproach, and avowed the opinion that she was guided by a spirit of goodness and truth. She was looked upon by her adversaries at the court as visionary in her piety, heretical in doctrine, and far from irreproachable in her conduct. Fénelon, now become Archbishop of Cambrai, was forced into a controversy in reference to her affairs, one side of which he conducted alone, while on the other there were ranged against him the great Bossuet, the French court, the king, the court of Rome, and, finally, the supreme pontiff himself.
The modern student of history is surprised to discover the loose courtiers of Louis XIV., both men and women, hotly engaged in a controversy on an abstract point of ascetic theology; to see the ungrateful king banishing from his presence the saviour of his grandson, and the most honest man in his court; to see Bossuet allowing his powerful mind to be used as a weapon for the persecution of Fénelon; to see Fénelon, in a position of so great difficulty and delicacy, always consistent, always conscientious, always refined, always eloquent, always pious, and yet speaking out boldly and bravely, without regard to consequences, what seemed to him to be right and true.
The controversy, in course of time, was narrowed down to the question whether the doctrine taught in a book of Fénelon's, entitled the Maxims of the Saints, was or was not the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church. After a long investigation, the pope, as final judge in the matter, condemned the book, while extolling the personal virtues of the author. Without the slightest hesitancy, Fénelon bowed to the decision of the tribunal of final appeal, and condemned the book himself from the pulpit of his own cathedral. There was no mistaking his motive. He had shown clearly that he was beyond the influence of hope and fear, and that he humbled himself only because he truly believed now that he had been faulty, at least in expression. So noble an act of self-denial, humility, and obedience was attributed on all sides to its true source, namely, his sense of duty, and nothing else. Honest and upright dealing, according to the dictates of his conscience, proved the very best policy he could have followed in self-protection; for good and bad alike admired and applauded him all over the world. The book, abandoned by its author, ceased henceforth to be an object of interest, and Fénelon was the only one who gained any credit from a controversy in which good men and bad men had been strangely mixed up together, and fair means and foul were used in a fruitless endeavor to crush him.
The last years of Fénelon were passed in Cambrai, of which he was both archbishop and duke, and in which he was admired and beloved by all, whether rich or poor. Faithful in the discharge of every pastoral duty, he divided his time among the poor, the sick, the imprisoned, the young, and the ignorant, helping, relieving, instructing, consoling all. The rest of the day he spent among his books, or in the company of intellectual and virtuous friends. The poorest villagers feared not to approach and speak to one whose simplicity and gentleness they well understood, and to whose goodness of heart no one ever appealed in vain.
His peaceful diocese soon became the theatre of scenes of bloodshed and desolation, caused by that war of succession during which the star of Louis XIV. began finally to pale before the rising glories of the Duke of Marlborough. Fénelon gave up his property and his palace itself for the relief and accommodation of the sick and the wounded. He distributed among the poor the grain and the fruits over which he had control, and ordered his steward to give food and lodging to all who needed it. When he was told that such liberality would absolutely ruin him, "God will help us," he replied; "his resources are infinite. Meanwhile let us give as long as we have any thing to give, and we shall have done our duty." His episcopal mansion was occupied by officers and soldiers as a hospital, his barns and outhouses were used as asylums by the peasantry who had fled before the troops of the allied army, and his courts and gardens were filled with the cattle the poor country people had driven in, protected by the influence of Fénelon's name.
So powerful was that name that the invading commanders spared all property belonging to the archbishop, and Marlborough even ordered a quantity of grain which had been taken at Chateau Cambresis, and which he had been informed was the property of the archbishop, to be placed on wagons and driven into the public square of Cambrai under an escort of British troops.
But in his fatherly kindness and attention to the wants of those around him, Fénelon did not cease to take a lively interest in the fortunes of the whole country. He could not witness the threatened downfall of his beloved France without the deepest feelings of sorrow. The danger of the nation was extreme. Louis was engaged in a ruinous war with a powerful and conquering enemy. He could not retire from the contest with honor, and he had neither funds nor credit to carry it on with success. In this desperate strait, the king declared that he would die at the head of his nobles, a brave resolution that could not, however, save the country. In this trying emergency the genius of Fénelon saw a solution better than that proposed by the king. It was bodied forth in a letter to the Duke de Chevreuse, and is probably the most striking production that ever came from his pen. He tells the duke that the nobles cannot save the king, that the danger is extreme, and that his true friends must advise him to turn for countenance and relief to the people. The nation is in a critical position. Let the nation be consulted. Let not France be taxed without her consent to carry on a war in which she feels no interest. The people have been badly governed. Let them be called upon to take part in their own government for the future. "There is danger," he grants, "in passing suddenly from unqualified dependence to an excess of liberty. Great caution will be necessary; but it is nevertheless certain that arbitrary authority will not save the country from ruin." "Despotism," he adds, "with plenty of means, is a government of prompt action; but when despotism becomes bankrupt, the first who abandon it to ruin are the venal men whom it has allowed to fatten on the blood of the people." The priest from whom these remarks are quoted is not Lamennais or Gioberti, but an archbishop of the time of Louis XIV. The whole letter reads like a prophecy, or like a history of what took place less than a century later. If Fénelon's advice had been acted upon, how gloriously would France have entered the first of nations upon the march of improvement. Religion and order would not have been made to seem enemies of the people, and the names of Diderot and the Encyclopædia, of Robespierre and the Directory, might have remained unknown for ever!
We need not delay here further than to say that, while Fénelon looked into the heart of the people for the source of national strength, a succession of rapid events saved the king from the terrible alternative in which he was placed. The Emperor Joseph I. died, Marlborough fell into disfavor at home, Marshal Villars gained the victory of Denain, and the whole face of Europe was changed. A treaty of peace was signed at Utrecht in 1713.
Several of Fénelon's friends died in rapid succession, and his loving spirit was penetrated with grief at their loss. His death was hastened beyond doubt by the poignancy of his regret at these repeated afflictions. Why delay the sequel? His work was done, his views of life, his principles of duty to God, to one's country and to one's self, had been faithfully chronicled by his pen, and taught by the example of his serene and patient virtue. His hour was come, and in loving peace with all mankind, with words of faith on his lips, and the bright smile of Christian hope on his countenance, he breathed forth his pure spirit into the hands of his Maker. After his death, no funds were discovered belonging to him. They had been all distributed among the poor. He was buried without pomp in his church of Cambrai. During the Reign of Terror, the ancient tombs of that church were rifled, the leaden coffins were sent to the arsenal to be melted into bullets, and their contents thrown into the common burial ground. But when the invaders came to the bier of Fénelon, it was borne with decency and veneration into the city, and placed in a monument erected to his memory at a time when the sepulchres of emperors and kings were ruthlessly dismantled, and their ashes scattered pitilessly to the four winds of heaven.
Other great men of the age of Fénelon still live in history; few are admired more than he, and none is so much loved by men who upon other points are far from agreeing together. The wish expressed by one of his distinguished countrymen, that his memory might have the same advantage as his life, namely, that of making men love religion, has been fulfilled.
He wrote learnedly and eloquently in defence of his faith, and in refutation of the views of his opponents; and yet he avoids in all his works the extremes both of flattery and of harshness. Men of all religions recognize in him a friend, for all were embraced in his world-wide Christian charity; and yet they must bear with us, his fellow-Catholics, when we claim for our church the special honor of having made him the great and good man which all acknowledge him to have been. The earliest lessons he received came from the lips of devoted Catholic parents; and when his will was opened after his death, the first words read were the following emphatic expressions: "I declare that I wish to die in the arms of the Catholic, Apostolic, and Roman Church, my mother. God, who reads the heart, and will be my judge, knows that there has not been an instant of my life in which I have not cherished for her the submission and docility of a little child." A noble tribute this, and one which leads us to look not despondingly to the tree which is capable of producing such sound and genial fruit.
This transient reflection, ladies and gentlemen, presents itself naturally to the mind, and nothing is further from my thoughts than an attempt to enlist your hearts against your cool judgment in favor of the Roman Catholic Church. The claim which that church puts forth to your attention is based officially by her on her divine right to the reverence of mankind. She has never refused to give man the history of her origin, and to submit to his earnest scrutiny the proofs of her divine commission. She claims to be the only institution established on this earth to teach man what is necessary that he may be saved, and asks and accepts no stinted or divided allegiance. She alleges distinctly that human reason is unable without assistance to find and embrace the true, and that the human will is unable without assistance to find and embrace the good. She undertakes to impart the highest truth and the highest good to all who take her for their guide and their mother. She has been more cordially hated, and more devotedly beloved, than any object that history in all its witnessing can tell of. She claims not only to be a teacher, but a teacher endowed with unerring authority, and offers as vouchers for that claim the clear promise of her divine Founder, to abide with her until the end of time, and the lives and deaths of innumerable men and women taught by her to live perfectly upon earth. She has never disguised the greatness of that sacrifice of self which must be made by every man who would enjoy the peace here and the immortality of happiness hereafter, which she pledges to her faithful children; but she promises, in the name of God, supernatural assistance for making that sacrifice in spite of its seeming terrors. She uses no efforts to gain popularity; her system moves slowly, and rarely in such form as to take advantage of the interests or aspirations of the day. She never aims to be found on the side of human passions. She hesitates not to condemn those who differ with her authorized teachings, and she intimates to every man who sets up an altar against her altar that he does God and his fellow-mortals no good service, either temporal or eternal.
Whatever religious symbolism has been offered in the world hitherto as a substitute for her apostolic creed, has been founded on the principle that man is fit to take into his own hands the management of the affairs of his own soul; but the Catholic Church tells man that his private judgment is sure to mislead him in matters of religion, in spite of lofty aspirations and purity of intention; that he is bound not only to render obedience to his God, but in the manner God requires it; and nevertheless that religious direction need not be arbitrary; that it no more violates the freedom of man's will than the strong hand of a parent violates the freedom of the little child whom it leads lovingly onward and prevents from falling weakly to the ground.
No system which presents to man effort and self-restraint in the present, and advantage and freedom in the future only, can flatter his love of ease and selfish enjoyment. He is thus, at intervals at least, impatient of order, though it is heaven's first law; of legislation, though it has for its object the greatest good of the greatest number; of society, though its proper aim is to make each a friend and a helper to all, and all friends and helpers to each; and of science, that teaches him the laws of nature and the sad effects of their violation. By the same spirit is man urged to resent and cast off the restraints imposed upon him by religion and the church. But in this case, and in the others the opposition comes not from reason; it is the uprising of selfish interest or passion, assuming to speak out for the whole man, and for all time.
Again, that which is spoken against as the church is not the church; that which is spoken against as the belief, or practice, or requirement of the church, is hers perhaps in appearance, but in very truth it is not what she upholds, but what she reproves and opposes. There is a weird presentment bodied forth in English literature and called popery. It is certainly a figure of no amiable or attractive lineaments; it is worthy of the hatred of honest men. But it is not the Catholic Church. If the Catholic Church were the same thing as this ghost which goes by the name of popery, we should hate it too; for it deserves to be hated, and we are men possessing the same faculties as our neighbors who hate it. We do not hate the Catholic Church; we love her, and honor her as our mother, and so would our neighbors, if they saw her and knew her as we do.
Let us here understand the thing plainly. I uphold the doctrine and the practice of the Catholic Church; for I believe her to be the true church that the Son of God established on this earth, and ransomed at the price of his precious blood. But I can say for myself and for every Catholic who has been properly instructed in his religion, that we do not undertake to defend what has been done weakly or wickedly by men, even though they too called themselves Catholics.
I believe that light travels from east to west, and the faith which Judea gave to Rome, and Rome to Europe, and Europe to us, is the faith by which we are to be saved, if saved at all. But while thanking Europe for the true religion, I pray to my God that all the ancient feuds and heart-burnings which have distracted older countries in the name of religion may not be transplanted to this virgin soil.
Allow me to close my remarks, ladies and gentleman, with the heart-felt wish that we may all live faithful to our honest convictions, preach our religion by word and example, and force upon each other nothing but the endearing offices of fraternal charity.
FOOTNOTE:
[193] A Lecture delivered before the Young Men's Christian Association of Boston, by the late Rev. Dr. Cummings, pastor of St. Stephen's Church, New York.
DION AND THE SIBYLS.
A CLASSIC, CHRISTIAN NOVEL.
BY MILES GERALD KEON, COLONIAL SECRETARY, BERMUDA, AUTHOR OF "HARDING THE MONEY-SPINNER," ETC.
Chapter I
The die was cast, and Paulus went away plighted to an undertaking which appeared sufficiently arduous, and some of the chances of which were even full of horror.
The news of the arrangement spread through the palace of the Mamurras before he had well quitted Formiæ. From the palace it circulated through the town, from the town it reached the camp the same evening; and next day the surrounding country knew it. Carrier-pigeons[194] had borne to Rome a hint of the gayeties, the interest, and the splendor which the simultaneous occurrence of the emperor's visit, and the collection of an army for real fighting purposes, (in fact, to repel the German invasion,) were likely to call forth in the old Latian town; and now the same aerial messengers apprised many a sated circus-goer in the capital that a very pretty novelty indeed would be added to the contests of gladiators and the battles of wild beasts.
The concourse pouring into and converging from all parts toward Formiæ, which had already been so extensive, increased, therefore, into an enormous concentric movement. Nothing can better show what a prodigious multitude was thus accidentally collected than the fact that, even at Rome, (which then contained four millions of inhabitants,) a diminution of pressure was perceptible, for the time, to those who remained. This change resembled what Londoners experience on the Derby day.
Paulus, that evening, having passed a considerable time with his mother and sister, (to whom he communicated the fact of his engagement without alarming them by explaining its peculiar horrors,) felt little inclined to sleep. When, therefore, the lanista Thellus, who had, as Claudius said he would invite him to do, brought back Benigna to Crispus's inn, was taking his leave of the Lady Aglais and of Agatha, Paulus said to him,
"Do not go soon; but come down into the garden and let us take a stroll. We may not often be able to converse with each other hereafter."
"Gladly, my valiant youth," said Thellus; and they descended together.
A beautiful starry and moonlit night looked down over Italy, as they sauntered in the fragrant garden, conversing a little and then relapsing into thoughtful silence.
Presently Thellus said,
"This adventure of yours makes me unhappy."
"Well," returned Paulus, "my mother and sister have such need of my protection that I feel no levity about it myself. I confess that it is a grave business."
They now walked up and down the laurel alley a few turns, absorbed in thought.
Suddenly two men approached them along two different gravel-walks in the garden, one dressed as a slave, the other in the uniform of a decurion, a legionary officer, slightly more important than a modern sergeant of the line in the English army.
The slave had one of the worst countenances, and the decurion one of the most honest, that Paulus in his very limited or Thellus in his immense experience had ever beheld. Paulus recognized the slave at once; it was that Lygdus who had endeavored to bring him to the ground by a side-sweep of Cneius Piso's sword, which this man, as the reader will remember, was carrying at the time.
The decurion gave Paulus a letter, directed in the same handwriting, folded in the same style, and its silk thread sealed with the same device of a frog, as a certain communication which he had once before received.
The moon shone high, and so calm was the night that it proved easy to read the bold characters.
