I. THE CONSPIRATORS OVERHEARD…

I. THE CONSPIRATORS OVERHEARD

A FARMER stood on the border of a meadow, and, with hands clasped upon the handle of his axe, looked with disappointment at the appearance of the grass. He shook his head sadly, and exclaimed aloud: “All labor and skill are useless if God does not bless the land!”

He pushed his cap from his brow, and the expression of his face became more discontented than before, when suddenly he raised his head, listened, and gazed in the direction of the forest. His whole aspect now changed; his eyes lighted up with joy at the sound of a beautiful tenor-voice merrily singing:

“If I were only king, I would be just to all,” etc.

A gentleman on horseback soon became visible, followed at some distance by a second rider, who was evidently a servant. The gentleman, who was young and handsome, was dressed in gray; he wore his felt hat jauntily on one side, thus leaving exposed his good-humored, intelligent countenance, and his dark and brilliant eyes.

At the first curve of the road, he checked his horse. A thriving village is seen in the distance, and a palace belonging to the king crowns the summit of the hill.

“Franz, do you not think the weather unusually pleasant to-day?”

“Yes, your lordship.”

“Do you know the reason why the atmosphere is so pure, Franz?”

“I do not know, your lordship.”

“Well, I will tell you,” said the young gentleman, taking off his hat, and passing his right hand through his curly hair. “The air is invigorating and fresh because it is not breathed by the ladies and gentlemen of the court. I have often observed that, whenever the caravans from the city come out here, the air becomes damp and oppressive. Nature seems to shroud its loveliness in a mourning-veil. Every shrub and flower shrinks, as it were, within itself, in the vain attempt to shut out the idle babbling of courtiers and the noxious smell of musk which they use in such quantities. To-day, however, the country is radiant in beauty; peace dwells everywhere, the most profound stillness reigns, and the Spirit of God fills the heart, therefore, Franz, I shall not return yet; you can ride home alone.”

He sprang from his horse.

“Give me my portfolio and my plaid!”

The servant handed him both.

Throwing the plaid over his shoulders, the young count turned in the direction of the woods, whose tall beech-trees covered the sides of a small hillock. The road ended in a circle surrounded by young fir-trees. Benches with comfortable backs invited the traveller to rest; but the count continued his walk until he reached a certain spot, when he seated himself upon a large moss-covered stone. Through an opening in the forest he saw the farmer, whose whole deportment and walk again expressed care and reflection.

“He also is a thinker,” said the count to himself, “and the subject of his meditation is doubtless more profitable to mankind than are those of many who make pretensions to profound learning. As he stands there, he is the very personification of care! He is evidently devising some plan by which the waters of the little brook may be led into his parched meadows. Idle work, my dear fellow! If you should succeed in turning its fertilizing streams into your land, and if you should enrich the soil with the sweat of your brow, the terrible military ordinance will devour the fruits of your labor. If you have sons who are healthy and strong, they cannot be of assistance to you, for the army will claim their service. The minister of war is insatiable in his demands, and it is necessary that he should be so, for we are living in strange times.”

He continued to gaze musingly upon the scene before him. Gradually his countenance assumed an earnest and almost solemn expression; his bright eyes became dreamy, as if communing with spirits of the invisible world, until, as though yielding to some mysterious impulse, he seized his pencil, and began to write.

Suddenly a gruff voice was heard. The poet is startled out of his dreams. Four elegantly dressed gentlemen are seen coming up the road, and approach the circle.

“Who can escape his fate?” said the young count angrily. “The heavenly muses are put to flight by hostile spirits; but what do I see?” he continued, looking through the branches at the group. “Three of the most powerful men of the kingdom? Three master-masons and the grandmaster of all the Freemasons within a circumference of three hundred miles? What can bring these sons of night to this peaceful spot? I hope they will not remain long enough to poison the fragrant air with their foul plotting and plans. Truly, their presence has already effected a change: the sun does not shine as brightly, and it is becoming cloudy.”

He then sat listening.

“I do not understand you, professor,” said the person with the gruff voice. “To say the least, it is a very singular fancy of yours to defend the Jesuits.”

“No fancy at all, Herr Director; it is simply the result of knowledge,” replied the professor.

“The knowledge acquired in your high-school is certainly wonderful,” answered the director, with a mocking laugh. “But your effort to defend the Jesuits surpasses even the bounds of knowledge!”

“If you scorn knowledge when right and truth are in question, you will surely allow a man of sound judgment to have some respect for that which is founded on facts,” said the university professor, with great warmth.

“Oh! you have my permission to say what you choose between these green walls,” exclaimed the director, pointing with his hand towards the young fir-trees.

“And you, most worshipful grandmaster—do you also allow the free expression of opinion?” inquired the professor of a man with a gray beard, whose eyes and features indicated a disposition of great craftiness.

“Certainly; we are not in the masonic lodge,” replied the gentleman addressed. “I am not grandmaster here, but a simple chief-magistrate, Be careful, however, in your expressions, we might be overheard.”

The professor walked around the circle, and looked in every direction.

“There is no one within hearing distance,” said he, returning.

“This is growing interesting; I must take notes of what will transpire,” said the invisible count; and he at once commenced to write down what he heard.

“Our order has determined upon the extermination of the Jesuits—well! As this resolution has been passed, it no longer admits of debate,” continued the professor. “I do not speak now as a Freemason, but as a close observer of matters and things; and what do I see? Attacks on all sides upon the Jesuits. At Munich, our Masons have clothed themselves in the garment of Old Catholicity, that they might hurl from the standpoint of belief their anathemas against the Jesuits. In Darmstadt, our first Masons even went so far as to appear in the garb of Luther, that they might condemn the Jesuits from Protestant pulpits also, and demand their expulsion by actual force. All our newspapers denounce the Jesuits, and stir up a hatred of them among the people. But, gentlemen, in my estimation, the newspapers have gone too far; any man of common sense can convict them of falsehood and calumny. Here is a Bavarian paper of yesterday, called the Kemptener Gazette,” said he, producing the journal. “Listen to this article, which endeavors to incite the fears of the credulous.”

And the professor read:

“What are all the calamities which threaten and even destroy the human race in comparison to the crimes of the Jesuits? For centuries they have immolated thousands upon the scaffold, and justified their acts by appealing to an all-loving Deity. Children and their parents, the young and the old, virgins and matrons, have been sacrificed to their cruel and insatiable thirst for power. Amid, horrible torments and unspeakable sufferings, innumerable beings, despairing of the mercy of God, have been put to death at their command. They have been the means of introducing treason and parricide into the world; they have artfully managed to incite with a word one nation against the other; while at the same time they point with a hypocritical face to the cross, the symbol of an all-governing love. But what caps the climax is that they seek to effect the ruin of men, not for time, but for eternity. With unheard-of cruelty, they everywhere stifle spiritual freedom in its very birth. They have secretly murdered kings and emperors who would not submit to their will. To obtain their end, they destroy the welfare of nations, and humble the majesty of princes into the very dust. Like an evil spirit, they have triumphantly placed their yoke upon enslaved mankind, and they yet strive to carry out their base designs, as the experience of our own times teaches us—in a word, they are the enemies with whom the spirit of truth has now to combat.”

“Now, gentlemen, I ask of you,” said the professor, holding up the paper, “are not these accusations most ridiculous and absurd? A long chain of the gravest crimes and of the most diabolical designs are fastened upon the Society of Jesus, and yet not a single one of these allegations can be proved. They are wicked and stupid fabrications, and cannot but appear as such to a man of ordinary intelligence.”

“To an intelligent man, perhaps!” answered the director. “But the article is not written for that class of people, but only for the ignorant, who are easily duped.”

“And we must remember,” said one of the four Masons, “that the article fulfils its end; it is even well written; for it will fill the minds of the common people with hatred and distrust of the Jesuits if they read such things of them.”

“Perfectly true, Herr Counsellor!” said the director.

“The end, indeed, sanctifies the means, we may say with truth,” replied the professor. “Let us, however, not forget that the present attack upon the Jesuits will be recorded in history. A future age will judge for itself, and I fear it will decide in favor of a society which in our days is assailed with such senseless fury. Posterity will look upon the present treatment of the Jesuits as not only contemptible, but as cowardly and wicked. According to the testimony of centuries, the Society of Jesus is the most active, the purest, the most influential and learned order of the Catholic Church. The Jesuits are acknowledged to be the best teachers, the most prudent instructors of youth, the most experienced confessors, and the most zealous priests. They are known as the vanguard of Rome; they are wonderful in mortification and in obedience, and are always ready to make any sacrifice whatever for the church. I can prove this by innumerable passages from Protestant works.”

“It is not necessary, Herr Professor!” interrupted the grandmaster. “The Jesuits are no doubt excellent people. The society is a masterly organization; each member obeys without contradiction the commands of an experienced general; they form the strongest bulwark of Rome; for that very reason, they must be suppressed. ‘The Trowel or the Cross!’ that is to be the watchword! The trowel, the symbol of Freemasonry, must triumph over the cross, the symbol of Christianity. According to the spirit and plan of our order, all religion must disappear from the face of the earth. The trowel must reign, the cross be broken. As the Catholic Church gives the strongest support to religious belief, and because the Jesuits are the most active propagators of the doctrine of Christ, it is necessary that the Jesuits should be exterminated.”

“Well, Herr Counsellor, I agree with you,” replied the professor. “The death-sentence has been pronounced upon the Jesuits, and must be executed; but, to accomplish such a result, neither brutal force nor the interference of the government should be used; we should call knowledge to aid us in gaining the victory. There are perhaps two hundred Jesuits in the whole German Empire; thus there is one Jesuit to twenty learned men. Now, I ask you, will it not be disgraceful to our enlightened age if twenty well-informed doctors cannot render inefficient the activity of one Jesuit? Will it not be a neverending cause of shame to German science if it cannot gain the mastery over such a small number of unarmed and persecuted men? It is humiliating to my pride to use such means for the extermination of this little band of enemies. Science must be made to destroy the Society of Jesus, but not a decree issued in the spirit of the barbarous and tyrannical Nero!”

“Don’t talk to me about your sciences!” said the grandmaster impatiently. “I am an old, experienced Freemason, and you may believe what I tell you. Science will not be able to disconcert even one Jesuit. Do not forget, dear professor, that the Jesuits are proficient in all the sciences, and that they understand how to fight upon that ground. We must not skirmish long with such an enemy; we must advance quickly, and must concentrate all our forces for the great battle. It must now be decided—the trowel or the cross! If the dominion of the cross is to cease, the religion of Jesus of Nazareth must disappear; if the spirit of Freemasonry is to obtain the victory, then the Jesuits must first be exterminated by every possible means.”

A deep murmur came from behind a large tree in the vicinity. The sound proceeded from the same farmer, who, having walked around his meadows, was on his return home, when he heard voices in animated conversation, and he lost no time in hiding himself behind the tree. There he stood, tall and broad-shouldered, listening attentively; he would every now and then clinch his strong fists, and would dart fiery glances at the assembled group of Freemasons.

“The most natural and efficacious means,” remarked the professor, “would be a decree of suppression, which could be easily obtained from the Chamber of Deputies, the majority of whom belong actually or at least in spirit to our order. But the question is, Will the king consent to it?”

“Bah! he is a narrow-minded man, who does not govern, but is governed!” said the grandmaster contemptuously. “Our Masons have excited his fears to such a pitch in regard to the pretensions of the infallible Pope that he is ready at any moment to attack Rome.”

“Splendid!” said the count to himself, underlining the words in his note-book: “A narrow-minded man, who does not govern, but is governed!”

“Our victory is certain!” declared the counsellor. “The time for a decisive battle could not be more favorable. The majority of intelligent people and of the working classes are without any religion. The lower orders must be indoctrinated by our Masons and apprentices; our newspapers must confuse and alarm them concerning the claims of the infallible Pope. Besides, the German emperor is a Freemason, the Crown-Prince of Germany is a Freemason, all the ministers of our country are Freemasons, and many ministers of other German countries are Freemasons. In Spain, we are already so powerful that the Grandmaster, Zorilla, gave the royal crown to a prince of his own choice. In Rome, for 1800 years the seat of the popes, the “Grand-Orient” of our order will erect his seat above the chair of an imprisoned and helpless Pope. As I have already remarked, affairs are everywhere so propitious to our cause that the trowel will surely conquer the cross!”

“This is indeed your hour, and the power of darkness!” thought the count.

“Only hear the villains!” muttered the farmer behind the hedge, “What pious creatures these Freemasons are!”

“You are mistaken in regard to one point,” replied the professor. “The Emperor and the Crown-Prince of Germany are undoubtedly Freemasons; but the real object of our World Union is not known to either of them. Neither William nor Fritz dreams that after the downfall of the altar follows that of the throne. The cross is well adapted for the crown of princes, but not the trowel. Suppose the emperor shall discover the fundamental law of our order? Do you think that he would espouse the cause of religion, and war against us?”

“Care has been taken that he shall never know it,” said the grandmaster. “Do not torment yourself with fears that will never be realized!”

“If the German emperor could only hear these rascally Freemasons talk!” thought the indignant farmer within himself. “I must look closely at these fellows.”

“Well, professor,” inquired the grandmaster, “are you at last convinced that the Jesuits must be first driven out, and that this can only be done by force?”

“I am not convinced of your last assertion; but yet I submit, in obedience to my oath as a Freemason most worshipful grandmaster!” replied the professor. “I shall endeavor, in my sphere of labor, to be restlessly active, so that we may attain our great end. I shall do my best to destroy religious faith in all the young men confided to me, by appealing always to the light of science. Our universities of the present day are justly considered to be the most successful mothers of religious unbelief. To the destruction of altars, to the downfall of thrones, to the universal fraternization of all nations by means of a universal republic without a God, without heaven, without hell; for liberty in our pleasures, for liberty of will, for liberty in life and death, shall my whole strength be dedicated in submission to the rule of our order!”

The grandmaster nodded his head approvingly. Suddenly the group were startled by the appearance of the farmer, who, no longer able to control his wrath, stepped into the circle. Holding his axe in his hand, he gazed attentively at the strangers.

“What do you wish, good man?” asked the grandmaster condescendingly.

“I have heard much about the Freemasons, and, as I now have a chance, I must look at them a little.”

“Well, well, this is fine work!” replied the counsellor, concealing his perplexity by a loud cough.

“How do you know that we are Freemasons?” asked the director.

“I know it because I have been listening to your confessions,” replied the farmer.

The confusion now became general.

“What did you hear?” asked the professor.