They ran thus:
"Velleius Paterculus, military tribune, salutes Paulus Lepidus Æmilius. Renounce this absurd engagement, which cannot concern you. It is yet possible, but will be too late to-morrow, to plead ignorance of what you were undertaking. Leave wretched slaves to their fate!--VALE."
Paulus, after reading this note, begged the decurion to wait, and, turning to Lygdus, asked his business.
The slave stated his name, and said he was appointed to receive, dating from the day after the next, the provender which he understood Paulus to be desirous of furnishing for the use of the Sejan horse.
"Has Tiberius Cæsar appointed you."
"Sir, yes."
"Of course, then, you are used to horses?"
"Sir, I have always belonged to the stable," said Lygdus.
"But," pursued Paulus, "am I then forbidden to enter the stable myself, and make acquaintance with the horse I have to break?"
"Sir, I have orders," answered this Lygdus--who, as I think I have already mentioned, was destined, as the instrument of Cneius Piso and Plancina, some few years later, to be the cruel assassin of Germanicus--"I have orders always to admit you, and always to watch you."
"You to watch a Roman knight!"
"For that matter, most honored sir," answered Lygdus, "the rank of the person watched does not alter the eyes of the watcher. I could watch a Roman senator, or even a Roman Cæsar, if necessary."
"I will be security you could," said Thellus, whose great and almost diaphanous nostrils quivered as he spoke.
Lygdus, by way of answer, withdrew a pace.
The decurion, meanwhile, had taken off his helmet, and the starry heavens were not more clear than his indignant, simple countenance.
"It is well," said Paulus. "I will ask for you at Formiæ. Go now."
Lygdus therefore went away.
"Decurion," said Paulus, "say to the esteemed Velleius Paterculus that I am very grateful to him; but what must be, must be."
"And what is that, noble sir?" answered the decurion, "in case my commanding officer should ask me for an explanation?"
"That I have given my word advertently, and will keep it faithfully," replied Paulus.
"Is this, noble sir," said the decurion, "what you mean by that which must be?"
"Have I, then," answered Paulus, "said any thing obscure or confused?"
"Only something unusual, excellent sir," said the decurion; "but not any thing confused or obscure. Permit me to add, that the whole camp knows the circumstances of this miserable undertaking, and wishes you well; and I feel in my single bosom the good wishes of the whole camp for your success."
"What is your name, brave decurion?"
"Longinus."
"Well," replied Paulus, "if I survive the struggle with this creature, I mean to join the expedition of Germanicus Cæsar, and I will have my eye upon you. I should like to be your informant that you were promoted to a higher rank, and to call you the Centurion Longinus."
Tears were standing in the Roman decurion's eyes as he bowed to take leave.
Thellus and Paulus, being now left again alone, resumed their walk up and down the laurel alley.
"I am not so conversant with horses," observed Thellus, "as I could for your sake at present wish to be. But all animals, I notice, are more quiet when blinded."
At this moment the branches of a cross-walk rustled, and a stately figure in the Greek læna χλαῖνα approached them.
"Are you not Æmilius, the nephew of the triumvir?" asked the stranger.
"Yes," replied Paulus.
"Who is this?" continued the new-comer, looking at Thellus. "I have something to say which may concern your safety."
"You may trust this brave man," said Paulus; "it is my friend Thellus."
"Well," pursued the other, in a very low tone, "take this little pot of ointment; and two hours before you have to ride the Sejan horse, go into his stable, make friends with him, and rub his nostrils with the contents. He will be then muzzled, you know. You will find him afterward docile."
"Whom have I to thank for so much interest in me?" demanded Paulus.
"My name is Charicles," replied the stranger hesitatingly, and still speaking almost in a whisper; "and I have the honor of numbering Dionysius of Athens among the best of my friends."
"My mother," returned Paulus, "would, I think, be glad to see you some day soon."
"I shall feel it an honor; but pray excuse me to her to-night," said Charicles. "Tiberius Cæsar knows nothing of my absence, and I had better return at once to Formiæ. I will visit you again."
"But would this ointment injure the horse?" inquired Paulus.
"Not by any means," said Charicles; "it comes from a distant eastern land. It will merely make him sleepy. I have been more than an hour and a half handling the ingredients, and I can hardly keep awake myself. Forgive my hurry--farewell." And the stately Greek made an obeisance as he disappeared.
Paulus remained, holding the pot, which consisted of some kind of porcelain, in his hand, and looking at it, when Thellus exclaimed,
"Why, this laurel hedge is alive!"
In a moment he had sprung through it and returned, dragging in his mighty grasp Lygdus the slave.
"Not yet departed?" said Thellus.
"Sir, I was asleep," replied the slave, with a look of terror.
"I have but to tighten my fingers," cried Thellus, "and you will sleep so as not to awake in a hurry."
"Thellus," observed Paulus, "I am not depending either on this man's knowledge or on this man's ignorance. I have quite other hopes and other grounds of confidence. Let him go."
"Ah!" said Thellus, "I would like to have the chastising of you. But go, as this noble gentleman desires; go, then, as the young Roman knight bids you!"
He shook the reptile-headed, down-looking, and side-looking slave away, and the latter disappeared.
"O friend and noble sir!" said Thellus, "it nearly breaks my heart to see you thus bound hand and foot, and doomed to destruction."
"Have a good heart, dear Thellus," said Paulus.
So they parted, the gladiator returning to his vehicle, and Paulus retiring to his room, where, as he lay on his bed and listened to the plash of the fountain in the impluvium, he silently and calmly offered back to the great unknown God whom Dionysius worshipped the life which he, that unknown Deity, could alone have given.
Chapter II
Next morning, before the family were out of their beds, Phylis the slave had returned from Monte Circello with the following note:
"Marcus Lepidus Æmilius hails the widow of his brave and valiant brother. Come with your children. The last of mine has, alas! died under the clemency of one man, and the liberality of another. The clement man is Augustus, the liberal man was Mæcenas. All that I now retain is yours; and yours shall be all I may be able to leave. Farewell."
But despite of this note, Paulus could not persuade his mother to depart from that neighborhood till after the trifling display of horsemanship, as he called it, which he had to afford for the amusement of the Roman world on the evening of the third day ensuing. A little ruffled at his failure to persuade the Lady Aglais to go away, he summoned their freedman Philip, and with him for a companion started on foot for Formiæ before noon, along a road as thronged at that moment and as animated as the road to Epsom is the eve of what Lord Palmerston has rather affectedly, and, as applied to an annual event, very incorrectly, called the Isthmian games of England.
Scarcely had he and Philip entered the southern gate, when they noticed a little crowd around some nurses, one of whom, apparently a Nubian, held the hand of a magnificently-attired child of any age between five and eight. At his side was an eastern-looking youth of about eighteen, whom the reader has met before. Thellus the gladiator was standing with folded arms on the outskirts of the suddenly-collected concourse. The child had dropped some toy, which a dog had seized in his mouth, and had thereby defaced. The dog was now a prisoner, held fast by the throat in a slave's hands.
"The poor dog knew not what he was doing," said the nurse.
"I care nothing for that," cried the child, who was purple with passion. "Strangle him, Lygdus."
And accordingly Lygdus tightened his grasp of the dog's throat till the animal's tongue was thrust forth; the grasp was yet longer maintained, and the dog was throttled dead.
"Is it dead?" screamed the child.
"Quite; see," replied Lygdus, casting away upon the street the breathless carcass.
"Ah! beautiful!" cried the child; "now come away."
"Nice and neat as an execution," said a powerfully-built, dusky, middle-aged man, having a long, ruddy beard, streaked with gray, around whom were several slaves in Asiatic dress. This person also the reader has met before. "But," added he, "I am going up for my own trial, and I hope it will not be followed by another execution."
"I only hope it will" cried the interesting child. "What fun it would be to see a man strangled."
"Who is that infant monster, Thellus?" asked Paulus.[195]
"He is the son of Germanicus and Agrippina; his name is Caius. You see, young as he is, he already wears the caligæ of the common soldiers, among whom he continually lives. It is his delight. They nickname him Caligula. Do you know, there are good chances he yet wears the purple, and succeeds Augustus, or at least Augustus's next heir, as emperor of the world."
"Happy world will it be under his rule," said Paulus.
Suddenly there were cries of "Make way." Lictors moved, making large room among the crowd. Sejanus appeared in the robes of a prætor; and Paulus and his friend Thellus found themselves borne along, like leaves in a stream, toward the back of the Mamurran palace, in a large room on the ground floor of which they presently beheld the big, dusky-colored man of fifty or thereabouts, with the long, ruddy, gray-streaked beard, standing before a sort of bar. Behind the bar, on a chair of state, like the curule chair of the senators, Augustus was sitting. A crowd of famous persons, many of whom we have already had occasion to mention, stood behind him, and on either hand Livy, Lucius Varius, Haterius, Domitius Afer, Antistius Labio, Germanicus, and Tiberius Cæsar were there. In a row behind were Cneius Piso, Pontius Pilate, and the boy Herod Agrippa.
"And so," said Augustus, "you tell us you are the son of Herod the Great, as he is called; in other words, Herod the Idumæan; his son Alexander?"
"We have seen," said Paulus to Thellus, in a whisper, "the fate of a dog; we are now to learn that of a king, or a pretender to the dignity."
"Great and dread commander, such I am," answered the red-bearded, big, dark man.
"But," said Augustus, "the accredited rumor runs that Herod condemned his two sons, Aristobulus and Alexander, to death. Nay, I have the official report sent to me at the time by the prefect of Syria, and letters from Herod the Idumæan himself."
"Herod condemned them, but the executioner killed others instead," answered the Jew. "They escaped to Sidon."
"Them and they!" said Augustus; "you mean that others were executed instead of them?"
"Yes, my commander."
"Why do you not," pursued Augustus, "say INSTEAD OF US?"
"I do not understand," replied the Jew.
"Are you not," asked Augustus, "one of them?"
"I am the son of Herod."
"You speak as though you had gone out of that person. You speak rather like a historian than like a sufferer and an actor. You are talking of yourself and your brother, yet you say THEY, not WE!"
"Such is the style of the east, emperor."
"Pardon me," said Augustus; "I know the style of the east perfectly well. Solve me now another difficulty: I also well know Herod the Idumæan, many cases connected with whom were litigated before me, and decided by me. Now, I never knew a man who, having determined that any body was to die, took such methodical pains to carry that determination into effect. He dealt largely in executions; and if there was a person in the world, it was Herod, who saw with his own eyes that his intended executions should be realities."
"Mine was not," said the Jew, and a laugh arose in court. "All the Jews in Sidon know that I am Alexander, son of Herod; all those in Crete know it; all those in Melas know it; and when I landed at Dicearchia, all the Jews received me as their king; and you are not ignorant, great emperor, that thousands of my countrymen in Rome, the other day, carried me upon a royal litter through the streets, and clothed me in royal robes and ornaments, and received me, wherever I went, with shouts of welcome as Herod's son."
"And you have then," replied Augustus, after a pause, "been nurtured as a royal person is in the east?"
"Always," answered the Jew.
"I myself," returned Augustus, "have seen and known the son Alexander, as well as his father Herod; and though you are not unlike the son, yet you--show me your hands."
The Jew stretched forth his hands.
"Those hands have toiled from infancy. Uncover your neck and shoulders."
This was done.
Augustus immediately ordered the room to be cleared; and it was afterward known that he had extorted a confession of his imposture from this Alexander; and that, sparing his life, he condemned him to row one of the state galleys in chains for the rest of his days.
"Not much like dotage, all this," muttered Tiberius to Cneius Piso.
The eastern-looking youth, holding the hand of the child Caius Caligula, and followed by Pontius Pilate, waited for Augustus in a passage--through which Paulus and Thellus were now trying to make their way into the street.
When the emperor came out, observing that the youth desired to speak with him, he stopped, saying,
"What wish you, Herod Agrippa?"
"Emperor, I have told you that this man is not my uncle."
"And I," said Augustus "have now settled the question. He is not."
"This officer behind me (Pilate is his name) has been very obliging to us ever since our arrival. I wish, my sovereign, you would send him to Judea as procurator."
"He is too young," replied Augustus; "but I will put his name in my tablets. Perhaps, under my successor, he may obtain the office."
"I want a favor," cried the child Caius.
"What is it, orator?" asked Augustus. (Caligula displayed as a child a precocious volubility of speech, which procured him the epithet by which he was now addressed.)
"That man, that black Jew--who pretended to be my friend's uncle--won't you put him to death?"
"Externi sunt isti mores," replied Augustus, quoting Cicero; "that would be quite a foreign proceeding. The anger that sheds unnecessary blood belongs to the levity of the Asiatics, or the truculence of barbarians."
Meanwhile Paulus and Thellus, who had unavoidably overheard these scraps of conversation, emerged now once more into the street, and Thellus guided Paulus to the stables of Tiberius Cæsar, where they found Lygdus expecting the visit. He led them into a long range of buildings, and showed them, standing in a stall which had a door to itself, so contrived as to avoid the necessity of letting any other horses, when coming or going, pass him without some intervening protection, the famous Sejan steed. The walls were tapestried with leafy vine-boughs, and the stable seemed very cool, clean, and well kept.
The stature of the ominous horse, as we have had occasion already to mention, was unusually large; but the fineness of his form took away the idea of unwieldiness, and gave a guarantee of both power and speed. However, any person who had studied horses, and was learned in their points, (which to a great extent merely means learned in their anatomy,) would at a glance have condemned this one's head. It was, indeed, not lacking in physical elegance, although not lean enough; the forehead was very broad, but the eye was not sufficiently prominent nor mild in expression, and it shot forth a restless light; the muzzle and the ears, moreover, were coarse; the bones, from the eye down, were too concave, and the nostril appeared to be too thick. Something untrustworthy, and almost wicked, characterized the expression of the head altogether. The jaws were wide, and the neck was extraordinarily deep. The shoulders were not so flat or so thin as the Romans liked them to be; the girth round the heart was vast; the chest broad and full; the body barrel-shaped. The limbs were long, (which, says Captain Nolan, "is weakness, not power;") but then the bones were everywhere well covered with muscle, the hind-legs being remarkably straight in the drop; in short, they promised an immense stride, when the animal should be urged to his fastest gallop.
"Now," said Paulus, after attentively examining these and a great many other points, which it would be too technical for us to detail, "I see he is not muzzled, but tied by the head, and I perceive a curious arrangement--that platform behind his manger, and raised somewhat higher than it. The object is to feed him thence, and approach him there, I suppose? Moreover, I observe you have pulleys in the roof and broad bands depending from them; do you then lift him off his legs when you groom him?"
Lygdus assented. Paulus, after looking attentively at the animal's hoofs, and forming an idea of the state of his feet, inquired,
"Is he savage to all alike, or can you, for instance, approach him?"
"Sir, I always take my precautions," answered the slave.
Paulus went round, and stood some ten minutes in front of the horse on the raised platform behind the manger, then shook a double handful of corn down before him and watched him eat it. Satisfied at length with this scrutiny, he now made arrangements for Philip to remain constantly in the stable, even sleeping there at night, and quitting it only to accompany the horse when taken out for exercise; and he made it clearly understood that Philip should superintend the feeding and grooming of the animal till he should be led forth for Paulus to ride him at the appointed time. We have said nothing to explain why the youth did not ride him muzzled, as often and as long as possible, during the two days which were still left for preparation; the fact being that he proposed even now to do so; but found that, not having thought of stipulating for this as one of the conditions, when he had his interview with Tiberius, orders had been given to Lygdus that no person whatever was to mount the horse till the hour when Paulus was to attempt his subjugation, in presence of the court, camp, and people. Very much disappointed, and blaming his own want of foresight in not having extorted so important a right, Paulus now left the freedman "on duty" in the stables, Thellus volunteering to revisit him, and to bring plenty of provisions of all sorts, and thus to save the necessity of purveying for him from the distance of Crispus's inn. When our hero and the gladiator had retired, Philip began to make a couch of fresh and fragrant hay for himself on the platform behind the manger, muttering,
"But, if I sleep, it shall be with one eye open and the other not quite closed. If I find that scoundrel, for he looks a scoundrel, playing any tricks, I'll strangle him so surely as I have five fingers on each hand."
As Philip thus muttered, Lygdus drew nigh and addressed him.
"Your young master, I fear," he said, "has not long to live; no one can ride this horse."
"Three circumstances," replied Philip, seating himself deliberately on a roll of hay, "are unknown to you. I will tell you them. The first is, that this is not at all a case for mere horsemanship, although it is not to be denied that horsemanship is necessary. Courage and wit are more needful than any bodily adroitness in reminding brutes that their master is man. That is the first circumstance. The second is, that my young master learnt his riding among the Ætolians, who are not matched in the world."
"Take a sip of wine," said Lygdus, handing him a flask of hide.
"After you," said the wary old freedman.
Lygdus drank a little, wiped the mouth of the flask with a vine-leaf, and tendered it once more to Philip, saying,
"The first and second of your remarks seem to me to be appropriate, although I think the Gaulish riders equal to the Ætolians. I should like to hear the third circumstance."
Philip sipped some of the wine, gave back the vessel to the slave, and proceeded,
"The third has relation to your phrase, 'I fear.' My master, Paulus Lepidus Æmilius, has been born and reared to fear death not over-much."
"Edepol!" cried Lygdus; "what is to be feared more?"
"Well," said Philip, "various things he fancies, and I fancy so too. Considering that all men must die, and can die only once, and that it has become somehow, I suppose, by practice and decree, as natural as to be born, and that we have been doing nothing for thousands of years but making way for each other in that manner, it would be an error to look upon death as the greatest evil. Why, man, I should go mad if that which none can avoid was the greatest evil that any can incur."
"Edepol!" exclaimed the slave again; "you are apparently right. Yet what can be conceived worse than death? You mean immense pain, long continuing; in which case a wise man would put an end to himself."
"Wise!" returned Philip; "but it would be useless to reason with such as you. You should have heard, as I have heard him, Dionysius the Athenian upon this topic. When you make such reflections, is it your big toe, for example, or your belly, or your elbow, or any part of your body, that makes them? You may put an end to your body, and we know what becomes of it. When it is no longer fit, as the young Athenian says, to be the house of that which thinks and reflects within it, this last departs; for the body, once dead, ceases to think or reflect, and as soon as the thinker does thus depart, the body rots.
"But that other thing which kept the body from rotting, that other thing which thinks and reflects, and which is conscious that it is always the same, that it always has been itself--that other thing which knows its own unalterable identity through all the changes of the body, from squalling childhood to stiff-kneed age--how can that other thing, which may easily depart out of the body and leave it to perish, depart out of itself? A thing may leave another thing; but how can any thing be left by itself? When this thing, says Dionysius, goes away from the body, the body always dies. It was, therefore, the body's life. But out of its own self this life cannot go (can any thing go out of itself?) and if it goes out of the body unbidden, what will it say to him who had put it therein when he asks, Sentinel, why have you quitted your post? Servant, why have you left your charge? What brings you hither? I am angry with you! What will this always conscious, always identical thing, then reply?"
"You frighten me," said Lygdus. "What, then, can be more feared by a reasonable man than death?"
"My young master, for example," replied Philip, "so long, be it always understood, as he is not his own murderer, would prefer to die in honor than to live in shame. His father, the brave Roman tribune, used to say to him as a boy, that a disgraced life was worse than a useless life, and a useless life worse than a noble death. But who comes hither?"
The interesting little child Caius Caligula, and the boy Herod Agrippa, entered the stable as Philip spoke.
"Oh! there is the big wild horse," cried the sweet infant, who had only just arrived at the use of his reason; "but where is the young man that is to be eaten? I want to tell him what will become of him, and then to watch his face."
"He is, I see, even, now coming back," said Philip sternly. He stood up as he spoke, and an instant afterward Paulus, who was attended by the slave Claudius, bearing a basket of provisions for old Philip, crossed the threshold.
"Ah!" said Caligula, "you are the person, are you not, who are to be first thrown off that horse, next to be danced upon by him, and finally to have your head crunched between his grinders, and that fine wavy hair of yours will not protect your head?"
"That is a graphic description," said Paulus; "but I trust it will not be realized."
"Are you not very frightened? Do not you feel very unhappy?"
Paulus seemed to experience some repugnance to converse with this child; but guessing him to belong to the imperial family, he answered with a calm smile,
"Well, I do not feel the grinders yet."
"I will fix my eyes fast upon you," returned the child, "from the moment you mount."
"May they be blinded before they witness what they wish to behold!" muttered Philip.
During this short conversation, Lygdus noticed something white gleaming in a fold of Paulus's tunic at the side, and picked it, unperceived by any one, out of the species of pocket where it lay. Caligula, after scrutinizing Paulus's face, turned away, and ran rapidly up the stable, passing behind the horse.
He skipped and danced a few moments on the other side, gazing at the animal, and exclaiming, "Good horse! fine horse! beautiful horse!"
Lygdus immediately called out to him not to come back till he had closed the door of the box, the leaf of which was on the hither side, and could be flung to, and the slave proceeded to do this. But Caligula, with a sort of skipping run, still uttering his exclamations and looking sideways into the stall as he passed, had already begun to return, giving Sejanus's heels as wide an offing as the place allowed. A short, ferocious whinny, more like the cry of some wild beast than the neigh of a horse, was heard, and Sejanus lashed out his hind-legs.
Caligula would probably have crossed, beyond range of harm, the line of this acknowledgment which the brute was making to him, in return for his ejaculatory compliments, only for the very precaution which Lygdus had taken, and which actually furnished the animal with a projectile, and transmitted to a further distance, by means of the door-leaf, nearly the full force of the blow. As the door was swinging home, the powerful hoofs met it, and, shivering it from top to bottom, dashed it open again, and sent the outer edge of it and a large detached splinter against the middle of Caligula's forehead and face, from the hair down along the whole line of the nose; for, as we have remarked, his face happened to be turned sideways to receive the blow just when it was delivered. He fell insensible; but having been already in motion, the united effect of the two forces was to cast him beyond the reach of any further usage on the part of the Sejan steed. Lygdus immediately lifted him up, and he, with Herod Agrippa, carried Caligula into the open air. Paulus and Philip followed; but ascertaining that the injury was superficial, they returned to the stable, where they were now left alone.
"I heard him tell you, my master," said Philip to Paulus, "that he would fasten his eyes upon you, when you mounted yonder brute; now, he will not open those eyes for a week, and whatever happens to you, he is not going to see it. He is not seriously hurt; he'll be as well as ever in ten days; but for the present his beauty is spoilt, and he's as blind as the dead."
Paulus now in a low tone related to the freedman, whose services would be necessary in the matter, the visit of Charicles, and the gift to him by that learned man of an unguent which, if rubbed into the horse's nostrils, would render him sleepy, and, therefore, quiet. The old servant expressed great wonder and admiration at such a device, and Paulus felt with his hand for the little porcelain pot where he remembered to have placed it. Needless to say, it was gone.
"Well," said the youth, after a few questions and answers had been exchanged, "I must even take my chance without it. Charicles, I hear, has just been summoned to Rome, so that I cannot get any more of the compound. Farewell; I must now return to Crispus's inn."
Chapter III
The day when the singular struggle was to occur, the expectation of which had excited such curiosity, arose bright, breezeless, and sultry, and so continued till long past noon; but the sun was now sinking toward the Tyrrhenian Sea, and a cool, soft air had begun to blow as the hour approached when the nephew of the triumvir was to mount the horse Sejanus, in the presence of such a multitude as the fields of Formiæ had never before beheld, whether in times of peace or times of war.
At the distance of a few miles on every side, the fair vales and slopes of Italy presented the appearance of a deserted land, over which no sound was heard save the drowsy hum of insects, the occasional sough of the rising breeze in the tops of the woods, and, predominant over all, far and near, the piercing ring of the cicala, with its musical rise and fall and its measured intervals. The fire of the wayside forge lay under its ashes; all its anger taking rest, its hoarse roar asleep, till the breath of the bellows should once more awaken it to resistance and torment it into fury. All the labors of tillage were suspended; the plough wearied no team of oxen; little girls were watching the flocks and herds. Their fathers and mothers and brothers had all gone away since early morning, and would not return till night-fall. A lonely traveller from the south, whose horse had cast a shoe and fallen lame, had no alternative but to take off bridle and housings, leave them under a tree in charge of a little damsel five or six years old, turn his steed loose in a soft field of clover, and continue his own journey on foot along the silent highway, amid the silent land.
The seats of the temporary amphitheatre were all filled; while within and beneath them, standing, but standing on three several elevations, contrived by means of planks, (the rearmost being the highest,) were six ranks of soldiers from the camp; the two inner ranks consisting exclusively of Ælius Sejanus's prætorians. Immediately behind the centre of the amphitheatre, where Augustus with his court sat upon a strongly-built, lofty, and somewhat projecting wooden platform, canopied from the glare, a grove of tall and shady trees offered in their branches an accommodation of which the fullest advantage had been taken by a vast miscellaneous multitude, chiefly youths and boys; but among them soldiers who had received a holiday, and had found no room for themselves in the amphitheatre, were also numerous, their costumes rendering them easily distinguishable. On each side of the large canopied platform of the emperor and the Cæsars, with their court, were several seats of honor lined with purple and scarlet cloths, and connected with the estrade in question by continuous pavilion roofs, but having their own benches. Here many ladies and some boys and girls sat. It is in one of these we are ourselves going to take post, invisible but watchful, unheard but hearing.
On the seat immediately in front of ours, and of course a little below it, is a group of three persons, attended by a slave. With these persons, and even with their slave, we have already made more or less acquaintance. One of them the doctors had forbidden to go forth; but he had come. He is a mere child; his pretty face is shockingly disfigured; both his eyes are closed and blacked; all the flesh round them is a discolored and contused mass, his head is bandaged, and every nerve in his countenance is twitching with the furious eagerness and curiosity of one whose organs of sight, if he could only see with them, would ravenously devour the spectacle which all the rest of that mighty multitude were to enjoy, and from which he alone was to be debarred. Amid the immense murmur of so many human voices, we have to listen with attention, in order to catch distinctly what the child says in his shrill treble tones.
"Now mark you, good Cneius Piso, and you, Herod Agrippa, I am as blind as a stone; and I have brought you here in no other character than as my eyes, my left and my right eye. If a single iota of what passes escapes me, may all the gods destroy you both, worse than any Roman or Jew was ever destroyed before! Has that beast of a horse (if it was mine, I'd tether it by all four legs to the ground, and make a squadron of cavalry back their horses against it, and kick it into shreds and little bits)--has that beast of a horse come forth yet?"
"Not yet, orator," answered Piso. "I see that your father, the illustrious Germanicus, has not taken his place in the emperor's pavilion; he is riding about yonder in the arena, and so is Tiberius Cæsar. I dare say they will prefer to remain on horseback; for they can thus see quite as well, while the scene continues to be enacted in this place, and if the Sejan horse should break away through the opening in the amphitheatre opposite to us, they could follow and still assist at the issue, whereas we could not.'
"But I want to see; I must see; I'll get on my pony too! Ah my sight! I could not ride blind! O that accursed horse!"
"Then," said Piso, "do you wish the youth to conquer the horse, or the horse his rider?"
The child yelled, and struck his forehead furiously with his fists.
"Oh! If I could only see! I ought not to have come! It is worse to be here, knowing what is to happen, and having it all close under my eyes, and not to see it, than if I was far away and without the temptations around me. It is the hell of Tantalus; I cannot, cannot bear it."
After a pause of impotent rage, he asked Piso was the crowd of spectators very large?
"It is the largest I ever beheld," answered Piso; "it would be impossible to count it, or to guess the number."
"I wish every one present was stone blind at this very moment," said the dear child.
"Thanks, orator, on the part of all here present," answered Piso.
"Understand me--only for the moment," hastily returned Caligula; "I would give them their sight again when I recovered my own." A pause. "Or even when to-day's show was over, perhaps."
While yet he spoke, the hum and murmur, which had been incessant, died rapidly away.
"What is it?" asked Caligula.
"The Sejan horse is being led into the arena; two men, as usual, hold two cavassons on opposite sides. He is muzzled; two other grooms are now slackening the muzzle, in order to get the bit well back between his teeth by pulling up the reins which are under the muzzle, as the horse opens his mouth.
"They have the bit properly placed now, and have quitted his head. Oh! what a spring! It has jerked the further cavasson-holder clean off his feet. O gods! he has lost the cavasson, and the other man must be destroyed. No, bravo! the fellow has regained the loop of his rein or thong, and hauls the beast handsomely back!"
"How can one man on either side," asked Caligula, "hold him? I have seen two on each side."
"I understand," replied Piso; but before he could finish his explanation or remark, or whatever it was designed to be, a sudden and impressive silence fell upon that vast assembly, and Piso stopped short.
"What has happened now?" whispered the child.
"The rider has come forth," answered Piso, "and is walking toward the horse from the direction of the open space in front of us. By Jupiter! a splendid youth; it is not to be denied."
"How is he dressed? Has he his whip and stimuli (spurs)? He will not need such helps, I surmise."
"He has no spurs, and he carries nothing in his hands. He wears that foreign-looking head-gear, the broad-rimmed petasus, as a shade, no doubt, against the level rays of the sunset; for I see he is giving directions to the grooms, and they are contriving to bring the horse round with his head toward the west. Ah! he thus faces the opening; I dare say he will try to push the animal into the excitement of a grand rush, and thus weary him at the outset. In that case, we shall not see much of the business; he will be miles away over the country in a few minutes."
"You will find that such an injustice will not be allowed," answered the child. "We must not be cheated out of our rights."
"His tunic," continued Piso, "is belted tight, and I perceive that he wears some kind of greaves, which reach higher than the knee, that will protect him from the brute's teeth. Moreover, I notice a contrivance in the horse's housings to rest the feet--you might call them stapedæ; they seem to be made of plaited hide."
"I don't care for his greaves," returned the child; "the teeth may not wound him, but they will pull him off or make him lose his balance all the same. It is agreed, is it not, that, as soon as he is mounted, the muzzle is to be slipped off the horse?"
"Certainly," said Piso.
"Then the rest is certain," said the other. "How is it contrived, do you know?" added he.
"The muzzle consists of a mere roll of hide," replied Piso; "and it is those long reins alone which keep it folded, being passed in opposite directions round the animal's nose; while therefore both the reins are pulled, or held tight, they bind the muzzle; but when one of them only is pulled, it opens the muzzle. Each groom has the same kind of double rein; and each, acting in concert, will set the beast free as soon as they receive the signal."