“I heard enough! But I must tell you this, you Freemasons, your undertaking will fail, for your motives are wicked,” continued the farmer, with rising indignation. “You say that you will expel the Jesuits, and destroy and exterminate them? Slowly, gentlemen; the people also will have something to say about that. We Catholics know what the Jesuits are. In the Bavarian Diet, some one said that the skulls of the Catholics should be beaten in. All right; but I tell you, Freemasons, that I will break with this my axe the skull of the first one who dares to come near our parish for the purpose of driving away our dear, good Jesuit father. Only try it! Do you think,” he exclaimed, while he shook his clenched fist at them, “that we Catholics intend to be tormented by vagabonds and good-for-nothing fellows like you who do not believe in a God, nor in a heaven, nor in a hell? Do you imagine that we will allow ourselves to be trampled under foot, that we will permit our religion to be destroyed, our faith undermined, our priests abused and expelled? Do you think that we are such fools? Commence your work, and you will see what will happen! We are not African slaves: we are free Germans; you Freemasons would do well to keep out of the way. Our fists are stronger than your trowels, and defence, in case of necessity, is lawful!”

The dignitaries of the most powerful order in the world, observing the wild looks of the angry man, were silent.

“Do you see the cross upon the steeple of the church there?” asked the farmer, pointing to the village beyond. “How many such spires are there not in Germany? And you wish to take down that cross from the church—the cross upon which the Saviour has died for us—and put on your dirty mason-trowel? Ha! ha! that’s too ridiculous!”

“Is your pastor a Jesuit, my friend?” inquired the professor, in a bland tone of voice.

“Yes, indeed; our pastor is a Jesuit; he has been three years with us, because there is a scarcity of secular priests. And what a pastor he makes! I can tell you, Freemasons, that our Jesuit father is so good, so zealous, so full of piety, that all of you put together are not fit to unloosen his shoes. Yes; you may scowl at me, but it is so! And then, gentlemen, I have something else to say to you! If you think so much about freedom, and about the welfare of the people; if all your ministers are Freemasons; and if you are all-powerful in the chambers, why do you heap burden after burden upon the shoulders of the people? Why is it that the taxes are growing heavier every day? Why is it that the farmers are pressed by the collectors as if they were grapes? Why does the war-budget constantly increase, so that we are in danger of being forced to work in the end only for the soldiers? See, Freemasons, these are our troubles; you can, if you choose, help the oppressed people; but I warn you to keep your hands away from the Jesuits and from our religion ... or ...” and he made a threatening gesture, “you will be sorry. Franz Keller, of Weselheim, from yonder village, has said it.”

He placed his axe upon his shoulder, and walked away with long, determined strides, while the Freemasons preserved a deep silence.

The count laughed at their evident discomfiture.

“Another significant proof of the powerful influence of the Jesuits,” said the grandmaster. “The parish of Weselheim was formerly indifferent in regard to religious matters; but now they are made fanatical by having had a Jesuit among them for three years. He must leave!” continued he angrily. “The clock of his activity has run down.”

“Will the king receive us at his villa?” asked the counsellor.

“On the 14th of this month, at eleven o’clock precisely!” replied the director.

“It is growing cold, gentlemen, let us return,” remarked the grandmaster, whereupon they all left the forest.

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II. A JESUIT AS A PASTOR

IN a meditative mood, the count walked towards the village. The serene and joyous expression of his handsome face had disappeared, and was replaced by a grave earnestness.

“A valuable experience!” said he to himself. “So ‘The Trowel or the Cross!’ is to be the watchword of those who govern! Thrones are to be broken over the ruins of the altars, so that, in the end, a general fraternization of mankind may, according to the spirit of Freemasonry, crown the whole. Fraternization—hem! The real meaning of all this is that men who are not rich and are not liberals are to become the slaves of the liberals and the rich. The farmer was right: these Freemasons are wicked rascals, for they do not believe in God. And this spiritual rascality is, without doubt, more wicked and dangerous to the state than open drunkenness. This farmer is a brave fellow; I like him!” continued the count, laughing. “Healthy in body and spirit, courageous, sincere, and free! Like a night-bird before the eagle, so also do these light-hating Freemasons shrink before righteous and honest anger.” He sauntered through the streets of the village, observed with pleasure the universal cleanliness that prevailed, and returned politely the friendly salutations of all who greeted him, after which he entered his hotel. When he had dined, and while reading the newspaper, his servant appeared.

“Some men are here, your lordship, who desire to speak with you.”

“Who are they?”

“Good people from the country, your lordship.”

“Send them up!”

Slowly, and bowing respectfully, at least a dozen villagers entered the room. The count at once recognized the tall form and broad shoulders of Franz Keller. The men were dressed in their Sunday attire, and their weather-beaten countenances were full of care and solicitude.

“What can I do for you, my friends?” began the count, who saw their embarrassment.

“We have come here on business, your lordship,” said the leader of the little troop. “I am the burgomaster of this place, and these men are the aldermen.”

“I am greatly rejoiced to make the acquaintance of the principal men of Weselheim,” replied the young count kindly. “What is the nature of your business with me?”

“I will tell your lordship. For three years we have had a Jesuit father as our pastor—a good, pious, and zealous priest. The government has, for the last four months, endeavored to take him away from us, because he is a foreigner. He has received no less than three letters ordering him to leave, but he will not desert his post. He says that the government did not make him pastor of our church, but the bishop, and therefore government cannot dismiss him from the care of souls. But because the Freemasons hate the Jesuits, and because they are all-powerful with the government, our pastor is to be taken away from us by force. The whole congregation are indignant at this, for it will be difficult to find another pastor like him. If the gendarmes come, I do not pledge myself that they will not be driven out of the village; we all feel that it would be a sin crying to heaven if we allow a pious, innocent man to be taken away by gendarmes like a thief. No; we shall never submit to such treatment! Now, this is our humble request to your lordship: to-morrow, or after to-morrow, our most gracious king will arrive at the palace yonder, and, since your lordship is the friend of his majesty, the entire parish beg of you to speak in our behalf, so that we may be able to keep our pastor.”

“I thank you, Herr Burgomaster, and all the parish for the confidence they place in me,” said the count. “At the same time, I must confess that it is a long time since I have heard any praise of the Jesuits; the fashion is now to heap insult upon them, and to accuse them of every known crime.”

“I ask pardon, your lordship,” said Keller; “only those who do not know the Jesuits will ever insult them. We know them. Our Jesuit father is a very pious man; he has no fault—or at least one only.”

“Well, what fault has he?” inquired Count von Scharfenstein.

“He gives away everything to the poor, your honor,” replied the burgomaster. “He keeps nothing of what we give him; the lay brother who lives with him carries it away to others. A man must eat and drink well if he expects to work well.”

“Very true!” said Von Scharfenstein, hardly able to restrain a laugh. “And because your pastor does not eat and drink well, he therefore does not work well either.”

“Oh! yes, your honor, oh! yes. I did not mean to say that. What I wanted to say was that our pastor works very hard, but that he does not eat enough, and therefore looks pale and thin. We cannot make him grow fat.” And the burgomaster cast a satisfied glance at his own well nourished body. “If we give him the very best we have, he will not eat it, but gives it away, and that provokes us.”

“Console yourselves!” answered Von Scharfenstein. “The poor to whom your pastor gives the best he has will not be displeased with him for it. And for the very reason that he is such an incorrigible friend of the poor, I shall speak to the king in his behalf.”

The interview now came to an end.

“God reward your honor!” said each one of the delegation, as they bowed and took their departure.

Von Scharfenstein, whose thoughts were generally in the clouds, and who paid very little attention to the course of things in the world around him, walked thoughtfully up and down his room. The touching fidelity, love, and reverence of the villagers for their priest, at a time when authority was mocked at unless supported by brute force, excited in him great admiration.

“The hatred of Freemasons for Jesuits is very natural,” said he. “The grandmaster is right: it will never be possible to plant the banner of infidelity upon the ruins of the altar as long as the bravest soldiers of the church militant exist. This forcible expulsion of the society is a political blunder. The case merits attention; I must take a look at the theatre of action.”

He put on his overcoat and hat, and went forth into the twilight. Well-freighted wagons were returning home from the fields. Those who met saluted one another, or spoke a few words together. Children carried small bundles upon their heads, grown persons dragged their burdens after them. It was a scene of animated activity. No swearing or angry word was heard, but the day’s work ended in the most peaceful manner. The same thing was repeated every evening during the sojourn of the count in Weselheim, but, having never felt any interest in rural life, he was astonished at all that he saw.

In the middle of the road, a heavily-laden wagon came to a stand-still; the horses refused to proceed, notwithstanding the efforts of the driver. The count could not but admire the patience of a man who did not swear at or ill-treat his horses. Several peasants came to offer assistance. They pushed the wheels, but in vain, for the animals would not move.

“I do not know what is the matter with the horses to-day,” exclaimed the driver. “I have not overloaded them.”

“Just a little too much, Jacob!” said a voice.

At once all hats and caps are raised. A tall, thin form now approached.

“May Jesus Christ be praised, your reverence!” was the respectful salutation of all the men.

“Now and for ever!” answered the good priest. “Well, Prantner, what has happened?”

“Your reverence, the horses will not stir!”

“Because they want to rest a little,” replied the Jesuit. “We do the same when we are tired; and it is a heavy, a very heavy load,” said he, with a glance at the towering height of the wagon.

“I have just told him that the wagon was overloaded,” remarked another peasant, in a tone of reproach.

“Perhaps—but Prantner knows that his horses are very strong, and he therefore has great confidence in them,” said the pastor. “They are splendid creatures,” patting the broad necks of the horses, and stroking their manes. The horses commenced to snort, to toss their heads, and to paw the ground. “Ah! see, they like to be complimented,” he continued cheerfully. “Let us always acknowledge merit, and that which seems difficult will then become easy. Now, Prantner, go on!”

The priest had hardly stepped back, when the horses proceeded on their way without further urging.

“Was there ever any one like our pastor?” exclaimed the peasants, in astonishment. “He understands everything.”

“Where is he going, so late?”

“To Michael the carpenter, who is dying, and who refuses to be reconciled with his neighbor.”

“Michael has always been very stubborn; may Almighty God grant him a happy death!” Saying which, the men dispersed.

The count, who had watched the proceedings, also went his way.

“The leading spirit of this parish is evidently the Jesuit, and he deserves to be,” thought Von Scharfenstein.

The Angelus now rang; at once every head was uncovered; for the silvery tones of the bell reminded the villagers of the incarnation of the Son of God. From all the houses resounded the angelic salutation, sometimes uttered by the clear voices of the children.

“What a pity that those men of the trowel are not here to shake their empty heads compassionately at the pious usages of an ignorant but believing people!” said the count. “In my opinion, a people who are reminded thrice during the day of the incarnation of the Son of God, and who are admonished to walk in the presence of the Omniscient, are better than a people who have no faith in either the justice or the mercy of God.”

Before the windows of a house there stood several persons, principally women. The count approached out of curiosity, and looked into a well-lighted room. The table near the wall was covered with a white cloth. Between two burning candles stood a crucifix and a holy-water vase. At the bedside of the dying man sat the Jesuit father, making impressive exhortations. He held the hand of the sick man in his own, and would frequently bend his head towards him, as though expecting some reply. At the foot of the bed knelt a young man, who covered his face with both hands. Two young girls and an aged woman stood near with sad and depressed countenances.

“What is the matter here?” inquired the count, in a low tone.

“Alas! sir, it is a sad affair!” replied one of the women. “Michael the carpenter is dying, and the priest cannot give him the last sacraments.”

“Why not?”

“Because Michael has for a long time been at enmity with his neighbor. For the last eight days, our pastor has come several times a day to visit him, in order to persuade him to be reconciled; but Michael will not listen to any advice. It is a pity for any one to be so malicious and obstinate.”

At this moment, there was a movement in the sick-room. The young man who knelt at the foot of the bed rose hastily, and left the house.

“At last, at last!” exclaimed a voice, “Michael has again become a Christian!”

A man was now seen to enter the room; he was the carpenter’s neighbor. The dying Michael held out his emaciated hand to him, which the neighbor took, although nearly blinded by tears. The Jesuit said a few words, and the reconciled enemies again shook hands. The women standing near the window were loudly sobbing. Von Scharfenstein was also greatly moved by what he witnessed.

The priest left the house, and hurried to the church.

“He will now bring the holy viaticum,” said a voice.

“Thanks be to God!” said another.

The count returned slowly to the hotel.

“I have until now examined only superficially into the activity of the Jesuit father, and must confess that he works admirably—light and darkness combat each other, it cannot be otherwise. The Freemasons are naturally the sworn enemies of an order which fulfils its mission with zeal and prudence. The trowel will never attain an ascendency as long as the cross is defended by such brave soldiers, so well trained to combat!”

TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.

COUNTRY LIFE IN ENGLAND.

BY AN ENGLISH CATHOLIC.

THE “intelligent foreigner,” that convenient critic whom Englishmen are so fond of using as a mouthpiece for their own often just criticisms, is supposed to have seen little or nothing of England unless he has visited the country mansions for which our island is famous. And this is very true, even if he have been touring in the Lake country, taking notes in the “Black Country” around Wolverhampton, inspecting cotton-mills in the North, or admiring the gigantic human engine called the “City” in London. All these are phases of English life, yet none is so distinctively English as life in agricultural neighborhoods. After all, social life is the most visible test of difference of nationality, and although the uniformity of the XIXth century seems to have fallen like snow upon the world, covering its hedges and fields, levelling its hillocks with its valleys, and hiding alike its various flowers and different weeds, yet here and there some landmarks of the old social systems still hold their heads above this uninteresting pall of sameness. The English are traditionally tenacious of their individuality; gracefully so at home, boastfully, and, at times rather absurdly so, abroad. But the indomitable “British tourist” is too well known to claim much attention; his personality is better expressed by caricature than by sober description.

Country life is often imitated abroad, but the copy is at best but a sorry caricature, for this institution of social England cannot be transplanted, as is evident by a very simple reason. It has its roots in the whole moral, political, and physical system of the Saxon race; it comes of mediæval and feudal feeling; it is bound up with the territorial traditions that hitherto have been England’s bulwarks as much and more than her navy, her insular position, or her parliamentary institutions. It is worth notice that in France the beginning of the great Revolution was the centralization of all social interests in Paris and its court. Landed proprietors envied the court office-holders; they contrasted their “dull” existence with the brilliant and meretricious pageantry that framed the lives of their luckier friends, and, hurrying to join in the profitless triumphs or even the disgraceful successes of certain courtiers, they became absentees, spent more than their mortgaged and encumbered lands would yield, had recourse to money-lenders, lost all hold on the sympathy of their tenants, and finally incurred the hatred of some and the contempt of all. The only nobles who, during the Revolution, could count on a guard of faithful defenders and practical adherents, were those of Brittany—the rugged country gentlemen whose lives were spent among the tenantry, and whose knowledge of farming and hunting made them the daily companions of the class whom they headed. When the storm burst, the peasants of La Vendée alone were faithful to those who had ever been faithful to them, while the court favorites were betrayed by the very servants whose truculence they had mistaken for attachment.