"Who gives the signal?"
"The rider himself, when he is fairly seated; but Tiberius will tell him when to mount."
"Go on with your description of his dress and his looks. Does he seem afraid?"
"He still wears that queer sword; I should have fancied it cumbersome to him. Afraid! I should say not. No sign of it.
"Ver omnes!"
At first, this dialogue was sustained in a whisper; but as the lull of all noise was again gradually replaced by that hoarse hum, which is blent out of a hundred thousand low-toned murmured words, Piso and the child Caligula raised their own voices, and the last exclamation of Piso was as loud as it was sudden.
"Has any thing further taken place?"
"Why, yes," said Cneius Piso; "and something which I do not understand. That old freedman of the youth, together with Thellus the gladiator, have approached him, and Thellus holds in each hand a sort of truncheon about a yard or more long; the top of which for more than a foot is black; the rest is sheathed or plated in bronze; the black top of the truncheon is thick; the rest, which is sheathed in the metal, is much thinner. The freedman who is by Thellus's side holds a small horn lantern in one hand, and tenders with the other a pair of large woollen chirothecæ (gloves) to his young master, who is even now putting them on. As he puts on his gloves, he looks round the benches; he is looking our way now. What can he mean? He has the audacity to wave his hand, and smile, and nod in this direction!"
The slave whom we have mentioned as forming the fourth in this group was no other than Claudius, whose part Paulus was now performing.
"By your leave, most honored lords," said Claudius, "I think I am the person whom that valiant youth is saluting."
"True," said Piso; "he has taken your destined office to-day, has he not?"
"Yes, my lord," returned Claudius; "and having caught sight of me, he beckoned to me, doubtless, to bid me have good courage."
"Well!" ejaculated Piso, "that is a good joke. I think it is you who ought to beckon to him to have good courage. He needs it more than you."
A moment after this remark, Cneius Piso suddenly turned to the child Caligula, and informed him that Tiberius was signing to him (Piso) to go down into the arena, and mount one of the spare horses; and, although unwillingly, he must go.
"And how shall I know what occurs?" cried the passionate, voluble boy. "It is like plucking out one of my eyes. Herod Agrippa here speaks Latin with such a dreadful, greasy accent, and so slowly; he is but learning the language."
Piso rose and said, "I have no choice but to obey; you have the slave Claudius with you; he not only speaks fluently, but I'll answer for it he will watch all the stages of the struggle with at least as much attention as any person in all this crowd will! His liberty, his wedding, and fifty thousand sesterces are at stake."
Saying this, he descended the steps of the narrow gangway which was (with scores of similar stairs) the means contrived for reaching and quitting the higher seats in the temporary circus. A few moments afterward, he was seen in the arena riding by the side of Tiberius to and fro.
"Now, slave, remember your duty," cried the child Caligula; "let nothing escape your eyes or my ears. What next?"
"Those queer-looking staves, my lord, which the illustrious Cneius Piso has mentioned as being in the hands of Thellus, have passed into those of the young knight, who is to conquer the terrible brute."
"What? the two truncheons with black, thick ends, and the rest of their length sheathed in metal? do you say that the knight Paulus has taken them into his hands? What good can they do him?"
"Yes, my lord; he has now passed both of them into his left hand, and holds them by the thin ends. Thellus has withdrawn a few paces; the old freedman, Philip, remains still near the youth. Ha!"
"What!"
"Tiberius Cæsar has signalled the arena to be cleared. O gods! we shall soon see the issue now. I care not for my freedom; I care for the safety of that brave young knight."
"Does he, then, seem to shrink?" asked the child.
"I do not," replied Claudius, "observe any shrinking, my lord. It is I who shrink. He has drawn slowly near the horse in front, and stands about half a yard from his left shoulder. He is following Tiberius Cæsar with his eyes."
"Go on!"
"The arena is now clear of all save on the one hand the two Cæsars and their retinues, who have taken their stand very near to us, just opposite to and beneath this platform, my lord; and on the other hand, the group around that horrible animal. Ah! me miserable! Tiberius Cæsar lifts his hand, and you hear the trumpet! That is the signal."
"I hear it! I hear it!" cried the child, in a sort of ecstasy. "What follows now? Has the knight Paulus mounted?"
"No, my lord; he has--"
"He shrinks, does he not?" interrupted the other with a taunting giggle.
"The horse trembles in every limb," said the slave; "his nostrils dilate and quiver, and show scarlet, as if on fire; and his eyes shoot forth a blood-red gleam, and he has stooped his head, and--"
"But the man, the man?" screamed Caius; "what of him? Has he not failed, I say--lost heart?"
The most profound stillness had succeeded to the hubbub of blended sounds which a moment previously filled the air.
A trumpet blew a shrill prolonged minor note, and the child, laying his hand upon Claudius's shoulder, and shaking him violently, cried to him to proceed with his descriptions; addressing to him again the query, "Has that young man mounted? And if so, in what style, with what success?"
Notwithstanding the despotic impatience with which the inquiries were urged, the slave Claudius did not at first reply; and the infant heard rapid, eager murmurs on all sides follow the trumpet blast, then a general burst of exclamations, which were instantly hushed.
"Why do you not speak?" said Caius, in a species of whispered scream.
"Pardon a momentary abstraction," replied Claudius. "While the trumpet was yet sounding, the young knight Paulus took off his hat quickly, and bowed toward Tiberius Cæsar and the emperor; and replacing his hat, he beckoned to the freedman Philip. This last has approached him, and they are even now speaking together."
"Ha! ha!" interrupted the child; "then he has not mounted. He neither dares nor can he."
"Philip," pursued Claudius, "has opened the lantern; his young master is thrusting the staves toward the light; the ends have caught fire, in a dull degree, with some smoke accompanying the flame. He turns quickly away from the freedman, and holding the staves still in his left hand, and a little away, he approaches the horse; now he stands with his feet close together. Oh! he has sprung clean from the ground; he is in his seat. He has seized the bridle in his right hand, and carried it to his mouth; he takes it between his teeth. He is now relieving his left hand of one of those torches; he holds one in each hand, somewhat away from the body, nearly horizontal. The cavasson-holders at a distance are removing the muzzle, and the rider sends his feet firmly, yet I think not very far, through those rests which the illustrious Cneius Piso mentioned, those stapedæ of hide, the like of which I never saw before. I wonder they are not always used."
"What of the horse? Is he motionless?"
"Not less so than a statue," replied the slave; "excepting the eyes and nostrils, which last exhibit a tremulous movement, and show scarlet, like hollow leaves or thin shells on fire. The brute's concave head, from the scarlet nostril to the lurid eye, looks wicked and dire."
"How looks the rider?"
"Calm and heedful; the slight occasional breath of air from the east carries away to the front the slow flame, blent with a little smoke of those torches which he holds one in each hand."
"What can they be for?"
"I know not," replied Claudius.
"I suppose they are intended," said the child, "to compel the Sejan horse to keep his head straight. Thus your volunteer-substitute need not fear the beast's teeth. The issue seems then to be reduced to a trial of sheer horsemanship."
"And in such a trial, most honored sir," replied the slave, "I begin to have hopes. You should see the youth. The leading-reins are now loose. The muzzle is snatched away, and the contest has begun. Surely it seems one between a wild beast and a demigod."
"Is he thrown?"
"No; yes; so help me! he is off, but is off standing."
"Explain; proceed--I tell you, proceed!"
"The horse, after a series of violent plunges, suddenly reared till he had nearly gained a perpendicular position upon his hind-legs, the fore-feet pawing the air. The rider, who seemed to be as little liable to fall as though he had been part of the animal, then quickly passed his right foot out of the far stapeda, and dropping the bridle from his teeth, slipped down on the hither side. Hark! did you hear the crash with which the fore-paws have come down? The steed seemed to be very near falling backward, but after a struggle of two or three seconds, recovered himself; the centre of his weight had not been carried rearward of the vertical line; and, O ye gods! just as you heard that ponderous thud with which he descended upon his fore-feet, the youth darted from the ground with a spring like his first, and he is now on the brute's back as before. He stoops to the horse's neck; he has caught the bridle in his teeth, and lifts that brave, clear face again. Listen to the multitude! Oh! how the euge, euge, thunders from a hundred thousand sympathetic voices!"
"Ah my sight!" cried the child Caligula.
"Ha! ha!" continued Claudius, transported out of himself. "I shall get my liberty to-day! Nor will my benefactor be injured. Ha! ha! The fell beast of a horse seems astonished. How he writhes his back, curving it like some monstrous catamount. And lo! now he leaps from the ground with all four feet at the same time! I never saw the like, except in animals of the cervine tribe. Ha! ha! leap away! Yes, stoop that ferocious-looking head, and shake it; and lash out with your death-dealing hoofs. Your master is upon you, in his chair of power, and you'll shake your head off before you dislodge him from it. It is not with the poor literary slave Claudius that you have to deal! Oh! what a paroxysm of plunges. I was frightened for you, then, brave young knight; but there you sit yet, calm and clear-faced. If I was frightened for you, you are not frightened for yourself."
"Oh! for a few minutes' sight!" said the child. "Has not the horse tried to twist his head round, and so to bring his teeth into play?"
"Even now he tries," replied Claudius; "but he is met on either side by the torch. The fiercest beast of the desert shrinks from fire. Prudent and fortunate device! Lo! the horse seems at last to have ascertained that he who has this day mounted him is worthy of his services; do you hear the tread of his hoofs, as he traces the circle of the arena, guided by those steady hands from which flames appear to flow. Faster and faster rushes the steed, always restrained and turned by the outer torch, which is brought near his head, while the inner is held further to the rear. His sides are flecked with foam. The pace grows too rapid for a short curve, and the steed is now guided straight for the western opening in the arena opposite to where we sit; while the light breeze from the east counteracts the current of air made by the animal's own career, and keeps the flare of those torches almost even. They are gone; and again hark! Is not that shout like the roar of waters on a storm-beaten shore, as a hundred thousand men proclaim the success of a generous and brave youth, who could face the chance of being torn limb from limb in order to give to a poor slave like me, condemned to a frightful death, his life and his liberty, a home and a future?"
"But surely," said the imperial child, "it is not over so soon. It is like a dream."
"I have tried to make you see what I saw," returned Claudius. "It was a wonderful struggle--the youth looked beautiful; and in the swift whirl, as you beheld the graceful and perfect rider, his hands apparently streaming with flames, and his face so calm and clear, you would have imagined that it was one of those beings whom the poets have feigned and sung, as having gifts superior to the gifts of ordinary mortals, who was delivering some terror-stricken land from a demon, from a cruel monster, and compelling ferocity, craft, uproar, and violence to bend to far higher forces, to man's cool courage and man's keen wit."
Augustus, in his later years, showed a decreasing relish for the bloodier sports of the arena; and, in deference to his taste, the next spectacles were, first a mere wrestling-match, and then a combat at the cestus, in which the effort was to display skill rather than inflict injury.
This contest was just over, and the sun, as if in wide-flowing garments of red and golden clouds, had sunk level with the broad western opening of the amphitheatre, when the hum of voices was hushed once more, and Claudius was commanded in a whisper to resume his task of rendering the scene upon which the child's bodily eyes were temporarily closed, visible to his mind.
"I cannot with certainty discern," said the slave, "what occurs; there is such a vast heavenly shield of red light hanging opposite to us in the western sky. Against it, approaching at a walking pace toward the gap in the arena, along that avenue of chestnut trees in the country, I see a horseman. All eyes are turned in that direction. It is he; it is Paulus Lepidus Æmilius, returning on the Sejan steed; the animal is enveloped in sweat, and dust, and foam; and rather stoops the head which looked so fierce two hours ago; the rider has thrown away those torches, and now holds the reins low down on either side, a little in front of the beast's shoulder. His hat is gone, and his brown locks, as you see them against the sun, are so touched with the light that he seems to wear a head-gear of golden flames. Hark! again, as before, the people and the army shout to him. He is bowing to them on each side; and now, as he advances, what do I see?"
The slave paused, and the child impatiently cried--
"How can I tell what you see, you dog? You are here for no other purpose than to tell me that."
"He has streaks of blood upon his forehead," resumed Claudius.
"Oh! oh!" cried the other; "the branches of the trees have no doubt struck him. Is he pale? Does he look faint? Is he going to fall off?"
"No," said Claudius; "he has reined in the horse, which stands like a horse of stone in the middle of the arena. Tiberius and Germanicus have both ridden toward him, with their retinues of mounted officers behind them. They have halted some six yards from him. They are speaking to him. As they speak, he bows his head and smiles. A crowd of people on foot have broken into the arena. The grooms have drawn near, at a sign from Tiberius; they are cautiously approaching the Sejan beast; but this last shows no restiveness. They have slipped the muzzle round his nose, under the reins. The youth dismounts. I do not see him now; he has become mixed with the crowd, I think; yes, it must be so, for I miss him altogether."
Augustus now rose, and his rising was taken by the multitude as a signal that the entertainments of the amphitheatre for that evening had closed.
Half an hour more and the scene was left to its solitude; and where the cries and shouts of that mighty assemblage had mounted to the very heavens, there was no sound left except the humming of the insects and the rustling of the trees.
That night, in the large veranda or bower, which hung its arch of leaves and flowers over the landing of the Lady Aglais's apartments, at the Inn of the Hundredth Milestone, were assembled an exceedingly heterogeneous but mutually attached company, with every member of which the reader has made acquaintance. Paulus's mother, his young sister Agatha, Claudius, (no longer a slave, and now wearing the pileus,) Crispina, with her daughter Benigna, the betrothed of this slave Claudius, Thellus the gladiator, and Dionysius the Athenian, were there, and they all heard Paulus relate a very strange occurrence, with which he made them acquainted in the following terms:
"Mother," said he, "the most extraordinary incident connected with this happy day remains to be told. I am sure that the great and mysterious Being who is expected by Dionysius here soon to descend upon earth, and to whom I offered my life, has protected me this day. He has surely protected me, and has received with favor my endeavor to rescue from brutal power an oppressed and innocent young couple. The most extraordinary incident connected with my undertaking, I say, is not yet known to you. Last night I could not sleep soundly. At last, long before daybreak, I rose, dressed myself, and, kneeling down, besought that Being who is to appear among us to remember that I was trying to please him by this enterprise, and that I was acting just as Dionysius and I had concluded it would be agreeable to this beneficent being. An inexpressible feeling of calmness and confidence arose in my heart as I rose from my knees. I then took my hat and went out of doors. I first strolled yonder, up and down that laurel walk in the garden, and afterward sauntered into the fields and wandered pretty far, but I observed not whither. Presently I began to feel that inclination to sleep which had deserted me in my bedroom; and, knowing the sun would soon rise, I chose a shady spot under a clump of trees, and, lying down, fell fast asleep immediately. I had no dream, but was waked by feeling a hand upon my forehead. Opening my eyes, I beheld a woman, very aged and venerable, but with a most beautiful countenance, despite her years, bending over me. Her countenance was solemn as the stars, and, I know not how, impressed me like the face of the heavens at midnight, when the air is clear and calm. Her hair was not gray, but white--white as milk. She wore a long, black mantle, the hood of which, like that of Agatha's ricinium, was brought over the head, but not further than the middle of the head, so that I could see, when I rose to my feet, (as I instantly did,) that her long flowing white locks were parted evenly and fell below the shoulder on each side. She held in her left hand a long staff, and her right was extended toward me as if bespeaking attention. She said to me in Greek these words: 'BY MEANS OF FIRE YOU CAN SUBDUE THE FEROCIOUS BEAST.' She then laid the hand which was stretched forth upon my head for a second, drew the hood further over her head, and departed with swift steps, leaving me to gaze after her in amazement--an amazement which increased when I perceived that her words could be applied to the Sejan horse. It was those words, mother, and nothing else, which gave me the idea of employing the torches, which my good Thellus here afterward prepared for me out of some gladiatorial exercise-weapons which he possessed; and I may for certain say that, without the torches, I must have been destroyed by that horrible brute."
"You truly describe this incident as extraordinary, my son," said the Lady Aglais, after a pause.
"Paulus," said Dionysius, "you have seen the Sibyl. You must accompany me in a few days to Cumæ, where we will seek an interview with her, upon the subject concerning which all the Sibyls sing and prophesy--the general reparation of this disorder-tortured world."
TO BE CONTINUED.
FOOTNOTES:
[194] It was some fifty years before, at the siege of Modena, that the first recorded instance, so far as I am aware, occurred of making the pigeon a letter-carrier.
[195] I am aware of an apparent anachronism here of some four or five years, according to Dio, Tacitus, Suetonius, and others; but Caligula was, I think, a few years older than these authors represent; for Josephus furnishes a somewhat different calendar from theirs.
TRANSLATED FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.
MATTER AND SPIRIT IN THE LIGHT OF MODERN SCIENCE[196]
There is nothing more advantageous, and at the same time more dangerous; more beneficial to the cause of truth, and yet more apt to induce error, than the modern idea of studying man in nature alone; or rather, of scrutinizing its depths with the design of discovering all that concerns him.
Doubtless there were times when philosophy did not pay sufficient regard to the study of the physical sciences; when philosophers put themselves too far outside the physical world. Metaphysics were too full of abstractions, too much confined to the me and consciousness.
Some systems wished to dig an abyss between the world of matter and that of spirit, regarding the passage from the one to the other as impossible. Even the discoveries of Des Cartes in the realms of physical nature, as well as in the kingdom of his own consciousness, notwithstanding their importance and grandeur, only served to widen the abyss; for the Cartesian theory supposed the mind to be incapable of communicating with the exterior world save by a chain frequently broken--by a long and devious path. The preëstablished harmony of Leibnitz was the last term of the separation of these two worlds, which had no longer any thing in common even in their agreement, and only existed in juxtaposition without mutual action or reciprocal influence.
This was an excess of which metaphysics was at the same time the author and the victim; it deprived itself of a powerful element of investigation; it veiled one of the faces of nature; and closed the door to research and knowledge in one of the great domains of the world. Metaphysicians, in striving to obtain the exclusive and victorious reign of spirit, compromised its triumph.
Doubtless that which at the same time unites and separates the intellectual from the material world will never be perfectly understood. But it will always be necessary to throw light on both sides of the problem by comparing them without confounding them; to place both face to face without partiality or exclusion; the working of thought and of matter, and between the two the mysterious phenomenon of life which is their connecting link and term of similitude.
It could not be expected that philosophy should first and alone prepare the ground of this conciliation and comparison. The peculiarly speculative studies of metaphysicians would not naturally carry them to this point; and besides, the very elements necessary for this comparison were wanting to them.
It is, therefore, to the natural sciences, as they are called, that we must owe the most of our knowledge and comprehension of the two worlds, which co-penetrate each other. Not that the sciences have preconceived the thought of this result, and formed a plan on the subject; for the science of the day, especially that which really deserves the name, has confined itself generally to impartial discoveries, and for premise and conclusion has taken merely the facts themselves. Notwithstanding evil examples, which would persuade a different course, it still perseveres, and on this account it deserves praise in its isolated labors and exclusive studies. It would not be difficult to cite the names of some of the most distinguished savants, who, impartially and without being preoccupied with conclusions, have enriched the domain of truth with most important and curious discoveries. But the occupation of the savant, which is not without merit and trouble, cannot satisfy mankind.
By a natural instinct man feels the want of synthesis; he is not content with mere phenomena. He wants to go further than analysis; he longs to generalize and draw consequences. He wishes to profit by past labor; he wants to know not only results but causes.
Here philosophy must again be called in to judge of and compare facts, to deduce consequences from, and erect systems upon them. If the spiritualist philosophers, quitting abstractions and leaving the solitude of consciousness, have by an enlightened change, which will be serviceable both to truth and to their own cause, begun to dig deeply into the scientific mine which is so rich and productive; on the other hand, the positivists and materialists, forced by the natural inclination of the human mind to draw conclusions and build theories, even after proclaiming the sovereign reign of matter, and after trying to remain in it alone; after attributing to it every property and every function; after making it the absolute foundation of their doctrine and teaching, have here admitted that an inferior supposes a superior order; there accepted final causes; elsewhere invoked the ideal or spoken of truths which are eternal; and in their desire to explain the phenomena of matter or the forms of life, they have been compelled to leave the region of purely material facts and to ascend to those metaphysical ideas which in theory they so strenuously reject.[197]
But although the human mind, placed in presence of problems, goes faster and further than science, yet it cannot do without its aid; it rightly seeks its assistance, and finds in it one of its most solid and safe foundations.
We have, therefore, deemed it interesting to indicate at what point the labors of the physicists have arrived, even by exhibiting their premature solutions. We think it useful to examine some of their conclusions, which have been deduced rather precipitately perhaps, but which, while treating only of bodies, concern more or less directly the sovereign questions of the soul and of the intelligence.
We must say that, in consequence of so many deep researches and fruitful experiments, the empire of the natural sciences has been so vastly extended that nothing in the future seems impossible of attainment, while most unexpected results, intoxicating, as it were, and turning the heads of savants, have seemed to furnish a justification of their defence of even the most rash and surprising theories.
There has been a regeneration of ideas regarding the material world; analysis has probed to its lowest depths and let in the light of day. Men think they have discovered its mode of action and arrived at its very elements.
Two leading theories have been produced, both of which pretend to be based on the most minute verification of details and the most recent facts. If they are not absolutely irreconcilable, they present at least very different formulas.
The one affirms that there is nothing in matter except movement.
The other declares that there is nothing in matter but forces.
I.
The system which reduces every thing in matter to movements is as simple as it is curious. It exhibits at the same time a character of grandeur and of unity which is seductive. Matter in the universe, it says,[198] remains the same in quantity; it is neither created nor destroyed; its phenomena are merely transformations.
According to this system, the abstract notion of force does not exist. Force is a cause of motion; and the cause of motion is a motion itself. Physical phenomena, as heat, light, electricity, and magnetism, are certain kinds of motion, which beget each other. Heat is transformed into electricity and electricity into light. Transformations take place according to fixed rules, and are reduced to rigorously determined unities.
In another order of facts, cohesion, chemical affinity, and gravity, are equally the effects of communication of motion, since the phenomena which derive from them exist only by attraction--that is to say, by the movement of molecules and bodies toward each other.
The same rule holds good in the system of the universe; the heavenly as well as the terrestrial bodies have not in themselves that which attracts them to each other. Universal gravitation is only the expression of a result; it merely means that every thing happens as if bodies had the intrinsic property of attracting each other in the direct ratio of their quantity and the inverse ratio of their distance.
It is not this force or property; it is the ether which is the cause of attraction. The ether is composed of atoms which collide with each other and with neighboring bodies. It is everywhere diffused, forming a universal medium, and exercising a continual pressure on all the molecules in nature. The gravity of bodies is owing to the pressure of this medium. Their movement is, as it were, a transformation of the motions of ether. Thus, the ether, moving in every direction, and obeying no fixed pressure, produces material attraction without being subject to it; it gives to bodies their gravity, while it remains itself imponderable.[199]
It had been already physically demonstrated that sound and light were the result of undulations--that is, of motions; sonorous and luminous movements which have been measured and verified in all their modes. The nature of caloric movement has not yet been so completely understood; but the mechanical effects of heat have been established in the most precise manner. The identity of heat and of mechanical labor has become a commonly received idea for several years past. Heat, which was formerly regarded as a material substance, is now considered as a mere mode of motion; it is by their repercussion that the molecules of bodies cause us to experience the sensation of heat; and the intensity of these repercussions determines the degrees of temperature. This heat, manifesting itself by different effects, produces now light or sounds, again mechanical labor.
The energy or the living force which molecules or bodies in motion possess, in a degree exactly known, is partially lost if these molecules produce a work, that is to say, if they displace a quantity of matter; but in that case the living force which they lose is stored up in the labor produced, and is reborn when the latter ceases to exist.
Just as the calorific and luminous fluids are no longer regarded as possessing a special substance and existence, so also the electric fluid, positive as well as negative, and the magnetic fluid, which is only one of its derivatives, are but opposite movements of matter. The electrical movement of imponderable matter, or ether, is not even a vibratory motion; it is a real current, a real transport which takes place in the conducting body; and it is so far of the same nature as the luminous motion that it has approximately the same velocity--that is to say, it travels seventy-five thousand leagues a second.
Now, all these motions of heat, all these motions of light and electricity, which correlative phenomena offer, are all reducible to the idea of mechanical labor. Produced by one labor, they reproduce another. Thus disappear from chemistry, as from the natural sciences, the forces called repulsive as well as those called attractive. The molecules no longer act at a distance; actions take place by contact, by the communication of movements. In the same way the pressure exercised by the ethereal atoms on the molecules of the sidereal bodies takes the place of the initial force or acquired velocity which astronomy regarded as the cause of their movements.
According to this sovereign unity, the physical world is composed of one single element. There are no simple bodies. Oxygen and hydrogen, like gold or platina, are composed only of atoms. There is no difference in material quality; properties vary according to the diversity of movements. Becoming grouped and interwoven, the atoms form the molecules, and the changes of these movements constitute for us the different phenomena, the mode of which depends on the masses and the velocities which are in play.
Consequently, ethereal atoms, elementary molecules, compound or chemical molecules, particles of gaseous bodies, liquids, solids--such is the hierarchy of phenomena.
The system is triumphantly epitomized in these words:
Atoms and motion form the universe.
Let us pause before this conclusion, the simplicity of which is not without grandeur, although the theory is absolute and hasty. Let us be allowed to interfere in the name of the notion of causality, in the name of that metaphysics to which the system itself, although taking its starting-point from facts alone, renders homage by its generalizations and by its synthesis. If it confined itself exclusively to its conclusion, that atom and movement form the supreme axiom of the universe, we should have downright materialism. The author avoids this absolute conclusion, which would cause us, moreover, to go outside the limits of scientific research, and he admits that even in motion there are original causes which remain entirely unknown.
But this cannot suffice. Our mind sees this reserve and will not rest satisfied with it.
If the system merely gives to ethereal atoms the intrinsic force and primitive motion which it takes away from the molecules and bodies, it only postpones the difficulty and avoids the true solution. It merely admits an effect without assigning to it an origin or a reason of being. It does not indicate the primary cause of motion; it does not make known the prime mover, which neither facts nor reason can place in the atoms or in the phenomena.
Nor can the formation of worlds be explained by atoms and motion. The author[200] gives up facts, reality, and the logic of his own system when he supposes some of the chief primitive atoms forming the centre of a group for several others, and thus constituting a sphere. Then, after this operation in the universal mass, the molecular groups appear gifted with gravity and enter into that evolution which constitutes the admirable order of the universe.
We have no longer modern science arriving, by way of decomposition and analysis, at results as curious as they are incontestable. It is, in truth, but the renewal of an old system which goes as far back as ancient philosophy--to Leucippus, to Democritus, to Epicurus; a system without foundation or reality, which brings us to gross materialism, and gives us no rational or experimental explanation of phenomena.
For whence have these atoms come? Do you give them their reason of being by simply calling them primitive? Do they exist from all eternity, or have they created themselves? After being proclaimed indivisible points, they are, contrary to this principle of unity, made unequal and preponderating. Whence do they derive these contradictory, and at the same time indispensable characters, which enable them to perform their functions? Who has given them the first motion necessary for their meeting? Or, if they have been eternally in motion, does it not follow that the formations that are attributed to them must be also eternal? What causes them to produce ponderable molecules and to become heavy bodies while they are essentially imponderable and devoid of attraction?
As for us, a friend of truth, and believing that it can never be opposed to itself, having in its regard no fear or party prejudice, we are disposed to accept willingly the results given by scientific observation and experience, provided there be no disposition to draw conclusions from them which are not legitimate. We are far from disputing that matter is one in its grand simplicity, and that it is reducible to elements of one species; that phenomena of a single order, motion, produce all the effects of nature which we admire. The spiritualist philosophy will readily find in these atoms their first author, God, and in these movements God, the prime mover.
We also admit willingly that this theory holds good even in the domain of organized matter, and that, in the regular order of succession, it runs through all the kingdoms. We see nothing in this admission which contradicts directly our belief.
In fact, the system extends even to the order of living nature, and there it points out two things.
On the one hand, it indicates, as the basis and chief constituent of living beings, the very materials of the inorganic world, the solid bodies, liquids, gases, which we find in all organizations, and especially in the human organization, the most complex of all; for this organization comprises fourteen of those elements which we call simple bodies, because we have not been able as yet to reduce them.
On the other hand, in animated nature itself there takes place a series of motions which succeed each other according to a determined order, with an especial character, yet not opposed to the laws of molecular mechanism; so that in the human body in motion heat is transformed into work and work into heat, according to the ordinary relation of calorics, and the human mover gives in labor the same proportion of heat produced as the other movers.[201]
Does this mean, continues the author of the system, that we have in this process all the elements of life? What is the cause which forms the first cell, the basis of living bodies? What deduces from it the developments of being? What limits and regulates its evolution? "Here we must suspend our judgment, or admit a special cause, the principle of which is peculiar to vital phenomena."
This cause, although its nature is unknown and undetermined, is manifested by movements, and may take, according to the same order of ideas, the rôle and name of vital force. This force is endowed with a peculiar activity, which transforms without creating, just as motion only transforms in virtue of anterior movements.
This doctrine, pushed to extremity, seems to infer that the phenomena of thought and volition are only pure movements, the result of physical or vital actions. But is not the human soul, the animating principle, thereby put in danger?
The author thinks not. "In the midst of material transformations," says he, "causes active by nature may intervene, and we have instanced some of them, in marking the nature and limits of such intervention. This is sufficient to leave the ground free to all the solutions of metaphysics."
We are more affirmative and precise. These causes, from the starting-point of the atom and movement, necessarily exist and act. In fact, if the atom and movement are the universe, outside the universe there must be and there is something superior to the atom and to motion--that which has given them birth; for we cannot suppose that the atom exists by itself, nor that motion is produced by itself. All that we see and conceive about atom and motion only gives us phenomenal relations and contingent results. Beyond this is the absolute. The observations and relations which experience offers us may be fruitful enough to render an account of the facts, to extend and enlighten our knowledge, to establish laws and attest actions. But let us not grow tired in repeating that these actions are not produced alone, and that these laws suppose an ordainer.
Especially when we endeavor to understand the nature of life, atoms and movement may come again into play; but the cause increases and is detached from the functions of beings; and the superiority of the effects more imperiously establishes the necessity of an author.