This unfortunate system of neglect never prevailed in England to the same extent as it did in France, though, during the brilliant reign of Charles II., some poison of this kind began to creep into the habits of the landed gentry. Upon the whole, the English lords of the soil have justly and generously lived for as well as upon their possessions, and, if we have not had a “Reign of Terror,” this is one of the chief reasons. The great land-owners of a county (we speak specifically of the midland counties) divide among them the municipal and political offices; the Lord-Lieutenant, the High Sheriff, the M. P., the local magistrates, are all gentlemen and property-holders, and personally interested in the individual progress of the county. Each manor-house is a petty court of justice, and offenders of a minor sort, such as poachers, window-breakers, and the like, are tried and sentenced with exemplary despatch as well as impartiality by the squires of the neighborhood. There is generally a yearly agricultural show, and as almost all the gentlemen are cattle-breeders, or keep studs for hunting or racing purposes, and all the ladies are more or less poultry-fanciers, the whole community meets with equally eager pleasure upon common ground. The yeomanry and militia, which answer to the rural national guard in other European countries, are formed of well-to-do young farmers whose pride in their accoutrements or horses is a healthy token of sound national feeling; the officers are the gentlemen of the county, the same who sit upon the bench, and who entertain their military tenants at the annual rent-dinner. As for this gathering, it has no ominous meaning for the thriving men who attend it; the meeting is signalized by an unlimited flow of good spirits, of kindly feeling, and, occasionally, of local and rural wit. True, the speechifying is at times prolix, and the number of toasts alarmingly great; the smoke of the farmers’ pipes becomes sometimes rather dense, and the wit turns to pleasantry which has a slightly “heady” flavor like the wine, no doubt; but, for all that, there is nothing more reassuring in a political point of view than such a gathering, and nothing more charming to an imaginative mind than this unfeigned hospitality and baronial good-fellowship.

It might be said, speaking broadly, that, “next to a gentleman, there is nothing like a farmer.”

The farmer has his pride of caste and descent as eminently as any child of Saxon earls or of Norman barons; his family have often lived on the same land, under the same roof, and owned the same allegiance to a long uninterrupted line of noble landlords for centuries back. Of nothing is he prouder than of this, and when, as is often the case, he entertains the family of his lord, nothing can be simpler, grander, and more utterly gentleman-like than his conduct. No straining after effect, but homely and lavish abundance; no attempt at fine speeches, but cordial and undisguised rejoicing; respect that is not the contrary to independence, but the very assertion and expression of it. In one estate, it happened, perhaps about a hundred or more years ago, that an Earl of G—— wooed and married the pretty daughter of one of his chief tenants; both families are living now on the same lands, and, when the farmer looks towards the chancel of the parish church from his capacious pew in the nave, he sees the marble monument of his beautiful ancestress, who was twice the wife of a man distinguished by noble birth, and generally beloved for his goodness. (After the death of her first husband, she married his Cousin Tom, the great local sportsman of his times.) Her portrait, in her countess’ robes and ermine-lined coronet, hangs conspicuously in the dining-room of the family mansion, while her two successive husbands are represented not far from her, the one in the gorgeous court dress of a peer, the other in the familiar green velvet hunting-coat, with a fox-hound by his side.

The farmers of the midland counties are often land-owners on their own account, and, far from being indifferent or adverse to sport, they are its chief encouragers. Fox-hunting is an instinct with them—another likeness they bear to their landlords. You never hear a complaint of fields ridden over, or crops injured; the owner will gallop over his own furrows, or break through his own fences, utterly reckless of anything but the pursuit of the fox. Meanness is a thing unknown to them, and yet you will hardly meet many who are extravagant. There is a broadness of character, an incapacity for doing or thinking anything petty, a love of Old-World customs and hereditary modes of thought, that seem to keep them out of the selfish narrowness born of modern commerce, and, while it makes them less sharp, less peculating, makes them also incomparably more lovable.

Surrounded by such people, of whom they are the pets and the pride, the children of the landlords cannot fail to grow up healthy in mind and body, full of fun and frankness, loving country sports and pastimes, learning early how to manage land and crops, entering heartily into the feelings and wishes of those they will one day be called upon to rule, noting the idiosyncrasies and carefully handling the prejudices of their early comrades and future co-laborers. A bond of union, friendship, and help is thus formed which grows stronger every year, and stronger still with each succeeding generation. The old men and women, whose place is by the capacious hearth, seem to live just long enough to tell their master’s grandchildren how they danced at his “coming of age” fifty years ago, while their own little grandchildren laugh as they think that, in a few years more, there will be another “coming of age,” and that they, too, will dance at the old hall, and taste the wonderful ale their father told them of when they passed the ghostly stairs leading down to the great cellar.

Then come the weddings of the daughters of the house, and, as they have been familiarly known in the village nearest their home by all the poorer cottage tenants and the Sunday-school children, the young brides find the whole population personally enthusiastic over each detail of the ceremony. Young men and girls have seen the ladies of the “house” bringing cordials and delicacies to their poor dying parents, and strewing costly flowers over their plain coffins in the churchyard; and they remember this as the same fair girl whom they saw minister to them in their sorrow, takes upon herself another and a lifelong ministry with the hopeful trust of youth and the holy certainty of love. Again, as the bride comes forth, the children remember the feasts in the grounds, the armful of buns and cakes thrown into their pinafores at leaving, the delightful romps on the lawn, the adventurous row round the pond which their imagination magnified into a stormy sea—all the pleasures, out-doors and indoors, which were associated with the sight and presence of that slender, white-robed, and white-crowned figure. Thus, while there are class distinctions in rural England, there are no class divisions, and servants and masters, landlords and tenants, form, as it were, one clan with common interests and reciprocal sympathies.

Then, life in the country is so much more individual than in town. All tastes are there easily gratified; books and magazines are constantly pouring down from London; guests, not compulsory, as is the genus “morning caller” in town, who lounges in utterly exhausted, and asks languidly whether “Lady So-and-so’s ball last night was not perfectly delightful?” while his general air of boredom proclaims that he is surfeited with all mundane delights—guests not such as this inane specimen of humanity, but chosen friends, gay, witty, brilliant, are at hand at the shortest notice for those whose life is cut out for society; morning rambles for the solitary; moonlight effects for the romantic; hours of leisure for the studious; a wide field of usefulness for the charitable; a matchless opportunity for indulging in the woman-gossip, without which that essentially English institution, five o’clock tea, would be “flat, stale, and unprofitable”; and last, not least, the best chances for marriage that any sort of social intercourse can afford.

The only drawback to this state of things is that it sometimes becomes a little too artificial. Even rusticity may be aped, and, indeed, this is the tendency of the day, as it was the tendency in former days also, when shepherdesses were represented by ladies of fashion in silk skirts, beribboned crooks, and high-heeled shoes. But this pseudo-rusticity spoils the real, tangible pleasures of life in the country. Studied simplicity is worse than studied art. Young ladies “got up” like Dresden china are not peasants, and have neither the charms nor the merits of peasants. They are probably blasées, and so miss the freshness symbolized by their costume; and they are incapable of work, and so miss the usefulness also distantly suggested by their dress. In one expressive word, they are a sham.

There are many houses, however, where healthful pleasure is dominant, and no fine-ladyism finds favor—houses where the chapel is not far from the drawing-room, and where masters and servants, guests and hosts, meet silently to greet their Maker before they enjoy his gifts for the day. Then comes the ten o’clock gathering round the breakfast table—a picture in itself, with bright flame-colored flowers amid the delicate white glass and china, and pretty faces joyously eager for the day’s programme of amusements. Perhaps there are ruins to be seen—a great resource in country visiting—at all events, there is a church. The churches are certainly one of the proudest inheritances of the old land, and the way in which they have been preserved speaks well for the naturally reverential turn of the Saxon mind. In every county, some distinctive feature is visible; in Kent, hardly anything is used in churches but flint, and the bells are generally hung in a square massive tower instead of a steeple. In the midland counties, on the contrary, steeples are a great feature; there is one at a little village called Ketton, which is peculiarly fine, though it certainly looks too heavy for the church it crowns. Wicliffe’s church, at Lutterworth, is a standard sight for the guests of a large old family mansion near by; you are shown the pulpit said to be Wicliffe’s own, and, in one of the aisles, his tomb, with a long Latin epitaph sufficiently bombastic and untruthful, as it states that, despite of monks and bishops, he instructed the populace in plain Gospel truth, and was the first to translate the Bible into the vernacular! But Lutterworth church has for us of the old faith a more interesting memorial of the “good old days.” This consists in a very primitive fresco representing the resurrection of the dead. The colors are not much varied, and the draperies are quaintly angular; yet this early effort of art is far more simply and honestly Christian than many of those skilful productions of later periods, when the painter thought more of the fame his execution of a subject might bring him than of the solemn truth contained in the subject itself. Here we see Our Lord seated on some very solid-looking clouds, while below, on the right side, the angels are helping the good out of their sepulchres, and, on the left, the devils doing the same service to the wicked. Some of the tombs are open, as if burst asunder by an explosion, and the skeletons stand bolt upright; some are half closed, and their occupants creeping quietly out; while in others the disjointed bones are seen, not yet rebuilt into human shape, or a skeleton is detected half clothed with flesh, and some bones still protruding in their original bareness. Much the same scene is portrayed on the left side, but the expressions even in the skeletons are very different; the attitudes are distorted, and the impish figures of the demons prominently drawn. If there is a lack of harmony and beauty in the whole composition, it is quite compensated for by the evident earnestness of the artist, the gravity of the angels’ demeanor, and the reverent intention which animates the grotesque ensemble. As an archæological memorial, it is invaluable, as very few such specimens of Catholic art of so early a date (certainly no later than the XIIIth century) are in existence in England.

Some of the country churches are beautifully restored according to old Catholic models, and, with the restoration of the ancient worship, might again become what they were at the time they were christened by those suggestive names, All Hallows’, S. Mary’s, S. Chad’s. Others, however are terribly neglected, though this is a fault fast disappearing, together with the fox-hunting, easy-going parsons of the Georgian era, and all other laxities of an unusually stagnant age. The music in these country churches is not always equal to the imposing exterior, a harmonium in the choir being sometimes all there is wherewith to guide and sustain the voices. Still, this is a step in the right direction, as formerly the utmost a village church could boast of was an orchestra composed of the local shoemaker with a dilapidated fiddle and the smith with a bass-viol out of tune. Any self-elected, occasional amateur with a strong or a thrilling voice would be, of course, a welcome addition, but the instrumental groundwork might be always depended upon. Most churches near family seats have remarkable monuments, some of the ancient Elizabethan style, with rows of decorous sons and daughters praying in bas-relief at the feet of their dead parents, their quaint costume, heavy-folded robes, and immense ruffles seeming marvellously to suit the immobility of the material in which they are sculptured; some, again, dating back to the times of the Crusaders, but many, unfortunately, of the pseudo-Grecian Renaissance, which to a Catholic mind seem both irreverent and absurd. Fancy a Cupid with eyes bandaged and torch inverted as an emblem of that sacred grief for the dead which is inseparably mingled with the steadfast hope of the Christian for the day of resurrection! Or again, as we once heard a sarcastic friend aptly express it, a woman crying over a tea-urn! Really, some of these monuments are no better than that, and deserve no other description. How much more dignified are those ancient Gothic tombs where the quiet, stately figures of a knight and his wife, a bishop, a magistrate, lie as on a bed, in the sleep of expectation, not in a ridiculous simulation of life, nor symbolized by some vulgar heathen myth.

A visit to the parish church is an ordinary recreation on the first morning of a guest’s stay at a country-house, after which there will very likely be croquet, that eminently modern and English contrivance which is pretty enough if one could only make up one’s mind to consider men and women nothing more than grown-up children. A great deal of care is often expended on the croquet lawn, and ladies are even careful in the choice of a croquet costume. A lounge through the grounds, admiring the host’s specimen trees—the Wellingtonia is generally the chief attraction—and sauntering through the hot-houses, occupies the time till luncheon. Most Englishmen have a passion for rare trees and shrubs, and often carry home from distant countries seeds and cones for their grounds at home. We have seen a lovely Ravenna pine, grown from a cone picked up in the celebrated forest of Ravenna; every other shrub of its kind perished from the effects of the climate, while this solitary one throve well, and filled a considerable space in the garden. The copperbeech is a very favorite specimen tree in England, and looks beautiful among the shaded greens of limes, foreign oaks, and fir-trees. It is generally the ladies of a household to whose share fall the hot-houses and the flower-garden, but in one place in Cheshire, where the visitor is unfailingly taken through miles of glass, the whole thing is under the special supervision of the master of the house. Lord E—— of T—— is an old man, and not very active, on account of his impaired health; but, being passionately fond of horticulture, he spends half his day in his hot-houses. The orchid-houses, particularly, are a perfect marvel; there are eighteen or twenty species of these lovely flowers in bloom at all times of the year, and the conservatory into which some of these glass passages lead is a palace of camellias, azalias, and other rare and delicate flowers. The garden and grounds are mostly a wilderness of rhododendrons, of which magnificent, far-spreading bushes cover even the islets of the artificial lakes. But the most beautiful of Lord E——’s floral possessions is the fernery, where seven or eight New Zealand arborescent ferns spread their palmlike branches overhead, hiding the glass roof above them, and suggesting the earthly paradise to the least impressionable mind. The ground at their base is covered with rock-work overgrown with mosses and ferns of various sorts, and water trickles hiddenly in the tangle, its very sound denoting coolness and repose.