II.
The second theory admits only forces in nature, and places in these forces the principle of all that is produced. It also goes up to the atom, and considers it as equally indivisible and imponderable. It attributes to matter properties, so to speak, immanent which give it its power and action. Atoms, separated from each other in the bodies which they compose, and forming mere simple mathematical points, possess, when they are reunited in mass, a force of attraction which acts at a distance, and then reacts on them in order to produce all the sensible phenomena.
Several savants and certain spiritualist philosophers agree on this theory. Both take facts as the starting point in establishing their synthesis; the former build it on a foundation more exclusively physical; the latter give to their generalization a more philosophical basis.
M. Magy and M. Laugel, hardly overstepping the limits of the experimental world, follow the action of forces into their different modes and transformations.
M. Paul Janet, in his turn, delivers his theory on matter.[202]
"It is in fact," he writes, "force and not extent which constitutes the essence of bodies; an atom in motion occupies successively places which it fits exactly. What distinguishes this atom from the space previously occupied by it? It is not the extent, since in both cases the shape is the same; every thing which relates to extent is absolutely identical in the empty and in the full atom. It is, therefore, something else which distinguishes them, and this something is solidity or weight; but neither solidity nor weight is a modification of extent; both are derived from force, and represent it."
M. Ch. Lévêque adds:[203]
"How do we make the extension which we need? Always by resistance; when extension is not a pure abstraction, when it is real and concrete, it is always equivalent to a sum of resisting points or forces. There is no longer occasion to ask how, with unextended elements, we may form extension. There is but one question possible, and it is this: How to form a sum of resistance with resisting points?"
This is what a learned Englishman, P. Bayma, establishes with precision.[204] According to him, the elements, or atoms, are indivisible points without material extent, and extension is not an essential property of matter.
"The extension of bodies is an appearance caused by the dissemination in space of the elements which compose them; abstract space is extension; consequently the science of extension, or geometry, is not a science of observation but of abstraction."
According to this theory, the forces placed from the beginning in elements govern every thing in the world. Nature is under their control; matter obeys them, or is, rather, entirely a compound of forces. One of the partisans of this system[205] lays down these conclusions: 1st, the last element of matter is always an active, simple, and indivisible force like the soul itself; 2d, the properties of matter are only manifestations of this simple active force. Then, pushing the consequences of this notion of force further, he admits
"that there is only one substance, material and spiritual, at the same time; spiritual in its elements, material in its composition. The soul, conscious of its personal energy, conceives physical beings as forces acting like itself."
A contemporary philosopher,[206] developing further the thesis of conciliation and relation between the two orders of existence, adds:
"Matter has at bottom no other substantial element than spirit. The essence of both is active force, consequently materialism has no reason to exist; there is no longer in nature any thing but spiritualism, or, to speak more correctly, dynamism. This dynamism has nothing which attacks the dignity and preëminence of the soul. The soul alone is capable of thinking or willing, because it alone is a simple force, whereas the smallest body is a compound of simple forces."
Such are the theories which, according to their supporters, are sustained by the most recent discoveries of science.
As for us, we admit that from a scientific stand-point there have been many new and curious observations collected; that the analysis of matter has exposed to view the most astonishing phenomena; that the material element has been almost apprehended, its depths investigated; that it has been stripped of extension as an essential property, its mode of action and constituting principle discovered; that it has been reduced to a unity as sovereign as it is marvellous; and we follow with the most lively interest these results of disinterested and impartial science. We go further; according as the plan gains in unity and grandeur, appearing at the same time more imposing and probable, it brings us nearer to Him who has conceived it, who has given it order and completion. The more of mystery we discover in the universe, the more we bow with admiration, but without astonishment, before the thought and will of the Sovereign who is the origin and reason of the existence of these wonders and of their laws.
But our reason cannot go beyond its limits, and the metaphysical consequences which some have attempted to draw from these phenomena, we have not up to the present been able to admit.
The theory which reduces all to force, which recognizes in bodies an intrinsic mode of acting, whether it divide these forces in the mass of matter, or cause them to mount up to the primitive element, to the atom, indivisible point, or monad, seems to us in every case to beg the question. What is in fact a force, and especially a force attributed to any object? It is undoubtedly neither a being, since it is joined to a first element, nor a substance, since it is considered as an attribute. It is only a manner of indicating an action, the cause of which is unknown. To say that matter acts because it bears in it the power of acting, is simply to say that it acts because it acts; to reply by asserting the fact itself which is in question. Therefore we have only one of those words, new or old, which may cause illusion for an instant, but which do not stand a serious analysis.
Moreover, to attempt to compare and assimilate matter and spirit by giving to both the name of force, and attributing to them the properties attached to this name, is merely to use a word without a definite meaning; for if they were both forces, they would be forces of entirely different, if not opposite action. And if we say that force, being half body and half spirit, is the link which unites them to each other, we create, merely to suit our purpose, a third being which is discovered nowhere, a mere phantasmagoria without reality, which the imagination itself is incapable of representing to us.
Finally, in the parallel and assimilation between body and soul, to reserve, with the power of thinking, preëminence to the mind because it is a simple and unique force, while the smallest body is a compound of these same simple forces, amounts to saying that a body could think if it were only decomposed and reduced to its simple elements, and to the unity of force. There is such a difference in act, mode, and aim between what is called the force of resistance, attributed to bodies, and designated, we know not why, by the name of active force, and between the faculty of thinking, that no common appellation, no matter how specious it may be, can ever confound or identify them.
We would not be able to comprehend how the soul, considered as a monad or simple element, should have by this fact the faculty of thinking, and yet two or several monads united and forming a body would not possess the same power. Why, in the latter case, should there be absence of thought instead of a union of two or several thoughts, concordant or contrary? How could we say that, because there is an assemblage of forces, there is an impossibility of thinking, and that the part is capable of doing what the whole cannot do? It is useless to choose and isolate the most delicate and ethereal element in a body; we can never imagine the soul to be really one of its parts, no matter how pure that part may be.
The notion of force, for the soul as well as for the body, must be put among those appellations which explain nothing, and only serve to cloak our ignorance.
Science itself begins to renounce this name of force; and the first theory which we have exposed, that which recognizes only motions in matter combats the theory of forces with energy, and considers it as vain and illusory. It is not here, consequently, that we shall find the philosophical explanation of phenomena, nor the reconciliation between the two orders of spirit and matter.
The theory of motions rests on a more solid foundation; at least, it employs a word having a precise signification and resting on a real fact, motion. It is only by induction and reasoning that it ascends to ether and the atom. It has never seen either of them, although it affirms their existence. It makes a synthesis. It admits in the universe something else besides atoms and movement, since the thought which it expresses implies the idea of being, of substance and cause. It has seen motions, vibrations, radiations, currents, and it has concluded from them that there is something which moves, vibrates, radiates; thus it has mounted up to a second cause, to ether, to the atom. But this is not sufficient. If it has seen that there is no motion without an object which moves, logic compels it to acknowledge that there is no change without an agent, no movement without a mover; and if the atom exists and moves, this atom also has an origin, a reason of being, a principle from which it has received the gift of existence and the power of motion.
If an admirable plan embraces the universe, if a sovereign unity directs and governs all phenomena, there must be a cause for them. The plan appears more manifestly, and the cause shows itself more necessarily in the very simplicity of the work, in its grandeur in this double quality raised to a higher power.
If the world be, as it is acknowledged to be, the work of thought; if a general and supreme reason presides over the universe, this thought lives in a spirit, this reason belongs to a soul.[207] Can there be a thought without a thinking subject and being? A thought implies a thinking being; reason means a living intelligence; or it must mean nothing, and then there is no sense in words, no reality in things.
It is useless to object; the human mind will have it so; it is the law of its conscience, it is the result of its profound conviction that it does not derive all from itself, and that nothing can produce nothing.
Now, can we say of the atom and motion combined, behold the universe? Yes, the mechanical universe, perhaps. But the mechanical universe is not self-sufficing; for we can always say, Who has made the atom? who has created motion? And then we have the right to propose another affirmation and to conclude: the notion of causality is the entire world--the physical, intellectual, and moral world.
This has been true from the very beginning of thought and the commencement of human reason. This has been true from the days of ancient philosophy, proclaiming through its greatest logician that whatever is in the effect ought to be found in the cause, that the cause must really exist before the effect, and that the perfection of all effects supposes the existence of a primary cause which contains them--a living, spiritual, and perfect cause, which cannot be produced by what is imperfect, inferior, material, or deprived of life, but which is and must be necessarily its generating principle and producing power.
III.
Thus the two systems of motions and of forces, brought before the metaphysical world, for they call themselves syntheses, fall short of the mark and do not reach the true principle. The one assigns no cause for the elements and phenomena which it represents. The other attributes to these same elements and phenomena, a word and a name which cannot be a cause. The former does not give, and does not pretend to give, a real explanation. The latter formulates an explanation, but presents nothing satisfactory.
It appears, however, that all the tendencies of modern science are toward the idea of unity in the universal system, toward a simplification and spiritualization in the plan; and the belief of some goes so far as to admit that this plan offers parallel lines more or less similar in both the material and the spiritual world. But here again the rock rises and the danger appears. In making bodies so like spirits, we run the risk of making the spiritual too much like the material, and, in both cases, by such confusion we almost touch on pantheism, the theory of which, consisting in the admission of but one substance, is equally dangerous whether this one substance be material or spiritual. We will allow matter, therefore, to raise itself toward unity, purify itself more and more, and disentangle its essence from its innumerable and marvellous combinations, provided that it be admitted that it possesses a real existence, that it is really matter, that it can never become spirit or thought, and that it is not its own force or cause or reason of being. What would be gained for it from a spiritualist point of view, to admit in matter an immediate power, to clothe it with intrinsic qualities which nothing either in ideas or facts manifests or demonstrates? No problem would be solved thereby, no mystery cleared up; it would be necessary to establish why and how the same substance, at the same time and alternately, feels and does not feel, wills and is inert, thinks and is devoid of intelligence, is immovable in the stone, awakes in the plant, and is organic in the animal, and finally creates and vivifies the genius of man.
There must be logic in the assertion that the essence of matter is found in an atom or in a force, that it is inactive or endowed with movement, that there is in bodies unity or variety of substance, that the different kingdoms are united by greater affinities or separated by more marked distinctions; these properties, comparisons, and differences must have their logic and their reason of being, and do not derive the laws which govern them from a spontaneous or fortuitous formation.
Nothing, consequently, in the secondary explanations which are given to us, can satisfy our metaphysical wants. The mind of man will never stop at the mere properties of things or their effects. Its instinct of causality does not accept incomplete theories and theses which do not sound the depths. Casting aside all idea of confusion and of inexact comparison, the human mind wishes to rise higher; it wishes, in its admiration for order and the harmony of phenomena, to ascend to the very summit of being. Yes, it admits and recognizes the fact that every thing which exists has a single and sovereign cause, and this cause is itself the most spiritual of spiritual substances--God the creator and ordainer of worlds. Author of all things, God causes with the qualities which belong to him the different manifestations of nature; he acts on matter, possesses it, causes it to subsist, gives it the power of producing its phenomena, is its force, its order, its law; and thus, if we may say so, he animates the world, not indeed in the same manner as the human soul animates the body, because we cannot compare essences and actions so unlike each other, but with a certain superior and divine power of animation which produces the being, motion, and life of all that exists in the universe, moves or breathes, as the soul is the source and focus of the life of the body.
To destroy this supreme cause is to degrade at the same time the material and the intellectual world; it is to renounce the notion of perfection and of the absolute; it is to condemn, together with one of the mother-ideas, one of the axioms of the human mind, that logic which can never see aught complete or satisfactory in mere effects or phenomena; it is to attack one of the most beautiful faculties of the intelligence, of that intelligence which the contingent cannot content, which will not allow itself to be restrained by the mere limits of time and space, which, from the present which it studies, from facts which it investigates, and peculiarities which it admires, ascends to the infinite, to the all-powerful, to the Eternal.
Thus we consider that the most recent discoveries of science, in their rational and superior interpretation, lead us naturally to God, and we have at the same time the belief and the hope that materialism will be involuntarily stricken down, and will perish perhaps by the very hands of those who study and search after matter alone.
No doubt the considerations which might be actually drawn from the results obtained do not lead to definite theories nor do they offer any thing but premature conclusions. The majority of the savants, moreover, properly refuse to touch on the domain of the supernatural and metaphysical; they confine themselves to facts; some so veil their opinions and philosophical doctrines as even to cause us to doubt whether they follow the standard of spiritualism or of materialism. They do not arrogate to themselves either the right or the power of drawing conclusions; and the synthesis which results from their experiments can only be a premature conjecture, more or less plausible.
But since their researches already give occasion to perceptions so simple and so grand, since they open horizons in the distance where light certainly exists, since there is from the stand-point of truth a serene and unalterable confidence in the final and definite results of modern discoveries, we may be permitted even now to describe them for the elevation and the encouragement of the mind, for the justification and the honor of human science, for the revindication of the grandeur and of the glory of God.
FOOTNOTES:
[196] La Physique Moderne. Essai sur l'Unité des Phénomènes Naturels. Par Emile Saigey. Paris: Germer-Baillière. 1867.
Les Problèmes de la Nature--les Problèmes de la Vie. Par Laugel. Paris. 1867.
De la Science et de la Nature. Essai de Philosophie première. Par Magy. 1867.
Eléments de Mécanique Moléculaire. Par le P. Bayma.
Physique Moléculaire. Par l'Abbé Moigno. 1868.
Revue des Deux Mondes: la Nature et la Physiologie idéaliste. Par Ch. Lévêque. 15 Janvier, 1857.
Le Spiritualisme Français au dix neuvième siècle. Par P. Janet. 15 Mai, 1868.
[197] See for further details: Recueil des Rapports sur les Progrès des Lettres et des Sciences; la Philosophie en France au dix-neuvième siècle. Par Felix Ravaisson. Revue des Cours Littéraires, No. 24; art. by M. E. Beaussire.
[198] This system has been formulated with great talent by M. Emile Saigey, who advocated it, first in several very remarkable articles in the Revue des Deux Mondes; and afterward in his book, La Physique Moderne. Essai sur l'Unité des Phénomènes Naturels.
[199] The swiftness of molecules and the vibratory motion of ethereal atoms are astonishing, and surpass all imagination. The former, measuring two thousand metres, give eight millions of collisions in a second; while the latter, within the same space, produce every second several hundreds of millions more of undulations.
[200] M. Saigey.
[201] According to the very curious experiments of M. Hirn, the unity of heat or caloric in man, as well as in inorganic matter, corresponds to four hundred and twenty-five unities of mechanical labor--that is to say, to four hundred and twenty-five kilogrammes raised one metre high. Man gives in work twelve per cent of the heat produced, which is almost equal to the labor of our most perfect machines.
[202] Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 Mai, 1863.
[203] Ibid. 15 Janvier, 1867.
[204] Elements de Mécanique Moléculaire.
[205] M. Magy, De la Science, etc.
[206] Ch. Lévêque, Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 Janvier, 1867.
[207] Ch. Lévêque, Revue des Deux Mondes, 15 Janvier, 1867.
NAZARETH.
After a residence of two months in the holy city of Jerusalem, the writer of this sketch left the shrines of the Cross and the Tomb to visit the sacred localities of Palestine. Going northward, and passing by Jacob's well and Samaria, our party came to Jenin, on the borders of the plain of Esdrælon, where we encamped for the night; and on the next day, which was Thursday, April 5th, 1866, went to Jezreel, to the great fountain which springs from the base of the mountain of Gilboa, on which Saul and Jonathan were slain; then passed through Nain, where our Lord raised the widow's son, and Endor. Leaving Mount Thabor on our right, we came to the foot of the steep hill on the other side of which is Nazareth. After a wearisome ascent, in the middle of the afternoon, we saw the city of the annunciation at our feet.
Nazareth is in a valley about one mile long, running east and west, and only a quarter of a mile wide. Fifteen hills inclose this small space. The whole of this valley, not occupied by the houses, is filled with gardens, corn-fields, and small groves of olive and fig-trees. The houses are irregularly placed, and are evidently more comfortable than many others in the Holy Land. Being all constructed of white stone, they have a substantial appearance. But the streets cannot be praised. Irregular in their course, they are the filthiest we had anywhere seen. This wretched condition of the streets is the more noticeable because the people are superior to other dwellers in the land, and apparently more intelligent, well-fed, and housed. Several buildings were in the course of erection; and it seemed that the village was prospering. The houses stand on the lower slope of a hill about four hundred feet high, and on the adjacent ridges. About four thousand people make up the population, all Christians except seven hundred Mohammedans. Of the Christians, the schismatic Greeks number about one thousand, and the Roman Catholics and Greek Catholics have each about five hundred persons. There is an air of independence and relative comfort about all the people here which contrasts with the sad and desponding manners of the residents in other eastern places. Wherever Turks rule, cheerfulness is unknown.
On entering Nazareth, we rode to the further end of the village, and encamped in a pleasant spot quite near the fountain of the Virgin, a place to which all travellers who remain in their tents resort, as it is usual to encamp in the vicinity of water. Besides this, the fountain is the best place to see the people of the village, it being the common place of resort, especially for women. This spring is the only one in the place; and for that reason it has many visitors. From early dawn until late in the afternoon, women of every age come here with jars or pitchers on their heads or shoulders. The streams of water are not copious, and there is often delay in obtaining the supply, especially in seasons of drought. While waiting here to fill their jars, the women gossip and chat, and thus each one hears the news of the day. Women of every rank go to the fountain for water--partly that they may not appear to be above their neighbors, and partly, it may be surmised, to hear what is going on. Little girls are trained to carry the water-jar on the head--for them, of course, the jar is small--and every person has a small pad or cushion on her head to support the jar and prevent injury. From this habit of so bearing these jars, all the women of Nazareth are straight and erect in their carriage, and have much grace and dignity of motion. Not only are they finely formed, but their faces are the most beautiful in Palestine; and there is a pleasing tradition that the Blessed Virgin Mary left the gift of beauty to the women of her city. Their dress is also graceful, consisting of large, short trowsers, a close-fitting jacket, and a long white veil which does not cover the face. For ornament they use a string of silver and gold coins around the head and chin, many of which are very heavy and valuable--uncomfortable decorations at the best, but showing the dowry of the wearer.
I thought that the water of the fountain of Nazareth was the best I had ever tasted; perhaps this was fancy, but certainly the water is most pure and excellent, and is renowned for those qualities. To this fountain, without doubt, the Blessed Virgin came hundreds of times, being trained like other children to bear the water-jar from early years. Here she talked with her neighbors, and lived in a manner undistinguished from other poor girls. And whoever will go to-day to that fountain in Nazareth, or to the one near the shrine of the Visitation in the hills of Judea, will see young women looking just as Mary did eighteen hundred years ago; for habits of life and dress have scarcely changed in the east during that long time. The water at Nazareth rises about eight or ten rods from the place where it is poured into the jars, being conveyed to the latter place in an aqueduct; and the schismatic Greek Christians have built a church at the spot where it issues from the ground, on account of an old tradition that the annunciation took place at the spring when the Blessed Virgin went there for water. There is this great advantage resulting from the error of the Greeks, that, on account of their belief in it, they leave the spot where the annunciation really took place in the quiet possession of the Catholics, the Franciscan monks being the custodians of the shrine.
Now let us walk to the most holy place, which is at the other end of the village, and some distance from our tents. The premises are extensive, and consist of large buildings, surrounded by a high wall. Passing through the gate, we come to a court, around which are the school-rooms, the pharmacy, the quarters of the superior and other monks; from this larger area we go to a smaller one immediately in front of the church The church itself is about seventy feet square, and the roof is supported by four very heavy piers or square columns. These piers, and much of the walls, are covered with tapestry hangings, with embroidery and paintings; and the whole edifice, though not very large, has a fine, rich, and cheerful appearance, as if arranged for a perpetual festival. As we enter the church, immediately before us is a flight of fifteen very broad steps, leading down to the shrine. At the foot of these stairs is a vestibule, about twenty-five feet long by ten wide, and a low arch, opening in the middle of this space, admits to the holy place. There is a marble altar, and under the altar is a marble slab, four inches above the floor; it has the Jerusalem cross in the centre, with the Franciscan coat of arms on the right, and the sacred stigmata, or five wounds of the crucified Saviour, on the left. This marble marks the spot where the Blessed Virgin stood at the time of the annunciation. On the back wall, under the altar, is the inscription, "VERBUM CARO HIC FACTUM EST," (Here the Word was made flesh,) the most wonderful and important inscription in the world. That at Bethlehem, where it is written that "HERE, OF THE VIRGIN MARY, JESUS CHRIST WAS BORN," could never have been engraved but for the event commemorated in the words of the shrine at Nazareth. Above the altar is a picture well painted and old, but spoiled by the flat gold crowns which have been fastened to the canvas over the heads of the Blessed Virgin and the angel. Below the table of the altar, and over the marble slab, hang several silver lamps which burn continually. Immediately behind this altar and picture are another altar and picture, back to back with those of the shrine. The second altar has the inscription, "HIC ERAT SUBDITUS ILLIS," (Here He was subject to them.) Behind these, and reached by a narrow rock-hewn stairway, is the kitchen of the Blessed Virgin, where the fireplace and chimney are shown.
As we come into the church by the chief entrance, a most cheerful and pleasant scene welcomes the pilgrim. The gay decorations, the many paintings, the statues and silver lamps, with other objects, make a contrast with the dreariness of the ride to Nazareth, which seems to the Christian like a glimpse of heaven. He raises his eyes, and sees the choir where the Franciscan monks chant their office. Here is an altar with a large statue of the Blessed Virgin and the Infant Jesus, surmounted by a canopy. There are two large organs in the choir, one at the right, the other at the left. This choir is raised about sixteen steps above the floor of the church, and is immediately over the most holy place, of which it may be said to form the roof. As the shrine is about fifteen steps below the level of the church floor, the distance between the spot of the annunciation and the choir above it is about thirty steps. It gives the idea of three churches--the first being the main building, the second that of the holy place, which is below, and the third that of the monks' choir, which is immediately over the shrine. As we look down the broad stair which leads to the shrine, we see that the walls are cased with marble and adorned with paintings. Before us is the holy place, to which the eye is at once drawn; but before we reach it, in the vestibule, on the right and left hand, stand beautiful marble altars, each with a painting over it. In the whole arrangement there is a dignity and propriety which strike the pilgrim most favorably, and he recognizes it as planned by men who had a vivid realization of the event which is the glory of Nazareth. To the left of the altar of the shrine is the upper two thirds of a large granite column suspended from the roof, with a fragment of a marble column under it; though these are both of dark stone, and of nearly the same color and size, it is easy to note the difference in the material of which they are composed.
It was on Friday, April 6th, that I first said mass at the shrine of the annunciation. The interest of this spot is very great, even when compared with other places in Palestine; and I had looked forward, with great hope and expectation, to the day when I would be permitted to kneel and pray here. At last my wish was realized, and I offered the holy sacrifice on the very spot where the incarnation of God took place. By a concession of the holy see, the mass of the annunciation may be said on this altar nearly every day in the year; so that the pilgrim, coming at any season may have the consolation of being present at the same mass as is said on the 25th of March. Of course, every priest avails himself with eagerness of this privilege; and no words can express the emotion of his soul as, when reading the last gospel, in speaking the words ET VERBUM CARO FACTUM EST, he kneels down on the very spot where that mystery took place, where the incarnation of God began. For it was to Nazareth that God sent his holy Archangel Gabriel:
"to a virgin espoused to a man whose name was Joseph, of the house of David; and the virgin's name was Mary. And the angel being come in, said to her, Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women. And when she had heard, she was troubled at his saying, and thought with herself what manner of salutation this should be. And the angel said to her, Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found grace with God. Behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and shalt bring forth a son: and thou shalt call his name Jesus. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Most High: and the Lord God shall give unto him the throne of David his father; and he shall reign in the house of Jacob for ever; and of his kingdom there shall be no end. And Mary said to the angel, How shall this be done, because I know not man? And the angel answering, said to her: The Holy Ghost shall come upon thee, and the power of the Most High shall overshadow thee; and therefore also the Holy which shall be born of thee, shall be called the Son of God.... And Mary said, Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word. (St. Luke i.)
And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." (St. John i.)
After having prayed a long time, prostrate at the shrine, I sat down at the side of the broad flight of steps leading to the holy place, and meditated for an hour. Before me was the spot where all these things occurred, and where man's redemption was begun. It was easy to go back one thousand eight hundred years, and picture the scene. The lowly maiden in her humble home, engaged, it may have been, in the ordinary occupations of the day, or perchance resting for a time from them, and meditating on God, when suddenly the room was filled with light, and the angel appeared and delivered his august message. Then in the house which once stood here the child Jesus lived, and grew in favor with God and man. He ran about the humble but sacred home in his boyhood, and wandered among the hills that are so close around Nazareth. Many a time did he go with Mary to the fountain when she brought water for the use of the family. By her side he kept in his early years, as children are wont to cling to their mothers. When he had grown older, he helped Joseph in the work of carpentry, and went with him as he journeyed to the various places where he found work. No doubt the employment was humble, the tools rude and few; and it is reasonable to suppose that such work as a humble carpenter might find among poor villagers or fishermen at the Lake of Tiberias was not of the most elegant and costly kind. Even to this day there is great simplicity and rudeness in all the mechanic arts, which is noticed by the traveller, and it must have been equally so in the country places in the days of our Saviour.
Thus for thirty years did Jesus dwell in Nazareth, undistinguished from others by any external appearance, and leading a hidden life of contemplation and communing with his heavenly Father.
When his ministry had begun, after his baptism in the Jordan and his temptation of forty days in the wilderness, he came to Nazareth, and went into the synagogue, according to his custom, and read out of the book which was handed to him the words of Isaias,
"The spirit of the Lord is upon me; wherefore he hath anointed me to preach the Gospel to the poor. He hath sent me to heal the contrite of heart, to preach deliverance to the captives, and sight to the blind; to set at liberty them that are bruised, to preach the acceptable year of the Lord, and the day of reward. And he began to say to them, This day is fulfilled this Scripture in your ears."
When they had rejected his teaching, he went to Capernaum, on the borders of the Sea of Galilee, fifteen miles east from Nazareth, and the people there were astonished at his doctrine and the miracles which he performed. Subsequently he visited Nazareth a second time, and was taunted by the people of the place, who regarded him as only one of their neighbors. They said, "Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary, the brother of James and Joseph, and of Jude and Simon? are not also his sisters here with us? And they were scandalized in regard of him." The greater portion of our Lord's life, during the three following years, was passed in the neighborhood of the Lake of Tiberias, or near Jerusalem.
Nazareth has one or two other places of interest, yet they are of small note in comparison of the shrine of the annunciation. One of these is the place where stood the workshop of Joseph; a chapel is built here. Another is the rock called Mensa Christi, or Table of Christ, which is venerated as the place where our Lord often ate his food. It projects three feet above the ground, and is about twelve feet long and eight feet wide. A new church is over it.
The hill back of Nazareth is always ascended by travellers for the sake of the fine view which may be had there. The whole country for miles around is visible--Mount Hermon, Mount Carmel, the Mediterranean Sea, and the great plain of Esdrælon. Just around Nazareth the hills are rather bare; but everywhere else they are wooded, and sink down into green valleys. We see how the city lies off all the great routes of travel in former days, and is shut up by the hills, and thus separated (as the name Nazareth implies) from other places. Its isolated position, and the resulting obscurity, is the reason why it was unknown to ancient writers, and there is no mention made of it in the Old Testament. From the Gospel narrative we learn that the contemptuous inquiry was made "Can any good thing come out of Nazareth?" To this the Christian answers from the depth of his soul, Yes! all good cometh thence. The Child of Nazareth has passed from obscurity and a hidden life to a prominence which no description can adequately portray. He who was conceived of the Virgin Mary in this little village is our Lord and our God, and in him centre all our hopes. He who condescended to be subject to Mary and Joseph in Nazareth, is the King of kings and Lord of lords, and now and for ever reigneth in the heaven which is his home.
THE YOUNG VERMONTERS.
XI. PASTIMES AND PARTINGS
In accordance with the teacher's announcement, the day following Michael's return was given up to rejoicings, and Mr. Blair invited the school to pass it at his place.
It was one of those golden days not so frequent in our autumnal season as to lose the charm of novelty, or the full sense of their value in redeeming its general sternness; and it seemed to the boys as if nature herself shared in the universal delight. The spacious ground encircling Mr. Blair's residence afforded ample scope for their pastimes, and their dinner was served under the trees in the yard.
To those who had known Michael Hennessy only as the thoughtless, frolicsome boy, it did not seem possible that a few short weeks could have wrought the change now apparent in him. The fiery trial through which he had passed accomplished the work of time upon his character, and he emerged from it purified and matured.
His face still wore the sunny smile that had made it a joy to all, but the light which lingered upon it was chastened and subdued. His manners still charmed by the warm, ingenuous frankness that made him the village pet, but their former reckless gayety was sobered by the spirit of piety, which had established its abode within his youthful heart from the moment when the blessed hand of adversity opened wide its portals, and prepared it to become thenceforth a chosen home of the celestial guest.
He was more than ever the favorite of the boys, and the leader in all their sports; but his devotion to study was more faithful, his attention to every religious duty more regular, and his conduct under all circumstances more exemplary than ever before.
Soon after his return, farmer Brown celebrated the event by inviting the school--without any exceptions this time--to spend another day at the farm, as the season for gathering nuts had arrived. Such a gay time as they had! whisking the deep beds of fallen leaves about in search for hidden treasures, and watching the squirrels gleaning in the path from which they had thrown off nature's covering for stray nuts, whose hiding places had thus been revealed.
The day passed delightfully, but not, like their former holidays, in unalloyed and careless pleasure. The thought would intrude upon its happiest moments, that their little band was soon to be broken up, and that this was to be the last occasion upon which they would all meet in the hey-day of boyish glee, to join in boyish pastimes.
For the change was now stealing upon them apace which presses closely on the footsteps of boyhood--and from which our "young Vermonters" were not to be exempted--when one and another must pass from its arena, to enter upon a new stage of action and form new associations. When the dear old school-house, with all the memories that were to link it with the shifting scenes of each single life--to which it had been the starting-point in quest of knowledge--was to be exchanged for college halls, the office, the counter, or the farm, with all their excitements, laborious duties, and temptations, and their weary anxieties.