In the autumn and winter, the men of the party disappear after breakfast, and return, tired with sport or laden with game, about five o’clock; but in summer, during the brief interval between the London season and the 1st of September, the pleasures of the ladies are shared with their knights. A picnic is often the most amusing resource for a day, and it would be needless to describe it; but what is not so common an occurrence in the country is a breakfast, that is, a two o’clock reception in the open air, and a magnificent spread of cold chefs-d’œuvre of the culinary art. Let us suppose the locale to be this: a pretty piece of water running here and there into creeks fringed with bulrushes and water-lilies, and a queer little erection of no classifiable style of architecture, neither pavilion nor villa, but very convenient and even sufficiently picturesque. Clematis and honeysuckle climb over its walls, and to the front is a rather irregular lawn which is partly carpeted for the occasion. In England, we are never quite sure of not getting our feet damp, and the flimsy summer toilets appropriate to this social festivity would be but a slender protection against wet weather. All the county, far and near, is asked—brides just returned from their honeymoon trip; old stay-at-home fogies, childlike in the pleasure they exhibit on this novel occasion; merry young people bent on enjoying themselves to the utmost. One old lady has confidentially informed her best friend about a wonderful new bonnet she has bought on purpose, and which turns out to be something “fearfully and wonderfully made.” It is curious to see the many different kinds of vehicles that draw up at the door of “Fort Henry.” Old chaises driven by the most ancient (and delightfully tyrannical) of family coachmen; queer little low cars, called by the complacent owner “Norwegian cars,” drawn by a diminutive pony resembling a Shetland; hired flies from the country town; open barouches of unimpeachable make, but painfully, suggestive of the “shop”; two-wheeled dog-carts, the prettiest carriage for the country, driven by young unmarried land-owners whose arrival causes a stir among the “merry maidens,” as Sir Gawain called his pretty companions in Tennyson’s Holy Grail; lastly, a large “brake,” or capacious car, filled with cross-seats, on which a whole party from some neighboring mansion is comfortably and amicably packed; for not only are neighbors, friends, and acquaintances asked, but any visitors they may happen to have staying with them. When all are gathered, the luncheon begins; and certainly the table is a masterpiece of floral decoration. The cook, too, has surpassed himself, and the rarest wines and fruits are lavishly added to the more substantial hospitality. The ladies’ dresses are a parterre in themselves; the prettiest things that taste can dictate are worn for this fête, and the beautiful peacocks that range the banks of the lake must find themselves rivalled for once in their own domain. How different is this from a London “breakfast”! Here we have no simulated ennui, no cadaverous looks resulting from sleepless nights and constant dissipation, no hurry to get away, no empty forms of hypocritical civility. It is almost a family gathering. After luncheon, the boats are ready. Large and small—the largest manned by four stalwart “keepers,” hereditary retainers of the family—these boats are quickly filled; and, while the “state barge” (so to speak) solemnly carries the elders of the party around the pretty lake, the smaller skiffs, rowed by amateur oarsmen, and filled with a laughing freight of girls, go off to try the famous echo, or to sing glees near the old bridge at the lower end. This is not all the music, however; a band is stationed in a boat that follows the grand barge, or sometimes stops to let the guests hear the echo of a few loud notes sounded on the horn. The effect of the music, the echo, the gaily ringing laughter of the younger guests as they row swiftly from place to place, is like a reminiscence of the days of Paul Veronese and his pleasure-loving Venetian companions. At one end of the lake there is an old horse-chestnut, whose branches stretch far out over the water, and then droop into it, forming a green vault over a shady little nook. It is difficult to steer a boat well in; therefore no boat passes by without trying. At the other end, the water is choked with weeds and tall bulrushes, and the plantation slopes to the brink, with beautiful sunset lights playing on its Scotch firs, and bringing out the blue green of their foliage in peculiar contrast with their dinted, reddish stems; now and then a peacock’s harsh cry is heard, or the water-fowl take a swift, low rush over the surface of the water, while the swans move about as undisturbedly as if the scene were to them an everyday occurrence. Presently the sun sets; the boats unload, and the carriages begin to get ready again. A few stragglers, probably the host’s own visitors, who have not far to go home, take a stroll up to the graceful bark temple raised on the hillock opposite the lake; the view is pretty from there, and the whole thing looks like an animated English water-color.

But this is not all the pleasure that a country visit affords: a great resource lies in tableaux vivans. Very little trouble is necessary; in some houses, a small stage is kept in readiness, or can be extemporized in an hour, just when the performance is agreed upon. Pictures and poems are laid under contribution; sometimes a particular garment evidently suggests such and such a use, and a suitable tableau is got up to exhibit it; and some costumes are so very easy of arrangement that they are naturally chosen. The “Huguenot Lover,” by Millais, is a very favorite scene, so is “Titian’s Daughter”; and there are “Faith, Hope, and Charity,” or other allegorical figures, always at hand to fill up any gap in the inventive genius of the performers. But the best series we can think of is one—not a little ambitious—representing dramatically the story embodied in Tennyson’s song, “Home they brought her Warrior dead.” How often we have listened to those words, so mournfully sung! The first tableau is very rich in details; the year-old bride, in the gorgeous white and gold embroidered robe which she had donned to meet her husband, sits tearless and pale in the centre, her dark hair escaping from the jewelled fillet, her white hands hard pressed together. The body of her husband lies at her feet covered with a dark cloak, his pallid face just revealed, and the four men who have borne him in stand in sorrowful silence in the background, while the attendant maidens press round their mistress, each dressed in some graceful, flowing costume. Any amount of ornamentation, such as tapestry, vases, porcelain, jewellery, would be in keeping with the tableau and enhance its beauty. The second scene (the curtain being dropped for a moment) is the same, with the addition of a hoary old nurse placing her child in the widowed mother’s arms, while the bereaved one herself turns on the babe a look of passionate and agonized yearning. The child is not a very easy part of the tableau to manage, and it might, strictly speaking, be left out; still, the story is more completely told thus, and its representation considerably improved.

These are only a few of the numerous and variable pleasures to be enjoyed by a large gathering of friends: the winter brings others peculiar to itself.

A meet is a very pretty sight, but never more so than when it takes place in front of an old manor where the hunting-breakfast is going on. This carries one back to the days of our grandfathers, and gives to the sport of fox-hunting a certain traditional air of poetry. The servants, whose livery is almost a costume in itself, carry trays of substantial refreshments and foaming tankards of old ale among the farmers and professional sportsmen, while the friends and county neighbors of the host circulate through the house, lighting up our XIXth century dead-level of dress by their scarlet, or, to speak more technically, their pink coats. This word is used to denote the color the coat ought to have after a good sporting season; for it is as inglorious in a true sportsmen to wear a new and undiscolored garment as it would be for a soldier to bear an unharmed standard or unbroken weapon out of the battle. In many counties, the full dress for dinner of those who are known as sportsmen is a scarlet coat, the rest of the dress being the ordinary costume of our day; and very gratifying it is to see the old custom kept up by the gentlemen of the midland counties, where fox-hunting is in its glory. At the meet, not a few ladies appear, some on horseback, devoted followers of their brothers and husbands in the chase, some in carriages, with their little children prettily dressed in red, or otherwise suggestively clad. The host’s wife or daughters come out among the hounds, perhaps in the graceful riding-habit, or more often in jaunty little cloth suits, with red feathers coquettishly peeping out of a sealskin cap. The hounds are all collected in front of the hall-steps, and answer whenever called by name by the huntsmen. At last the cavalcade is off, and winds past the margin of the park and grounds, till the sound of the horn and the crack of the whip die away in the distance, to be heard again a few hours later, when the whole field, after making a circuit of, say, ten miles, returns to some cover near the house, where the unhappy fox is caught at last. Boys follow the hounds as soon as they can ride, and, indeed, sometimes perform feats that make them heroes in a small way in the eyes of their companions. A few years ago, the youngest son of the chief land-owner of the Cotswold Hills in Gloucestershire, distinguished himself in this way, and, upon a tiny gray pony, Asperne by name, kept so close to the huntsmen that he was always first in at the death, and many a time was the first to break a gap through a hedge or a stone wall, through which the whole field would follow him. He often brought home “the brush” (a fox’s tail), and the sportsmen from the opposite side of the county used to ride ten or twelve miles to the next meet to see the wonderful boy whose exploits and reckless daring were in every one’s mouth.

The early autumn, before the fox-hunting has regularly begun, brings its own pleasures with it, one of which is a nutting expedition. This generally involves a tea-picnic—a far more amusing affair than the conventional mid-day meal known by that name, and devoted to the consumption of sandwiches, cold meat, salad, and soda-water. This tea-picnic has often occupied a pleasant afternoon within our own recollection, especially when a very informal party of young foreign guests was gathered at E—— House. There was a representative of Germany, a young man high in office at the former Hanoverian court, who bore a remarkable likeness to Prince Albert, and to whom the queen even spoke of this, to her, touching fact. Very fresh and childlike was this young Prince S——, and very different from certain of his English contemporaries, who, at eighteen, declare that life is a bore, and amusement a sham. These are the men who discredit our century, and belie nature herself. They affect to have no faith in woman and no hope in religion. We have known one of these when he first began to go into society. He was fresh and charming, said the most innocent, boyish things in a fearless, truthful way that was especially winning. He excelled in all social pursuits, and rejoiced in all healthy amusements. Add to this that he was uncommonly good-looking, with dark hair and eyes such as are not often met with in England, and was an only son, heir to a fine Northern property, part of the family house dating as far back as the XIIth century. We met him two seasons later, and he was hardly recognizable. The same handsome features, but with a wearied, listless air marring them; in his voice no animation, in his manner not a trace of that early frankness that was his greatest charm. He used to seem like a girl of seventeen; now he was, morally speaking, a misanthrope of five and thirty! He owned himself that all amusements, even dancing (which was a special accomplishment of his), bored him, and that there was nothing but pigeon-shooting that excited him! Even during the famous matches at Hurlingham (a villa near London where the pigeon-shooting is done, and which has become of late one of the most recherché haunts of fashionable idlers, and a field for the display of the loveliest toilets), this young victim of ennui hardly vouchsafed to seem interested; yet beneath all this was a soul worthy of great things; a will that, guided aright, might achieve much good to society or even to the country; and a personality eminently fitted for moral and intellectual success. And this energy was being thus wasted by day, while, according to his own confession, billiards occupied the greater part of his nights! Poor England, indeed, when her manliness is thus thrown away! Who would not look back with pride and regret to the days of the “good old English gentleman,” with his boisterous and rough pursuits, his fox-hunting and his farming, but, withal, his healthful vitality and his active usefulness?

Besides the young German, so pleasant a contrast to the blasé youth of London drawing-rooms, there was round the gypsy kettle in the woods of E—— a Spaniard as good-natured as he was stately; and, strange to say, here was another royal likeness! Many might have mistaken him for the Prince of Wales. Other Spaniards, too, there were, more lively and not less good-natured, one with a smile that was irresistibly comic, the other with the profile of a S. Ignatius, and principles and habits that well suited his appearance. The English girls of the party were well matched with their companions, and looked very picturesque as they toasted immense slices of bread at the end of forked sticks at least a yard and a half long! The tawny golden hair of one, the willow-like figure and gravely childish glee of another, the restless activity of a third, as they all joined in the search for dry fire-wood, made a pretty subject for an artist; and, in the midst of the bustle, the father, enjoying the young people’s fun, gave a touch of pathos that much enhanced the beauty of the rustic scene.

A drive home through the tall bracken, and along the grassy roads of the numerous plantations, perhaps a rapid visit to deserted “Fort Henry,” and a row to the Echo, sufficed to fill up the evening, and a project for paying a visit to an old Quaker tenant on the morrow would perhaps be discussed during dinner.

It is no wonder that foreigners grow enthusiastic over this side of English life; the pity is that so many rush to England and leave it again before they have a chance of seeing a family gathering in the country; those who have not seen it know little more of English society than we do of the fruits of the West Indies after we have tasted them in the shape of candied peel and preserved jellies. Drawing-room life is the same in Paris, St. Petersburg, or New York; individualism thrives only in the country, and it is there the character of a nation should be studied.

MADAME AGNES.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

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XI. EUGENIE

A WEEK after, Louis came to see us for the first time.

“Well,” inquired Victor, “do you like your new manner of life?”

“Yes and no, my dear friend,” replied Louis. “Yes, because I feel that the new life on which I have entered is good for me. It is just what I needed, I must confess—for I think aloud here. It is such a relief to speak to some one who understands, who loves you, and is always ready to excuse and pardon you! But I forewarn you I need, and shall need, great indulgence, though nothing ought to seem too hard to one who was on the high-road to destruction, soul and body, and would at this very instant be lost, had not God, in his mercy, sent you to my aid. This benefit has filled me, I assure you, with so much gratitude from the first that, in view of my past life and the divine goodness, I feel I ought to be a saint in order to expiate so many transgressions—I ought to prove my sincerity by some heroic sacrifice for God.”

“Oh! oh! that is somewhat ambitious.”

“I suppose it is absurd. Not that it is necessarily absurd to aspire to heroism, but the means should be taken into consideration. Now, mine are fearfully, pitifully inadequate. I am cowardly, fickle, and a lover of my ease.”

“Come, come! do not calumniate yourself. We must neither judge ourselves with too much leniency nor with too much severity. We must see ourselves as we are. This is difficult, but it is essential.”

“Well, my kind friend, that is exactly the way I regard myself.”

“I doubt it.”

“You shall judge for yourself. My duties oblige me to remain night and day at St. M——. Alas! this very necessity I find harder than I can express. There is not a day in which I do not find myself regretting the city three or four times. This is very wrong, when the city has been so pernicious to me....”

“Come, you exaggerate things. You were born and brought up in the city, and have always lived here till now. I see nothing astonishing at your finding it disagreeable at first to live in the country.”

“What a lenient judge! We shall see if you are as much so after the other acknowledgments I have to make. There are times when work seems insupportable. To rise at six o’clock and superintend workmen and machinery the live-long day irritates and fatigues me to such a degree that I am sometimes tempted to give it all up.”

“You have not yet yielded to the temptation?”

“No, indeed; that would be too despicable.”

“Since you yourself regard such a step as it deserves, pursue your occupation without being concerned about a slight disinclination for work. Even people who have always been accustomed to labor have such temptations. I assure you, in a year there will be no question of all this. You will have acquired a love for your business, and, active as you are, you will not be able to do without it.”

“You think me at the end of my confession. The worst is to come. Mr. Smithson is polite and sincere, but reserved and ceremonious, like all Englishmen. He keeps me at a distance, and appears as if my errors and loss of property, which of course he is aware of, gave him some superiority over me. I think he does wrong to make me feel this.”

“Ah! this is more serious, my dear friend. Like all people in a wrong position, you are inclined to be unduly sensitive. Watch over yourself. Endeavor to be guided by reason. I do not wish you to submit to too much haughtiness, but do not attribute to people airs, and especially intentions, they are not guilty of.”

“You are a thousand times right. I appreciate your advice, and promise to follow it. It would, indeed, be foolish to make myself needlessly unhappy. St. M——, as you know, is a lovely place. The river on which the mill stands has many charming views. During my leisure hours, I can draw and paint at my ease. I have a great deal to do, and my work is frequently burdensome, but I shall become accustomed to it, for it is a source of real interest. By an excess of good luck, I have lodgings that suit me in apartments near Mr. Smithson’s house. There I can read, meditate, and pray at my leisure. One thing only is wanting—a little society in the evening; but that will come, perhaps. I am invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s next Thursday. I hope that will be the commencement of closer intercourse with the family. Hitherto, I repeat, they have kept me at a distance. I have exchanged a few words with Mme. Smithson, who appears very affable, but I have only had a glimpse of the daughter—Eugénie, I believe her name is. As far as I could judge, she is tall, fine-looking, even dignified in her appearance, with something haughty in her air. I frankly confess it will be a treat to meet these three people. I have always had a fancy for studying different characters, and shall enjoy it particularly now, I am so unoccupied in the evening.”

“And your workmen—what do you make of them?”

“I am constantly observing them, and assure you they are as interesting to study as any one else. What a source of reflection! We have, you must know, workmen of every grade, good and bad—yes, fearfully bad. There are four hundred and fifty people—men, women, and children—who represent every phase of humanity.”

“To study mankind, my dear friend, to confine one’s self to that, is an amusement suitable for a philosopher. But a Christian has higher views: he studies human nature in order to be useful.”

“That idea has occurred to me. I have even formed a series of fine projects; but I am so poor a Christian, and so inexperienced!”

“No false modesty! Excuse my bluntness; but false modesty is the shield of the indolent, or their couch, whichever you please. Have you any desire to benefit the people among whom you live?”

“Yes, certainly, if I can.”

“You can. You only need zeal and prudence; the one ought always to guide the other. Come, what plans have occurred to you?”

“I should like to found an evening-school, and take charge of it. Those who are the best instructed might serve as monitors.”

“Perfect! That would be a means of keeping the young men, and even those of riper years, from idleness and the wine-shops, and afford you an opportunity of giving them good advice. What else?”

“I should also like to establish a fund of mutual aid.”

“Excellent!... Reflect on these two projects till Sunday. I will do the same. Consult Mr. Smithson also about them, and come and dine with us in a week. We will talk it over, and you can tell me how you like the family you are about to become acquainted with. I hope you will be pleased with them.”

“I hope so too, but have my fears. If they were all like Mme. Smithson, everything would be propitious. I took a fancy to her from the first. But Mr. Smithson is frigid, and his daughter seems equally unapproachable. It is singular, but I had met her once or twice before I entered her father’s employ. I thought her beautiful and intelligent, and heard her very highly spoken of. But really, I begin to believe that she, like many others, is brilliant rather than solid.”

“Come, come! no rash judgments!”

“What can I say? I was deceived in her. I thought her an uncommon woman—one capable of comprehending all the delicacy of my position, and of coming to my assistance. She ought to realize that I am out of my element there. You must confess that Mlle. Smithson’s coolness does not tend to console me.”

“Why, my dear friend, you are very exacting!... Would you expect as much from every one?”

“No; but this young lady occupies an important place in the house, without trying, I confess, to take advantage of it.”

“And an important place in your thoughts ...,” said Victor, with the friendly, significant smile so natural to him.

Louis blushed.

“I am inclined to think your opinion of her will be less severe in a week. I, too, have heard her highly spoken of.”

These words seemed to afford Louis great satisfaction. Victor did not continue the subject.

If you have carefully followed the conversation I have just related, you must see that Louis, though unaware of his sister’s hopes, already thought more of Mlle. Eugénie than he confessed or even acknowledged to himself. I think I shall only anticipate your wishes in making you acquainted at once with that young lady, who is to fill an important rôle in my story. And this cannot be done better than in her own home.

Eugénie is in her chamber. It is the morning of the day Louis and some other acquaintances are to dine with her father. She is engaged in completing her toilet. A more charming room cannot be imagined. It is furnished in exquisite style. Nothing is lacking. The pictures are all rare, and arranged with artistic taste. The book-case contains, not so many books, but solid works that will bear reading over and over again. What, above all, completes the charm of this young girl’s bower is the view to be seen from the two windows, which are like frames to a picture. They afford a glimpse of a terrestrial paradise through which flow the limpid waters of a deep stream. A breeze, playing through the poplars that stand on its banks, softly rustles the leaves. Directly across, on the opposite shore, is a broad meadow, bright with flowers, with here and there clumps of trees. As far as the eye can reach are objects on every side to satisfy the soul, and excite it to reverie: a windmill with its long wings of white canvas swaying in the air; a villa with its gardens; a little hamlet, and, overlooking it, a church, the slated belfry of which is glistening in the sun.

The world is full of material souls whom it would be a kind of profanation to introduce into a place so attractive. They would be unable to appreciate the charm. What is nature, however beautiful, to a man eaten up with avarice and ambition?—to a woman who only dreams of pleasure?... To such degenerate souls, nature is a sealed book—a divine picture before a sightless eye.

But to this number Eugénie did not belong. The daughter of a Catholic mother and a Protestant father, she had been educated in one of the best schools in Paris. Shall I call her pious? No; that would be exaggerating. Eugénie did not lack faith. Her religious instincts were well developed, but checked by her father’s coldness and her mother’s frivolity. She was by no means insensible to all the beautiful and true in religion. They filled her with admiration. She always fulfilled the obligations rigorously imposed by the church, but avoided going any farther through indifference as well as calculation. She had a horror of what she called petty religion and little practices of piety. Poor girl! she, too, closed her eyes in this respect to the light. The practices she disdained—frequent prayers, the raising of the soul to God, visits to the church, and assiduous frequentation of the sacraments—are they not what truly constitute religion, such as it ought to be, in order to be the companion, friend, and guide of the whole life?... This is what Eugénie did not comprehend, or rather, what she did not wish to comprehend. In short, she was religious in her own way—half-way religious—quite so in theory, but in reality much less so than she should have been.

The somewhat indirect influence her parents exercised over her in a religious point of view also affected her in other ways. Eugénie possessed two natures: she was cold like her father, and kind like her mother, but without displaying it. Let us also add another characteristic by way of completing her portrait—she was romantic. In everything, she had a repugnance to what she called commonplace. An object, an individual, or an action, to please her, must have a peculiar stamp, an original turn, which she wished might be more frequently met with. She only liked what was out of the common course, according to the elevated standard of a certain ideal she had formed in her own mind.

Eugénie’s exterior, her distinguished manners, her fluency in conversation, and the tone of her calm, well-modulated voice, all inspired a respect bordering on admiration. She was beautiful without being bewitching. She was kind, but in so inexpressive a way as to inspire at first fear rather than confidence. As has been said, she possessed a character not easily read, and, though only twenty-one years old, she passed for what is called, and with reason, a person of ability. Her father and mother doted on her: she was their only child. Yet there was a difference in their affection. Mr. Smithson tenderly loved her as a daughter: Mme. Smithson loved her with a shade of fear, as we love a companion or friend whose superiority we feel.

Her toilet otherwise completed, Eugénie rang for her waiting-maid to arrange her hair. Fanny did not keep her waiting. There was a striking contrast between mistress and maid. Fanny was towards forty years of age. She was of ordinary height, neat in person, but plain and unattractive in appearance. She had a bad complexion, large eyes hidden under thick lashes, a wide mouth, and a large fleshy nose, which made up one of those vulgar faces that are never observed except to laugh at. She was beloved by no one except her employers. This was not strange. She had an observing eye and a keen, sarcastic tongue. Her nature was soured, rather than instinctively bad. She was selfish and bitter—a good deal so. This selfishness and bitterness sprang from two causes which she would by no means have acknowledged. She was no longer young, she knew she was homely, and she had no hope of being married. Such a hope she had once, and a few days of happiness was the result. Fanny would have been so glad to be, in her turn, mistress over her own house! But her dream had vanished, and under circumstances not calculated to sweeten her temper.

For some years, Fanny was a servant at Mme. Smithson’s sister’s. That lady was in the commercial line at Paris. There Fanny made the conquest of a smart young man from the country employed by her mistress as head clerk. He was an excellent person, but, like many others, wished to reconcile his affections with his interests. He said to himself that, by waiting awhile, he might, some fine day, find a wife richer, prettier, and younger than Fanny. As he was bound to her by no actual promise, he finally obtained another situation, and disappeared without any warning. The poor girl regarded such conduct as infamous. She felt that all hope of ever marrying was now lost, and the disappointment made her ill. Unbeknown to her, her mistress had followed all the scenes of this little domestic drama. She nursed Fanny with a care that was quite motherly. When the girl recovered, she expressed her gratitude, but begged permission to go away. The house had too many cruel associations. Her mistress willingly consented, and Fanny entered Mme. Smithson’s service. When the latter left Paris, Fanny accompanied her to St. M——, and had now been in the family several years.

Having, to her great regret, no prospect of marrying, forced to acknowledge to herself that she should never have a house of her own to manage, Fanny had but one desire, but this was an ardent one—to be installed in a family which, if not her own, might prove as pleasant, and where she could rule while appearing to obey. But where find this ideal home?... She resolved to create it. And in this way: her old mistress, Mme. Smithson’s sister, had a son named Albert, who was five years older than Eugénie. Fanny had known him from his childhood. She was attached to him, and, above all, she understood his disposition. No one knew better than she that Albert would be the easiest, the most manageable, in short, the mildest of masters. On the other hand, she knew that Eugénie, energetic as she was, would not be difficult to please. “Mademoiselle lives in the clouds,” she said to herself; “she will be glad enough to have some one manage the house for her.”

Fanny, therefore, resolved to make a match between the two cousins. There is reason to believe she made skilful overtures to her former mistress and to the young man himself, and that these overtures were well received. Albert was now preparing his thesis with a view to the law. As he was not rich, his cousin’s fortune was a very pleasant prospect, and still more so to his mother. Besides, Albert had always known Eugénie and loved her, as is natural to love a cousin that is pretty and intelligent. He and his mother, therefore, made Fanny their intermediary, without committing themselves to too great an extent.

But Fanny had a good deal to overcome. Mr. Smithson was not partial to lawyers. The profession was not, in his estimation, clearly enough defined or very elevated. As to Eugénie, no one knew what her sentiments were with regard to her cousin. Fanny thought she had, if not a very strong attachment to him, at least an incipient affection. But she was not sure. Thence resulted continual fears. Every young man who entered the house was to her an object of alarm. Perhaps her prospects, so slowly ripening and so dear, would be again overthrown by this one!

It may be imagined that Fanny looked with an unfavorable eye on Louis’ connection with the manufactory. If Mr. Smithson had chosen another kind of a man to aid him, one who was obscure, a mere common man of business, she would not have minded it. But in the course of a week, she was fully informed as to the history of the new-comer. She knew he belonged to one of the best families of the city; that he had been rich, and might become so again; that, till recently, he had been regarded as one of the most brilliant young men in society; and he was intelligent, well-educated, and of irreproachable morals. “I am lost!” thought she. “All these people are linked together to ruin my plans. This M. Louis comes here as an engineer?... Nonsense! it is an arrangement between his father and Mr. Smithson. They wish him to marry mademoiselle. What a contrivance! And that poor Albert, what will become of him?...”

These suspicions quite upset her. She resolved to make inquiries, in order to relieve her mind, if by chance she was mistaken. But whom should she question?... Mr. Smithson?... That must not be thought of. Eugénie? Fanny made the attempt. Eugénie, with her usual coolness and wit, replied in such a way that Fanny retreated every time more uncertain than before.

The day of which I am speaking—the notable day of the dinner—Fanny, out of patience, could endure it no longer. She resolved to carry matters so far that, whether she liked it or not, her mistress would be forced to revive her hopes, or utterly destroy them. Hardly had she entered the chamber before she opened fire:

“How shall I arrange mademoiselle’s hair?”

“As usual.”

“Then we will dress it differently this afternoon with ribbons and flowers.”

“Why such a display?”

“Can mademoiselle have forgotten it is the day of the great dinner?”

“Great dinner? What do you mean by such nonsense, Fanny? Why, whom are we to have at our table of so much importance? Nobody is invited that I have not known a long time: our neighbor, M. Daumier, with his wife and daughter, Dr. Ollivier, and M. Dupaigne. Really, it would be singular for me to receive them with any ceremony.”

“Mademoiselle has not named all the guests.”

“Whom have I forgotten?”

“M. Louis Beauvais.”

“Ah! that is true. I overlooked him. But his coming will not change my intention to remain as I am.”

These words were uttered in a tone of perfect indifference. Fanny was overjoyed, but careful not to manifest it. Then, as she continued to busy herself about her mistress, she began to reflect. “She does not care for him,” she said to herself. “There is nothing to fear for the moment, then. But who knows how it may be by-and-by?... I must at once find out if, under favorable circumstances, she might not conceive an affection for him, and try to prevent such a misfortune. I will take the other side to find out the truth.”

“A charming young man, this M. Louis, and quite worthy of interest,” said she, without appearing to attach any importance to her words.

“What do you find so charming in him?”

“He has a serious air, which I like.”

“Yes; it might even be called gloomy.”

“He may well have.”

“Really! Ah! Fanny, then you know his history?”

“Yes, mademoiselle; and a very curious one it is.”

“Well, relate it to me. Only suppress the details; you always give too many.”

“Three months ago, M. Louis was the finest dancer and the gayest young man in the city. Unfortunately, these young men are not always remarkable for uniformity. He lived like a prince for six years, and one fine morning found himself penniless.”

“And what did he do then?”

“They say—I am unwilling to believe it, but everybody says so—that he tried to drown himself.”

“A weak brain. That is not to his credit.”

“They also say that M. Barnier, the journalist, saved him at the risk of his life, and converted him so thoroughly that the poor fellow came near entering a monastery.”

“A queer idea! That shows he has more imagination than reason!”

“But he did not stick to his first intention. He is now established here, and will remain, I feel sure, ... and this alarms me!...”

“Why are you so sure? And how can this assurance cause you any alarm?”

“That is a secret. Mademoiselle will excuse me from replying. Though I have known mademoiselle from her childhood, she intimidates me.”

“Not much, Fanny.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, I do not understand you.”

“You understand me perfectly, but I have to dot your i’s for you. Well, I will do so. I do not intimidate you much, I say. You dare not tell me what you mean, but you give me a hint of it. What are you afraid of? Tell me. I insist upon it.”

“As mademoiselle insists upon it, I feel obliged to tell her what she wishes to know. Mademoiselle is not to be resisted. But I should prefer keeping it to myself. If it were to displease mademoiselle ...”

“No; go on.”

“Well, then, mademoiselle, I have everything to fear! This young man has lost his property.... He passes himself off here as a creditable person.... He has secret designs ...”

“What designs?”

“Mademoiselle puts me in an awkward position.... It is such a delicate point to speak to mademoiselle about.”

“That M. Beauvais aspires to my hand through interested motives?”

“I should not have dared say so.”

“Well, that would be audacious! I accept a man for a husband whom poverty, disgraceful poverty, alone inclines towards me!”