The next week after their visit to the farm, Frank Blair took his leave of home and friends to enter the naval school at B----. Not long after, George Wingate, Henry Howe, and Johnny Hart entered the College of the Holy Cross. The same week, Patrick Casey was appointed clerk in a railroad office, and Dennis Sullivan left to take his place as clerk in a wholesale establishment in Boston.
Who shall say what pangs all these changes, so easily related, and so much a matter of course in this changeful world, cost the young exiles now banished from the sheltering bosom of home, and standing for the first time face to face with the stern realities of life? The homesick looking back to the dear and peaceful past, the timid, shrinking glances into the dim vista of the dreaded future--the one bathed in all the effulgence of morning, the other bearing already upon its sombre wings foreshadowings of the night!
And who shall describe the loneliness of each home from which the brightest, warmest ray of sunshine had been stricken, when the school-boy with his "shining morning face" vanished from its precincts, to return no more for ever with the light of his young life upon his brow?
None but mothers can know the depth of the shadow that remains to them in the place of their mirthful boys. But take courage, ye mothers! Rest not in supine regrets and gentle memories, but betake yourselves with renewed energy and diligence to the use of the all-conquering weapon of prayer, for now more than ever do your darlings need its aid. Remember what the holy bishop said to the afflicted St. Monica in the olden time, "It cannot be that the child of so many tears should perish." Let your sons, in the midst of their temptations and trials, be shielded and sustained by the firm assurance that their mothers are constantly lifting up pure hands and fervent hearts to heaven in their behalf. So, following the example of that saintly mother, may you hope to gain that mother's reward. For it is true now as it was then, and will be unto the end of time, that, "They who sow in tears shall reap in joy!"
Michael remained at home, pursuing his studies diligently until the winter was far advanced, when his father was taken alarmingly ill, and he was obliged to relinquish them and devote himself to his care, and that of the family. He had long known that some trouble was weighing upon his father, and he was now made acquainted with it.
When Mr. Hennessy first came to M----, he rented a very pretty place just out of the village, to which they became so much attached that he finally purchased it, and had from time to time been able to make improvements and add little embellishments within and around the premises, besides meeting the payments as they fell due. Latterly, with failing health and an increasing family, he had been unable to do more than support his household comfortably, and two payments remained to be met; they were now both due, and his creditor threatened to foreclose the mortgage upon the place, if they were not promptly paid.
Michael was deeply distressed when the state of their affairs was made known to him. The thought of losing their all, and the home they so dearly loved, the scene of so many tranquil joys, weighed heavily upon his young heart. He sought in fervent prayer the refuge of the Catholic, commending himself and all his dear ones anew to the protection of the Blessed Virgin Mother, and leaving all his troubles at her feet. Suddenly it flashed upon his remembrance that Mr. Blair had told him if he should ever need assistance or advice not to fail of applying to him, and that he should consider it a favor if he would do so. To him, therefore, he resolved to go at once, though it was not without much of the old apprehension of his sternness that he sought the office of that gentleman, mingled with uprisings of a pride that rebelled against asking favors from one who had formerly despised his people. For duty's sake, however, he mastered all these feelings, and was received with the utmost kindness. With a faltering voice he laid the whole case open to Mr. Blair, and concluded by saying, "Now, sir, you see the sum due on the place is not a large one, and if you feel disposed to advance it, I will guarantee the payment of interest and principal as soon as I can leave my father and get into a situation to earn it."
"What do you intend to do?" said Mr. Blair.
"I must seek a place as book-keeper or clerk in some establishment; and will do so without delay."
"Do you prefer such a position to any other?" inquired his friend.
"I have," said Michael, blushing with bashful earnestness, "always indulged the hope that I might be able to study law; but this must now be relinquished," he added after a slight pause.
"Well, my young friend," said Mr. Blair kindly, "I will now tell you what I think had better be done. I will raise this money for you, and you may take your own time to pay it. I have no fears on that score. I will see that matters in relation to the home are put upon a safe footing without delay. You will take care of your father and the family until he is sufficiently recovered to spare you, and then you will enter my office as a student. I have felt very lonely since Frank went away, and will be pleased to have his best friend with me. Besides, you are an excellent and rapid penman; I need such a one in my business just now very much, and can afford to pay you liberally for your assistance. My old hands are getting too stiff to write much, and my business is increasing. If this proposal suits you, consider the matter settled for the present."
It need not be told how thankfully Michael accepted the offer, nor what fervent thanksgivings were poured from pious hearts in that home when the arrangement was made known.
Mr. Hennessy recovered rapidly when the pressure of adverse circumstances and the fears of impending calamity were removed; and Michael soon entered Mr. Blair's office as a student. Here his close attention to business, his application to study, and his fidelity to every duty, gained for him the highest esteem and confidence of his superior, who would often exclaim to himself, "Oh! why could not my boy have been such a one as this? With every obstacle removed from his path and every encouragement offered, why would he persist in casting all his advantages aside, to pursue a reckless career of folly?"
And indeed he heard little that was encouraging from Frank in his new position. He was so homesick, discontented, and dissatisfied with everything as to unfit him for the studies and duties of the school, the discipline and restraints of which were insupportably irksome to him. But his father was only convinced that they were remedies the more necessary to a restless spirit which chafed so fiercely under them. His passion for mischief and fun continually drew the chains he hated more closely around him, and involved him daily in new difficulties. One circumstance alone--humanly speaking--prevented him from falling into utter ruin. He had formed an enthusiastic friendship for his sister Fanny's dearest friend, the eldest daughter of Mrs. Plimpton, Julia Plimpton--one of those gentle, lovely girls, who wield a controlling influence over such impetuous, restless characters. He was in correspondence with her, and to her he communicated all his troubles and his peevish, fretful repinings, in perfect confidence, receiving just the advice he needed from time to time to keep him from breaking rudely away from all restraint.
XII. DEVELOPMENTS
Two years elapsed without any material changes in the circle to which this narrative relates.
During this period, Miss Carlton, one of Miss Blair's best friends, near her own age, and a lady of intelligence and wealth, with strong philanthropic impulses, had set herself with great enthusiasm to gather a large number of poor French Catholic children, who would not attend the public schools, into a sort of boarding-school at her own cottage on the confines of the village. She solicited aid from Miss Blair in dressing her young wards suitably, and entered zealously into the task of educating them, as a necessary prelude to their conversion to Protestantism, which must inevitably follow. Miss Blair willingly assisted her with funds, and the use of her needle in preparing clothing; but could not be persuaded to go any further. Miss Carlton at length becoming vexed and irritated by the cool scepticism with which her efforts were regarded, insisted on knowing the reason.
"I am sure it is not want of benevolence," said she; "for I have known you too long and too well to doubt the kindness of your heart. Do tell me, then, why you will persist in looking upon my exertions with so much apathy?"
"Precisely because," said Miss Blair, laughing, "I once tried the experiment myself, under as much more promising auspices as the superior numbers and greater necessities of that class of children in a city could furnish. My failure was more grand than yours will be, because my operations were on a grander scale."
"But why must I of necessity fail?"
"Ah! there lies the mystery. I cannot tell you why; nor do I deny but you may benefit them so far as learning to read and write, and even some little smattering of further knowledge may go; but make Protestants of them? Never! When you think you have secured them by catching the unfledged brood and attaching them to the Protestant cage by food and favors, just one chirp from the mother-bird, and Presto! your flock is gone! If you will take the pains to follow, you will find them nestled under the parent wing and peeping out at you so contentedly and complacently! I know, for I have tried it; and am forced to laugh now when I think how provoked I was, and how puzzled to account for the mysterious, irrepressible, and apparently irresistible power that majestic mother exercised. Since I came to this part of Vermont, my conviction of the futility of all such attempts has been confirmed. There have been great rejoicings among the Methodists and Baptists, at one time and another, over accessions to their numbers from the ancient ark; but let a priest appear in those localities and utter the rallying call of their church--away scamper the converts, and their Protestant confrères have seen the last of them!"
As Mrs. Blair had intimated during the colloquy with Mrs. Plimpton, her sister-in-law had become interested in the converts of M---- and in reading their books. She began listlessly, from a mere willingness to hear what could be said on that side, and to see fair play, perhaps unconsciously hoping to find some solution for that "mysterious power" which so puzzled her. But the investigation thus indolently opened soon awakened new ideas as to the importance of issues which involved eternity. From that moment nothing could exceed the fervent energy with which she followed up the subject, determined to know and follow the truth, if it was to be found on earth. Her labors resulted as all such labors honestly entered upon, diligently pursued, and governed by the spirit of justice, must inevitably result. She found herself safely sheltered under the wings of the gentle mother whose loving attractions had formerly astonished her ignorance. Her brother made no comments, but poor Mrs. Blair was utterly disgusted.
Meanwhile her favorite niece--because Frank's favorite and petted sister--Fanny was drawn by casually looking into the books which her aunt was studying so closely to take a lively interest in the same subject. But the reading of "prosy books of controversy," as she called them, was an effort quite beyond her patience, so she would seek the office occasionally and question Michael. He declined, as far as he could in conscience, to assist her in the matter, thinking that to do so would be in some sort a breach of the confidence reposed in him by her father.
At length one day, when he had been even more provokingly indifferent than usual, and pursued his writing diligently despite her questioning, she exclaimed,
"I never did see such a vexatious fellow as you are! I can't imagine what Frank could have seen in you to like so well. One might just as well talk to a stick; there's nothing interesting or sociable about you! I suppose you think you're going to keep me from being a Catholic by your hateful ways; but you won't, I can tell you. I can read, if you won't talk, only I do hate the trouble." And she departed, leaving him amused beyond measure at her vehemence.
She was engaged in a correspondence with Julia Plimpton, of the frequent and confidential nature in which girls of that age are wont to indulge, and of course opened her heart to her friend upon the subject which now most interested her. Their letters were soon filled with the discussion of religious questions, in which after a time Mrs. Plimpton joined, expressing her surprise that so much could be said in favor of a creed which she had always regarded as the height of absurdity, and the last stronghold of bigotry, superstition, and ignorance, in this progressive age.
At the stage of our narrative upon which this chapter opens, Mr. Hennessy was one day looking over the columns of the Boston Pilot--to which Mr. Sullivan was a subscriber--when his eye fell upon the following paragraph:
"If Patrick Hennessy or any of his family, who landed in Boston from the ship Hibernia in the summer of 18--, will call at the Pilot office, they will hear something greatly to their advantage."
After consulting with Mrs. Hennessy, Michael, and Mr. Blair, he decided to start for Boston without delay.
The editor of the Pilot, when found, asked him many questions as to his place of residence in Ireland, the name of his wife, of the priest who married them, of his other family connections, and where he had lived since he came to America; all which being satisfactorily answered, the following letter was put into his hands to read:
"SAN FRANCISCO, Sept. 8, 18--.
"TO THE EDITOR OF THE BOSTON PILOT:
"DEAR SIR: When I was on board the Golden City, bound for this place early in the summer of 18--, the sailor on the 'look-out' discovered an object floating at some distance astern, and notified the captain, who ordered the boat manned to overhaul it. The object proved to be a man lashed to a table and apparently dead. They brought him to the vessel, where, after a time, he began to show signs of life, and in a few hours was able to give an account of himself. The Polar Queen, on which he was a passenger, was struck by an iceberg in the night. At the first shock he secured himself firmly to the table and sprang overboard; after which he remembered nothing, and could give no idea how long it was since the event, but supposed the vessel went down with all on board, as she was badly shivered and rapidly filling the last he knew of her.
"His name was Michael Hennessy, and he was a tradesman like myself, and from the same county at home. He had a brother Patrick, who was to sail for America the same year. The two brothers married two sisters, by name Mary and Bridget Denver, the year before. Michael married Bridget. They had no children when Michael left home. There was great call for work at our trades in San Francisco, and Michael came on here with me. As soon as we reached this place, he wrote home to the parish priest, Father O'Reilly, to have Patrick come to California, sending money which I loaned him. He received answer that his brother, with their two wives and Patrick's new-born infant, left soon after he did on the Hibernia, bound for Boston. He then applied to you, as you may remember, to get information of them, if you could. In due course you informed him that the Hibernia arrived safely at Boston; that you found the people with whom they stopped, who stated that Michael's wife and child died during a severe storm on the voyage out; that Patrick stopped in Boston until he heard of the loss of the Polar Queen with all on board, when he started for the western country, and they had heard nothing from him since.
"Michael then sent notices to papers in all the western cities, but could get no tidings from his brother. We continued to work at our trades, and the master builder who employed us, owning a deal of land near the city, paid us in city lots, on which we built houses, to rent according as we could, when work was scant. Rents were very high, for there was a great rush to the city, and buildings scarce, and the city lots went up in a way that would astonish the world. So Mike and I found ourselves rich of a sudden; but he always uneasy about his brother. At last, when he could stand the heavy heart no longer, he determined to go in search of him. In case any thing might happen him on his travels, he executed papers leaving all he had with me in trust for his brother or family, should they ever be found. Just when he was ready to start, he took sick of a fever and died the fourth day, which was the 27th of last month. I will do all in my power, as I promised him, to find his brother if he is still living; and my request is that you will help me. I have notices out through all the western country. He left a large amount in gold on deposit, and a still larger property in buildings and lots in the city. The rents are accumulating on my hands, but I will make no further investments until I know what will happen.
Yours respectfully,
"JAMES TRACY."
After making arrangements to communicate with Tracy through the editor, who was to receive and forward drafts for him, Mr. Hennessy set out for home.
The surprise of all upon hearing the news may be imagined.
After a long consultation with his wife, Mr. Hennessy sought Mr. Blair, to whom he communicated the fact that the Michael of our narrative was the son of his brother Michael; that their own baby died in a fit on the night of Bridget's death, and they adopted the little motherless one in its place, without saying any thing to their companions, but intending to inform his brother of the fact when they should meet. Subsequent events determined them to keep it still concealed; but now that Michael was the rightful heir to all this wealth, it must be revealed.
Mr. Blair urged that, as his brother left the property to him, it was just as well to make no revelation on the subject; but Mr. Hennessy insisted that his brother made that arrangement in ignorance of the existence of his own child, and it would not be right for him to take advantage of it, and, in fine, that he would have nothing to do with the property. It was far more painful for him to give up his claim upon Michael as his son, and he did not feel equal to doing it in person. He therefore begged Mr. Blair to communicate these facts to Michael for him.
That gentleman lost no time in fulfilling the commission, and Michael was of course overwhelmed with amazement. He hastened to assure his father that he would not consent to any release of claims on the score of family ties, and they both went into a council with Mr. Blair upon "the situation." Finally they determined that Michael should transfer all the money to his father, and, retaining the real estate in his own hands, go into the practice of law in San Francisco himself. He at first proposed to have the family go with him to that place; but they had lived so long in Vermont, and become so much attached to M----, that they preferred not to leave.
Before Michael set out for California, he had a long conversation with Mr. Blair, at the conclusion of which it was arranged that, after he had established himself in his new home, and opened an office there, he should come back, and if a certain young lady (who was about to become a Catholic in "spite of him") could be persuaded to accompany his return--as he had good reason to hope she would--his next journey to that far off land would not be a solitary one.