“Without doubt, he has committed many faults, but there is mercy for the greatest sinner, and he is so pious just now!”

“I know—he goes to church often, even during the week. That is his own affair. That is enough, Fanny. Let there be no further question of this between us. You take too much interest in what concerns me, as I have told you before. I am astonished you should force me to repeat it.”

Fanny, thus dismissed, went away furious and more uneasy than ever. But if she could have read Eugénie’s inmost thoughts, her fury would have turned to joy. As soon as she was gone, Eugénie seated herself in a low arm-chair, and began, as she sometimes laughingly said, to put her thoughts in order.

“That malicious girl is no fool,” she said to herself. “This young man may have entered my father’s service from secret motives, perhaps suggested by his family. Who knows but my parents themselves smile on his projects? My father seems to be on the best of terms with his father. Perhaps they have come to an understanding with a mere word, or even without speaking at all. That would be too much! Well, if it is so, if the whole world conspires against me, I will defeat their calculations.... In the first place, I do not fancy this M. Louis, and I will soon let him see it, as well as those who favor him. The mere supposition that I could ever be his wife makes me indignant and angry. I marry a man who has ruined himself, who only aimed at my fortune, and would squander it in a few years! I give my heart to a man who does not love me, and, even if he sincerely vowed he loved me, would be in such a position that I should always have reason to doubt it! And, besides, what a weak mind this hare-brained fellow must have to play so many rôles one after the other! I wish my husband to have purer motives and a stronger head. This man must have a false heart. He is an intriguer, and that includes everything....”

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XII. MORE ABOUT EUGENIE—A REAL FRIEND

THAT evening, Louis found himself for the first time in the midst of the Smithson family. We often thought of him that night, and wished we could know at once what kind of a reception he had met with, especially from Eugénie. But we were obliged to wait for these interesting details till Louis could relate them himself. We did not have to wait long. When he came, he was gloomy and dispirited. Victor pretended not to observe his dejection.

“Well,” said he, “you have now made the acquaintance of the Smithsons. What do you think of them?”

“A good many things, but I can sum up my impressions in a word: they are queer people!”

“Indeed! did they hurt your feelings in any way?”

“Yes; ... yet I do wrong to be angry, or even to be astonished. I should have expected it.”

“This great dinner, then, did not turn out as I hoped—a means of cementing amicable, if not affectionate, relations between you?”

“By no means.”

“You greatly astonish me!”

“It is just so.... The way things were managed shows the Smithsons to be sagacious people. They invited me, in order to make me understand at once the position I hold in their estimation—that of engineer and superintendent, nothing more.”

“I am really amazed!”

“And I am equally so. I did not expect it, but the fact is too evident.”

“Well, tell me all that happened, without omitting anything.”

“Not to omit anything would make the story long, and it is not worth the trouble. I will briefly relate what I think will interest you, that you may have an idea of this first visit. There were but four other guests, whom I only regarded with indifference. They were neither pleasing nor displeasing, so it is useless to speak of them. We will confine ourselves to the leading members of the household. I will first speak of the real though unacknowledged head. My mind is made up on this point. As I saw from the first, it is Mlle. Eugénie who rules the house.”

“Even her father?”

“Yes; even her father; not as openly and directly as she does her mother, but as unmistakably by dint of management.”

“Is she really a superior woman, as I have been told, or is she merely shrewd and imperious?”

“Oh! no. Those who have sounded her praises have not deceived you. She is by no means a common person. In the first place, it must be confessed she is really handsome. There is especially a rare intelligence and dignity in her appearance. She converses well, often says something profound, and is always interesting. She is a lover of the arts, and all she says, all she does, evinces an elevated mind.”

“Such a person as is seldom met with, then—a model of perfection?”

“She has all that is necessary to become so, ... and yet she is not. One fault spoils everything, one or two at the most, but they are serious. She is proud or egotistical, perhaps both.”

“Are you not too severe upon her? You scarcely know her, and yet you are very decided in your condemnation.”

“I have reasons for my opinion. You shall judge for yourself. My position with respect to Mr. Smithson is very trying. He knows, and doubtless the rest of the family too, all the follies I have committed within a few years, and how I regret them. He cannot be ignorant, nor they either, that the office I hold under him, however respectable, must awaken a susceptibility that is natural and excusable, even if exaggerated. In this state of things, I had a right to expect that Mr. Smithson and his family, if they were really people of any soul or breeding, would treat me with a delicacy that, without compromising them, would put me at my ease.”

“I am of your opinion. And have they been wanting therein?”

“Yes; and in a very disagreeable way. It is little things that betray shades of feeling, and it was thereby I was hurt. In leaving the salon for the dining-room, each guest offered his arm to a lady. Mr. Smithson, his daughter, and myself were the last. Mlle. Eugénie took her father’s arm with an eagerness that was really uncivil.”

“It was from timidity, perhaps.”

“She timid?... I must undeceive you! She certainly is not bold, but she is far from being timid. At table, I found myself consigned to the lowest place. None of the guests were great talkers, and more than once I took part in the conversation. Mlle. Smithson undisguisedly pretended not to listen to me. She even interrupted me by speaking of something quite foreign to what I was saying.”

“Her education has been defective.”

“Pardon me, she is perfectly well-bred. To see her an hour would convince you of this. When she is deficient in politeness, it is because she wishes to be.”

“I believe you, but cannot comprehend it all.”

“I have not told you everything. The worst is to come. Towards the end of dinner, the conversation fell on a certain cousin of Mlle. Eugénie’s. His name, I think, is Albert. She praised him highly, to which I have nothing to say; but she added—and this was very unreasonable or very malicious—that this dear cousin did not imitate the young men of fashion, who were extravagant in their expenditures, acquired nothing, and ended by falling into pitiful embarrassment. I was, I confess, provoked and angry. I felt strongly tempted to make Mlle. Smithson feel the rudeness and unkindness of her remark. But I bethought myself that I was a Christian, and that, after all, the most genuine proof of repentance is humility. Therefore I restrained my feelings, and remained silent. The rest of the evening I cut a sorry figure. Mlle. Smithson seemed perfectly unconcerned as to what I might think.”

“Her behavior is so inexplicable,” said Victor, “that, if I had these details from any one else, I should refuse to believe them.”

(At this part of her story, Mme. Agnes made a remark it may be well to repeat to the reader: “You must bear in mind,” said she, “that neither Victor nor I then had any means of knowing what I related a few moments ago as to Fanny’s projects and Eugénie’s suspicions; and we were completely ignorant of her turn of mind and romantic notions.”)

“Well,” resumed Louis, “her way of acting, at which you are astonished, does not amaze me. I can easily explain it. Mlle. Eugénie imagines that I aspire to her hand, or rather, to her fortune. She is mistaken; I aspire to neither. I acknowledge she has a combination of qualities calculated to please me, but her disdain excites my indignation. I mean, therefore, to put a speedy end to her injurious suspicions. Then I will leave the place. I have already begun to put my project into execution.”

“Do not be precipitate, I beg of you. It is a delicate matter. What steps have you taken?”

“None of any importance. This morning, the work-rooms being closed as usual on Sunday, I went, before Mass, to sketch a delightful view not a hundred steps from the manufactory. I was wholly absorbed in my work, when Mlle. Smithson approached. I will not deny I was moved at seeing her.”

“Then you are no longer indifferent to her?”

“Oh! I think I can vouch for the perfect indifference of my sentiments for the moment. But would this coldness towards her always last if I did not watch over my heart?... She has so many captivating qualities! I have seen so few women to be compared to her! No, no; I will not allow myself to be captivated unawares; that would be too great a misfortune for me.... I have resolved to raise myself in her estimation. I will clearly convince her she has calumniated me in her heart; that I am in no respect the man she thinks; and, when I have done that, I shall leave. So, when she approached, I bowed to her with respect and politeness.

“‘You are sketching, monsieur?’ she said, bending down to look at my work. ‘It is charming.’

“‘It ought to be, mademoiselle. There could not be a landscape better calculated to inspire an artist. But while I am admiring what is before me, I regret my unskilfulness in depicting it. It is my own fault. I have so long neglected the art of drawing. I have acted like so many other young men, and lost some of the best years of my life.’

“She understood the allusion—perhaps too direct—to her sally of the other day. A slight blush rose to her face. ‘One would not suspect it, monsieur,’ she said. ‘But as for that, even if you have lost your skill, it can easily be regained in the midst of the delightful views in this vicinity.’

“‘It is true, mademoiselle! A lovelier region it would be difficult to find. I wish some of these views for my sketch-book, as I may leave any day.’

“I uttered these words in a cool, deliberate tone, and then resumed my work. Mlle. Eugénie seemed to wish to continue the conversation, but, slightly abashed, had not the courage, I think, to make any advances. I bowed ceremoniously, and she went away. My opinion is, she stopped out of mere curiosity. She had shown how little she esteemed me, and was not afraid of my attaching any importance to her speaking to me. Such a course favors my plans.”

“Wonderfully! But—nothing headlong! Forbear leaving Mr. Smithson too precipitately. You are now near your family. Time may show things to you in a different light. And, above all, it seems to me great good can be done there, and more easily than in most places. Tell me something of your workmen. Have you thought of the two projects we talked about the other day? Have you spoken to Mr. Smithson about them?”

“No; it seems to me they would not particularly please him. I really do not know whether this Englishman has any heart or not. I am inclined to regard him as an egotist, merely employing men to increase his wealth, and not very solicitous about their welfare.”

“I must undeceive you. I have reason to think Mr. Smithson a very different person from what you suppose. We have not many Protestants here, you know, but still there are a few. Among them are some who are really actuated by good motives. They assembled a few months ago at the house of Mr. Carrand, the rich lawyer you are acquainted with. They wished to establish a charitable society, in imitation of our Conferences of S. Vincent de Paul, but did not succeed in their plans. To effect such an enterprise, there must be the zeal and charity that animate the Catholic Church. To her alone God grants the sublime privilege of devoting herself with constancy and success to the physical and moral welfare of mankind. Though their project remained unfruitful, it revealed a generosity much to the credit of the Protestants interested in it Mr. Smithson himself was one of the foremost on this occasion to manifest how earnestly he had at heart the welfare of the poor; and this without any evidence of being influenced by selfish motives.”

“What you say surprises me, but it gives me great pleasure. I shall henceforth be less reserved with him.”

“And you will do well. I even advise you to consult Mme. and Mlle. Smithson about your charitable plans. They are Catholics, and will comprehend you at once.”

“I have no great confidence in their piety.”

“My dear friend, I regard you with the affection of a brother....”

“Say, rather, of a father, as you are, in one sense, having saved my life; and also by another title, in aiding me to become an earnest Christian, such as I once was.”

“Well, then, let us use a medium term. My regard for you shall be that of an elder brother. I thank you for allowing me this title. My affection for you makes me take an interest in all that concerns you. I have obtained very exact information respecting the Smithson ladies from a reliable source. They are not as pious as they might be, but they do not lack faith, and they fulfil the absolute requirements of the church. I know that Mlle. Eugénie is keenly alive to the poetical side of religion. You have, I believe, an important rôle to fill in the family and in the whole establishment. You can do good to every one there, and, at the same time, to yourself. The course to be pursued seems to me very simple. I feel sure Mlle. Smithson has some misconception concerning you—some injurious suspicions. Endeavor to remove them from her mind. Act prudently, but as promptly as possible. That done, induce her to take an interest in the work you are going to undertake. She will lead her father to participate in it. In a short time, you will see the good effect on your workmen, and derive from your charitable efforts the reward that never fails to follow—an ever-increasing love of doing good, and a livelier desire of sanctifying your own soul. The exercise of charity is of all things the most salutary. I can safely predict that the Smithson ladies will both become pious if they second you; and as for you, you will be more and more strengthened in your good resolutions. Who knows?—perhaps you may have the sweet surprise of seeing Mr. Smithson converted when he sees that Catholicism alone enables us to confer on others a real benefit.”

“These are fine projects, and very attractive; but I foresee many obstacles and dangers.”

“What ones?”

“Of all kinds. First, I expose myself to conceive an affection for Mlle. Smithson it would be prudent to guard against. She does not like me. I imagine she loves some one else—the cousin she praises so willingly.”

“A supposition without proof! What I have heard from others, as well as yourself, convinces me that Mlle. Smithson has not yet made her choice. The praise she so publicly lavishes on her cousin is, in my opinion, a proof of her indifference towards him.”

“But if I were to love her—love her seriously, and she continued to disdain me; if her prejudice against me could not be overcome?...”

“I should be the first to regret it. But listen to me. You were once truly pious, my friend, and wish to become so again. This desire is sincere, I know. Well, it is time to take a correct view of life. For the most of us, especially those who are called to effect some good in the world, life is only one long sacrifice. Jesus Christ suffered and died to redeem mankind; the way he chose for himself he also appointed for those who become his disciples. It is by self-sacrifice that we acquire the inappreciable gift of being useful to our fellow-men. Do not cherish any illusion with regard to this!”

Louis and I exchanged a sorrowful glance as Victor spoke. Poor dear fellow! how he realized what he was saying! He was about to die at thirty-six years of age, in the very height of his usefulness, and this because he likewise had voluntarily chosen the rough path of sacrifice that was leading even unto death!

“My friend,” replied Louis, “what you say is true. I feel it. You are yourself an eloquent proof of it—you whom I have stopped in the midst of your career....”

“Do not talk so,” interrupted Victor; “you pain me. Your manner of interpreting my words makes me regret uttering them. Do not mistake my meaning. What I would say may be summed up thus: to effect a reformation in Mr. Smithson’s manufactory, where there are many bad men who corrupt the good; to enkindle a spirit of piety in the hearts of the Smithson ladies, by associating them in the good you are to effect. Whatever may be the result, devote yourself to this work without any reserve. You must not hesitate! Your sufferings, if you have any to endure, will not be without fruit, and perhaps God may not suffer them to be of long duration.”

“You have decided me. I will begin to-morrow. I will commence with the evening-school, and by visiting the most destitute families.”

“Do not forget that the destitution most to be pitied is moral destitution. Visit those who have nothing, but especially those who are depraved.”

Louis went away in a totally different frame of mind from that with which he had come. Victor, in his gentle way, had increased his esteem for Mr. Smithson, and inflamed him with the zeal—the ardent desire of usefulness with which he was filled himself. When he was gone, Victor and I talked a long time about him. I confessed I had no great faith in his perseverance. Victor replied: “His mother’s piety and careful training must lead to his thorough conversion. And how he has already changed! He realizes the worthlessness of the aims to which he once gave himself up. There is no fear of his receding. He has taken the surest means of persevering—the apostolic work of doing good. Nevertheless, I acknowledge I wish he could find some one to aid him. And what a powerful aid it would be if he loved and felt himself loved! Ardent as he is, he would communicate his piety to the object of his affection. And how much good would result from their combined efforts! But I fear it will not be thus! Our poor friend will, perhaps, purchase the right of winning a few souls at the expense of his own happiness.”

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XIII. LOUIS AT WORK

LOUIS took two whole days to reflect on the important subject of his conversation with my husband. Was the profound love he subsequently felt for Eugénie already springing up in his heart? Such is my opinion, though I dare not say so positively. He probably was not conscious himself of the real state of his mind. Since that time, I have often dwelt on all that took place then and afterwards, and it has always seemed to me that, from the very moment Louis first knew and appreciated Mlle. Smithson, he conceived an affection for her as serious as it was sudden. This affection was one of those that seem destined, from the beginning, to a continual increase. Does this mean that I have adopted the foolish and erroneous theory of novel writers, who regard love as an overmastering passion to which one is forced at all hazards to submit?... Neither religion nor reality will allow one to yield to such an error. But they do not hinder me from believing there are inclinations and affections that all at once assert themselves with so much force that, if one would not be speedily overcome by passion, he must at once raise an insurmountable barrier against it, such as flight, reason armed with contempt, and, what is a thousand times better than all—prayer. Such, in my opinion, was the love Louis at once conceived for Mlle. Smithson.

How shall I account for his being so captivated, when Eugénie had wounded him so deeply, and was so proud and every way original? For he too was proud, and his pride was allied with an unvarying simplicity which by no means accorded with Mlle. Smithson’s turn of mind.... I account for this in many ways. Eugénie had very distinguished manners. This naturally pleased Louis, for he had been brought up by a mother who was a model of distinction. Eugénie had a noble soul. Her opinions were not always correct, but they were always of an elevated nature. She was, it is true, peculiar and romantic, and Louis was not. But he liked all these peculiarities in her. They seemed to him charming. Lastly, and this is one of my strongest reasons, I think it was because Louis felt himself worthy of being Eugénie’s husband, and, seeing himself slighted by her, was the more strongly tempted to win her.

As Victor and I were his confidential friends, he kept us informed of all his proceedings, and, I may safely say, even of his thoughts. It is therefore easy for me to retrace the story of his love, which I will do without any exaggeration.

But first, let us return to his charitable projects, and the way in which he executed them. Louis was not merely an engineer in Mr. Smithson’s establishment, but a Christian, and all the more zealous because he was anxious to expiate his past errors. He knew by experience to what an abyss the passions lead, and was desirous of warning others. If he had been a man of ordinary mind and heart, he would no doubt have been animated by entirely different motives. After his ruin, and rescue from a watery grave, desirous of regaining not only his father’s esteem, but that of the world, he might have chosen the very position he now occupied, but he would have taken care to live as easily as possible. He would perhaps have sought to win Eugénie’s affections, and in the end would have thought only of her and labored for her alone. Such a life would not be worth relating. The lives of ordinary men are as unworthy of interest as the egotism that is the mainspring of their actions.

Louis’ life was a very different one. That is why I am desirous of making it known. But do not suppose his nature was thus transformed in an instant. God did not work one of those miracles that consist in the complete, instantaneous change of a man’s character. Our faults veil our better qualities, but do not suppress them; so a return to piety gives them new brilliancy, but does not create them. Louis, as I afterwards learned, had in his youth manifested uncommon elevation and purity of mind, and the piety of a saint. After his arrival at manhood, deprived of his mother’s influence, and led away by his passions, he placed no bounds to his follies. But suddenly arrested in the midst of his disorderly career, providentially saved at the very moment of being for ever lost, he at once broke loose from his pernicious habits. Like a traveller who returns to the right path after going astray for awhile, he resumed his course in the way of perfection with as much ardor as if he had never left it. There was only one reproach to be made against him at the onset. With his earnest nature and tendency to extremes, he manifested too openly the interior operations of grace. The difference between the young exquisite whom everybody knew, and the new convert observed of all eyes, was rather too marked. Louis’ serious and somewhat stern air, his austere look, and his habitual reserve, repelled those who had no faith in his entire conversion. Thence arose backbitings, suspicions, and accusations of hypocrisy which did not come to our poor friend’s ears, but were the cause of more than one annoyance. I must, however, acknowledge, to Mr. Smithson’s credit, that he showed a great deal of charity for Louis at that time. If he sometimes accused him of undue zeal, he was from the first disposed to believe it sincere.

I will briefly relate what Louis accomplished during the few weeks subsequent to his last conversation with Victor. My husband had advised him not to undertake anything till he had consulted Mr. Smithson. Louis followed his advice, and begged an interview with his employer. It was then in the month of June. The conversation took place without witnesses, in the open air, on a fine summer evening. I give it as related by Louis.

“Monsieur,” said he, “I am aware of your interest in benevolent objects. The workmen you employ, and whom I superintend under your orders, are not in your eyes mere instruments for the increase of wealth, but men to whom you wish to be as useful as circumstances will allow.”

Mr. Smithson was never lavish of his words. He made a sign of assent, and appeared pleased with what was said.

Louis continued: “I also am desirous of being useful to my fellow-men. I have done many foolish things, and would like to preserve others from similar mistakes, for the consequences are often fatal. With your permission, I will not content myself with aiding you in the management of the mill, but beg the honor of being associated, in proportion to my ability, with all the good you are desirous of doing.”

“Monsieur,” said Mr. Smithson, “your unexpected offer somewhat embarrasses me. I am quite ready to accede to your wishes, but could not, in truth, consider you my co-laborer. What I have hitherto done has been but little, but I know not what else to do. I assist the needy, and give good advice here and there; that is all. You can follow my example. I shall be glad. Is that what you wish? Or do you happen to have anything better and more extensive to propose? If so, go on. I am ready to hear it.”

“Yes, monsieur; I have some other plans to suggest.”

“State them without any hesitation. I only hope they are of a nature to second my views. The first condition for that is, to propose only what is simple and practical. Doubtless too great an effort cannot be made at this time to aid and improve our workmen, both for their own interest and for ours. Everything is dear. The country is in a ferment. Among those we employ, there are a number of turbulent fellows and many wretchedly poor.”

“Precisely so. What I wish is, to aid the needy, and reform the bad.”

“Your design is worthy of all praise—as a theory; ... but its realization will be difficult, not to say impossible. Listen to me, monsieur; I have a frank avowal to make. I have been engaged in this business but a short time. I know the common people but little. I belong to a country and a religion that have a special way of aiding the indigent. The government takes charge of that with us. In France, it is different: private individuals take part in it. You find me therefore greatly embarrassed. Enlighten me, if you can. I ask for nothing better.”

“Well, monsieur, it seems to me that beneficence should be exercised in three different ways. First, it is our duty to come to the assistance of those in distress; ... only I cannot, in this respect, do all I would like.... I could have done so once ... now ...”

“Do not let that worry you. My purse is open to you on condition that you only aid those whose destitution you can personally vouch for. It is also advisable to ascertain what use they make of that which is given them.”

“I promise this, and thank you. No; it is not sufficient to give them money. One must see it is made a good use of. The poor should be taught to double their resources by economy. The assistance of the needy, then, is the first benevolent effort I would propose. I now come to moral beneficence. This does not refer to the indigence of the body, but to that of the soul. I think it especially desirable to preserve from corruption those of our workmen who are at present leading upright lives, particularly the young. This does not hinder me from thinking it necessary to bring those who have gone astray under good influences.”

“Fine projects! I, too, have made similar ones, as I said, but I was discouraged by the difficulty of executing them. What means do you propose to employ?”

“What would you say to the formation of a library in one of the rooms of the manufactory—for instance, that which overlooks the river? It is now unoccupied. The workmen might be allowed to go there and read in the evening, and even to smoke, if they like.... This library could be used, during the hours of cessation from labor, as a schoolroom, where all could come to learn, in a social way, what they are ignorant of.—Would not this be a means of keeping them away from the wine-shops, and afford one an opportunity of conversing with them, and giving them good advice—advice which comes from the heart?”

“I like the idea. It really seems to me you have conceived a happy combination of plans; but nothing can be done without a person to put them in execution.”

“I will do it if you will allow me. I am eager to try the experiment.”

“Your courage and enthusiasm will soon give out. At every step, you will meet with difficulties impossible to be foreseen. I have mingled only a little with the working classes, but enough to know they are difficult to manage, and often ungrateful to those who try to be useful to them.”

“God will aid me. He will reward me, and they may too. But I shall not be difficult to please. If some of them correspond to my efforts, it will be enough. I will forget the ingratitude of the rest.”

Mr. Smithson was amazed at his zeal. His own religion, cold and formal, had never taught him to take so much pains for those who might prove ungrateful. He and Louis separated quite pleased with each other. Louis felt he had been comprehended. He had also the promise of assistance. Mr. Smithson, with all his reserve, was captivated by Louis’ enthusiasm for doing good. But though he had promised to aid Louis, he pitied him. “He will fail,” he said to himself.

The work was begun a few days after, thanks to the co-operation of Mr. Smithson, who smoothed away the difficulties inseparable from all beginnings. At seven in the evening, Louis, laying aside the title and functions of an engineer, became the friend and teacher of the workmen. They assembled in a large room where benches, tables, and a library were arranged. At first a certain number of workmen came through mere curiosity. They found what they did not expect—a teacher who was competent, kind, ready to converse with them and teach them what they wished to learn, and this with a heartiness quite different from an ordinary schoolmaster. Louis devoted himself with so much pleasure to these evening exercises that his pupils soon learned to like them, and gave so captivating an account of them to the rest that the number of scholars increased from day to day. Thus the school was permanently established without much delay, and numbered about thirty men of all ages and varieties of character. Louis showed perfect tact in profiting by so happy a commencement. Every evening, he gave oral instructions, sometimes on historical subjects, sometimes on a question of moral or political economy. In each of these lectures, the young master mingled good advice, which was willingly listened to, given, as it was, in the midst of instructions that excited the liveliest interest. The workmen felt they were learning a thousand things they could never have acquired from books. A book is a voiceless teacher that requires too much application from unaccustomed pupils.

Mr. Smithson watched over the development of this work, and became more and more interested in it in proportion as its success, which at first he had doubted, became more probable, and its utility more evident. At the same time, without acknowledging it to himself, suspicion and distrust began to spring up in his heart. Even the best of men under certain circumstances, unless checked by profound piety, are accessible to the lowest sentiments. Mr. Smithson began to be jealous of his assistant, and even to fear him.

“What!” he said to himself, “shall he succeed in a work I dared not undertake myself! He will acquire a moral influence in the establishment superior to mine!...” Then, as his unjust suspicions increased: “It is not the love of doing good that influences him: it is ambition,” he thought.

Louis had no suspicion of what was passing in his employer’s mind, and therefore resolutely continued to pursue the course he had begun. He had formerly accompanied his mother in her visits among the poor, and thus learned how to benefit them. She had taught him it was not sufficient to give them money: it was necessary to mingle with them, talk with them, give them good advice—in a word, to treat them as brethren and friends. Having organized his evening-school, he resolved to visit the most destitute and ignorant families in the village, which was about a kilometre and a half from the manufactory. He went there every evening towards six, and spent an hour in going from one house to another. Chance, as an unbeliever would say, or Providence, to speak more correctly, led him to the house of a poor woman quite worthy of his interest. She was fifty years of age, and slowly wasting away from disease of the lungs, complicated with an affection of the heart. This woman was one of those lovely souls developed by the Catholic religion oftener than is supposed. People little suspected how much she suffered, or with how much patience she bore her sufferings, but God knew. She was a real martyr. Married to a drunken, brutal man of her own age, she had endured all the abuse and ill-treatment with which he loaded her without a murmur. She had brought up her son piously, and labored as long as she was able to supply her own wants and those of her child. Broken down by illness and the continual ill-treatment of her husband, she would have died of want, had not Mlle. Smithson come to her aid.

When Louis went to see this poor woman, whom we will call Françoise, she spoke of Eugénie so enthusiastically, and with so much emotion, that he was greatly impressed. It was sweet to hear the praises of one whom he dreamed, if not of marrying, at least of associating in his good works.

The next day, he repeated his call on the sick woman, and for several days in succession. I think he had a secret hope of meeting Eugénie, without daring to acknowledge it to himself. As yet, he had merely seen her. He found her, as you know, handsome, stylish, and intelligent, but cool towards him. He longed to observe her in this miserable dwelling. Here, apart from other influences, she might show herself, as he hoped she really was—exempt from the imperfections he had remarked in her at home with regret. Without acknowledging it, he loved her, and it is hard to be forced to pass an unfavorable judgment on those we love. But days passed without their meeting. The sick woman was visibly failing. One evening, Louis found her weaker than ever.

“My dear monsieur,” said she, “I am very happy. I am about to enter the presence of the good God! But I have one cause for anxiety at the hour of death. I depend on you to remove it. When the wealthy die, they leave their friends valuable legacies, but we poor people have only burdens to bequeath. Mlle. Eugénie has promised to watch over my little boy. She is very kind!... And I have another favor to ask of you, monsieur. Not far from the village is a family by the name of Vinceneau. The father is employed in the tile works you have to pass in coming to see me. Hereafter, when you come by, continue to think of me, and pray for me!... But that is not the point. The man I am speaking of is intemperate like my husband. The mother would be an excellent woman, were it not for two faults. She is indolent and envious—always ready to think evil of the rich. She works at your mill. It is not these two people I am going to recommend to you, but their daughter. The poor child is as handsome as a picture, and as pious as an angel. She often comes to see me. I tremble lest she be lost through the bad example of her parents, or through dangerous society. I have a feeling that, in some way, you will find means of being useful to her, if necessary. I should have recommended her to Mlle. Eugénie, but her father and mother, as I have said, are good for nothing, and I should not like to send mademoiselle where I know she is detested on account of her wealth.”

Louis gladly acceded to her request. He left a few moments after to attend his evening-school. Half-way home, he perceived Eugénie coming from the mill, and could not help meeting her.

TO BE CONTINUED.

THE POLITICAL PRINCIPLE OF THE SOCIAL RESTORATION OF FRANCE.

BY F. RAMIERE, S.J.

FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES.

THE great danger of France at the present time is neither the decline of her military power, nor the diminution of her political influence, nor the deep wound inflicted on her finances by an enormous war contribution, nor the aggrandizement of Prussia, nor even the unchaining of the Revolution: it is the division among right-thinking men.

Supposing that all men in or out of the Assembly, united by the indissoluble bond of principle, sincerely desired the re-establishment of order, the revolutionary monster would soon be rendered harmless. The healthy influences now paralyzed would regain their action; with security, legitimate interests would recover their power of expansion; the vital strength of the country would develop rapidly; and, thanks to the vigorous elasticity which characterizes our race, we would soon resume the rank in Europe that belongs to us.

Let us recollect the wonderful promptitude with which France, reduced to extremity by the religious wars, reached the apogee of her prosperity under Louis XIII. We would rise again with equal facility, if the good dispositions, not wanting in France, could be bound together, and oppose a compact fasces to the revolutionary passions, alas! too well united for destruction.

Unfortunately, it is not so. Unity of thought and action, which is the supreme necessity of every government, is wanting to-day in those who are alone able to save us, and it has become the exclusive privilege of the party that is working for our ruin. M. Le Play, who, in a recent treatise, warns us of the danger of the situation, sees but one remedy: the abandonment for a time at least of political questions, and the concentration of the efforts of all true men for the study and solution of the social question. Says M. Le Play: “The enlightened men who compose the majority of our Assembly render themselves powerless by their division on what is called the political question—that is to say, on the form of sovereignty. They may be assured that each political party, when it advances its principle, raises against it a majority formed by the coalition of rival parties. When, on the contrary, this same party takes up the social question, that is to say, the immediate interest of the family, it gains the majority, sometimes even unanimity. It is sufficient to know the cause of the evil to find the remedy. The conservatives have the power to establish a strong majority. It is only necessary to avoid the subject that divides them, and to devote themselves to the one that draws them together.”

There is much truth in this observation, and we are far from wishing to combat it on the whole. The eminent publicist who, in this same work, accords so favorable an opinion to our studies on the rights of men, knows with what warm sympathy we follow his useful labors for social reform. We appreciate as fully as he the importance of the question to which he desires to draw the attention of all true friends of order. With him we believe that the social order is anterior to the political, and that, at a time when society is disorganized even in its original elements, it is there above all that the remedy must be applied. How can a good government be given to a nation that the anti-social propaganda has rendered ungovernable?

We must acknowledge, however, that, to the rule which M. Le Play has laid down, objections arise which at the first glance appear sufficiently grave. We have heard intelligent men doubt whether even the temporary withdrawal of the political questions would be opportune or possible, and that for several reasons.

In the first place, because these questions are irresistibly imposed upon us. They are discussed every day in the debates of the Assembly or by the press. If we give up treating them according to true principles, they will certainly be determined in the sense of the Revolution.

In effect, and it is a second reason, if men of order deny themselves entrance on this ground, it is indispensable that the revolutionary party should promise to abstain likewise. But how can we hope that it will make, much less that it will observe, this engagement? The first aim of this party is evidently to possess itself of political power, by means of which it will be easy to realize its anti-social theories. We must put forth our whole strength in this contest, if we do not wish to have it become impossible for us to defend the social interests.

Finally, here is a consideration which, to the eyes of the men whose sentiments we express, appears still more decisive. They say that in order to make it possible to abstract political questions, and give ourselves exclusively to the study of the social, there should be a line of demarcation drawn between these two domains so closely united. This is what they cannot accomplish. Social and political rights repose on the same basis, they have the same enemies, and are attacked with the same arms. Why is the family disorganized? Why, in labor, is the harmony so necessary between the employer and the employed replaced by an antagonism equally hurtful to both? Is it not, above all, because every rank of society suffers from the rebound of the attacks made politically on the principle of authority?

We do not dispute the fatal influence of the false principles pointed out by M. Le Play—the original perfection preached by Rousseau, the native equality of men maintained by Alexis de Tocqueville, have had their share, and their great share, in the disorders which have totally overthrown society. But the principal cause of these disorders, the revolutionary principle by excellence, is the negation of all authority superior to that of man!

How shall we answer these arguments? It will not be difficult. We can admit them without injury to the thesis of M. Le Play. We would misapprehend him if we placed the Christian principle of authority among the number of political questions which he counsels us to avoid. This principle, in reality, is not less social than political. It is the common foundation of these two orders, the fourth commandment of the decalogue, and, consequently, constitutes one of the essential articles of the social restoration, whose complete programme M. Le Play finds in the decalogue.

What are the political questions we should avoid, if we would see union and strength succeed to the divisions which now paralyze us? Those that spring from opinions.

Opinions divide parties, and create among them interminable struggles. S. Augustine has well said: In necessariis, unitas; in dubiis, libertas. Necessary principles are the domain of unity; doubtful opinions, by provoking liberty, engender division. It is in the very essence of opinion to arouse against it other opinions, to which their probability, more or less great, gives the right to struggle against every light but that of proof. Here is, then, what experience teaches us, and what the dangers of society command us: it is to lift ourselves above this obscure and troubled region where opinions clash, and to rise to the peaceful sphere that principles illumine with a steady light. Here there can be no subject of division among sincere minds. In the social as in the political order, principles convince by their proofs all intellects which have not made a compact with error; and their necessity, as incontestable as their truth, conquers the adhesion of all just men.

We can, then, without contradicting M. Le Play, establish the following proposition: to obtain this union among right-thinking men, without which there is no salvation to be hoped for France, political parties must be silent on the questions which divide them, and cling to the immutable principle whose negation is the chief cause of our misfortunes.

But what is this principle? This is the question we will endeavor to answer with a precision which will leave no doubt in sincere minds; no pretext for the division of parties.

Our aim is very clear, and we hope it will be understood by our readers. We do not intend to discuss the various political opinions, still less to ask their defenders to sacrifice them; we seek the indisputable, the first principle of the political order, around which can be immediately formed that union of honest and upright men which will place them in a position to struggle against the Revolution, and will prepare for the future a more complete harmony, and the permanent restoration of France.

I.

We must, above all, distinguish clearly “the saving principle” from the opinions with which it might be confounded. It will be easier to understand what it is when we will have said what it is not.

In the first place, this principle is not that of absolute monarchy.

In the happiest period of our history, the power of the monarch was modified by institutions of various kinds: by the states-general, which, having the right to confirm or reject new taxes, afforded an opportunity of laying at the foot of the throne the complaints and the wishes of the country; by the magistrates, who, almost sovereign in the judicial order, exercised an efficacious control over the legislature; by the church above all, that energetically defended the supremacy of divine law against the caprices of princes. Whatever may be thought of the causes which, after the invasion of Protestantism, led to the destruction of these guarantees, and to the concentration of power; whatever may be said to excuse or glorify absolute monarchy in the past, it evidently cannot now be presented as the immutable principle through which we could ask our salvation.

It is not necessary to add that the inferior institutions which surrounded the monarchy at divers epochs, merit still less the name of principles. Formerly these institutions had a reason for existing, but nothing proves that they should survive the circumstances which gave them birth. Neither the warlike feudalism of the middle ages nor the nobility disarmed, but still privileged, of later times, belongs to those elements essential to all society, to which we are bound to restore their energy as soon as possible, if we would not condemn ourselves to perish.

Nor can we give the name of principle to divine right as understood by the Gallican school. According to this school, Providence, at the commencement of society, chose a man or a family to exercise the supreme power. The course of events which decided the form of government of infant societies was, in its opinion, a manifestation of the divine will sufficient to invest with the right of commanding those who had the strength to enforce it. This right is then divine, since it is held immediately from God; and, in the language of theology, the power of divine right is that which comes from God without passing through any human intermediary. The Gallican school recognized two sovereignties of divine right: that of the temporal order, which was royalty; and the papal sovereignty, which was spiritual—if it was allowable to say in this system that the pope was sovereign, since, contrary to the policy which sustained absolute political power, they wished in the spiritual order that the pope should share his sovereignty with the episcopate.

To dissimulate nothing, let us say here that lately theologians and Catholic philosophers, strangers to the Gallican school, have defended the thesis of divine right. But their adhesion, in giving new weight to this doctrine, does not take it from the category of simple opinions. It has always against it the arguments and authority of our most illustrious doctors, according to whom the right of princes is divine only in its first origin and in its abstract essence; but in its immediate origin, its concrete form, and in the appointment of the subject to be invested with it, this right is human, since it would only receive the determinations indispensable to its exercise by the expressed or tacit consent of society. The providential events of which we have before spoken were more or less indicative of the divine will, but the majority of doctors refuse to see in them a sufficient motive for investing with the right of commanding a man previously supposed to be without it.

The doctrine of the absolute inamissibility of power generally maintained by the partisans of divine right should also be ranked among the disputed opinions. It is logic that he who has received power immediately from God can only be deprived of it by God. The defenders of the opposite opinion admit, on the contrary, that, in extreme cases, power can be withdrawn from him who abuses it by only using for the destruction of society what was given to him for its preservation. And as it is difficult to distinguish in such cases, as error on such occasions could only be disastrous, as anarchy could easily spring from the most legitimate resistance to tyranny, Catholic theologians do not wish that these doubtful cases of conscience should be left to the passions of parties or to the blind fury of the mob; but they find a guarantee qualified to defend every right and to reassure every interest in the authority, ever impartial and paternal, of the Vicar of Jesus Christ.

The first basis of social order which we are now seeking, can neither be found in the monarchical principle.

In reality, whatever may be to the minds of the greatest philosophers the prerogatives of a limited monarchy, they cannot maintain that it is the only legitimate form of government; and consequently, as the monarchical principle is neither universal, absolute, nor immutable, it has none of the marks of a true principle.

Besides, the firmest partisans of monarchy do not assume for it this universal necessity. In the states with which it is identified, by long and legitimate possession, with the principle of right, they justly claim for it all the prerogatives of that principle. Unreasonable as it would be to pretend that monarchy is the only legitimate government for all times and all peoples, equally absurd would it be to maintain that, when it is legitimately established, it can be legitimately combated and overthrown. There is no right against right. The monarchical principle thus defended has no adversaries but those fanatical adorers of the republican form whose absolutism is a hundred times more unreasonable than ever was that of the most servile worshippers of royal power.

These topsy-turvy legitimists condemn, from the height of their pride, the immense majority of the human race, arrogating to themselves in favor of their opinion the authority which they refuse to the church of God; and they take to themselves, in remaking it, the motto with which they have so often reproached us: No salvation outside of the republic! After twenty-five centuries, they renew the foolish enterprise of the Babylonian despot: they wish to compel all the nations under the sun to prostrate themselves before the statue of their republic, and acknowledge it as the only true divinity.

No more tyrannical intolerance can be imagined. Whence do these absolutists derive the right of imposing their opinions on their equals? From what have they taken the halo with which they surround the cap of liberty, after having trampled all crowns under their feet? Undoubtedly, government exists but for the people, but does it follow that it should necessarily be exercised by the people? To refute their exclusive theories, it would be sufficient to compel them to make an application of them in their own families. In fact, from the moment that the principle becomes absolute, it should be applied to all authority; and there is no reason why the family and the workshop should not share with the state the advantages of the republican form.

But it is waste of time to dwell on this fanaticism, of which, thank God, we do not find a trace among the partisans of monarchy. The necessity which they attribute to it is not absolute, but hypothetical. They affirm that monarchy is the only form of government suited to the characters, defects, customs, and traditions of certain peoples. They say that nations, like individuals, have different temperaments; and, consequently, it would be absurd to impose the same rule on all. Nations, like individuals, when the constitution is formed, when inveterate habits have become a second nature, cannot, without danger, suddenly adopt new customs. What would become of a people who should persist in making this dangerous experiment? Against their will, they would carry their old customs into the new system; they would preserve their monarchical manners in the midst of a nominal republic; and this bastard government would have all the inconveniences of the monarchy, without its stability and other advantages.

More even than individuals, nations live by traditions. By them, the past extends its influence over the present, illumines it with the reflection of its glory, and animates it with its spirit. Traditions bind together the successive periods in a nation’s existence, and preserve among its children the unity produced by a long community of dangers and struggles, of triumphs and reverses. A people that breaks with tradition is like an uprooted tree; its existence is similar to that of a man, who, having lost his memory, cannot connect the present with the past. Now, it is evident that a nation whose institutions and customs for centuries have reposed on monarchy cannot have this basis overthrown without breaking all traditions, and throwing society entirely out of its beaten tracks.

These observations are evidently the dictates of good sense and experience. It is impossible not to be vividly struck by them, when one has lived among a people faithful to its traditions; as the English, for example. Nothing is more striking than the contrast between the general security, the vitality, the friendly enjoyments, whose source is respect for tradition, with the instability and anxiety which the Revolution has produced in our French society, formerly so calm and joyous.

But however well grounded may be this induction, it cannot take the place of the absolute and indisputable principle by which we wish to bind together all true and earnest men.

Let us pursue our research, and congratulate ourselves on being dispensed in our present position from pausing at the thorny distinction between the power of right and the power of fact. For too long a period has this been a cause of incurable division between the most honest and religious men. Of all the problems which belong to the social order, it is perhaps the most difficult to resolve practically. On one side, it is certain that the violation of right cannot destroy it, and that the usurper who, to gratify his ambition, imperils the gravest interests of society, does not become legitimate, even though his attempt be crowned by success. On the other side, however, the maintenance of public order being the reason of the existence of the rights of power, obedience cannot be refused to him who alone has the strength and the means of attaining this indispensable end.

From this springs one of those conflicts of opinion which make the social question so difficult. The same public order which commands obedience to the usurper alone capable of defending it, forbids encouraging the ambition of future usurpers by the full acceptation of triumphant crime. The friends of order can then follow different paths, according to the preference they may have for either of these interests. The power of fact will attract men who, most affected by present necessity, will hope to find in their adhesion to the established order a safeguard against new convulsions. Others will see in this adhesion to the revolution consummated an anticipated sanction of future revolutions, and will think themselves obliged to provide for the permanent necessities of society by remaining faithful to the fallen power.

This is not the place to decide such a difficult question, where even the supreme authority of the church has thought it often wiser to abstain. We need only state as a fact, unfortunate as inevitable, the division which springs from this conflict of duty. It will last until the illegitimate power is overthrown, or until, by the lapse of time, all trace of its origin is lost. In the first case, the transitory right which the usurping government borrowed from fact having disappeared with the fact, the power of right recovers its preponderance. In the second case, fact is transformed into right by becoming alone capable of defending society; and legitimacy, of which social interest was the base, will disappear with the real possibility of saving this supreme interest.

It is what happened in England, where the tories, the former partisans of the Stuarts, have long since adhered to the reigning dynasty. But in France, neither of the two dynasties which succeeded to that of our ancient kings established its domination firmly enough, or sufficiently renounced its revolutionary principle, to render evident to all eyes this union of right and fact. For fifty years, we have seen conservatives, religious men, and even the clergy, divided into two or three political fractions; and this division has not been one of the least causes of our weakness, and of the growing strength of the Revolution.

The evil appeared irremediable, and each day it acquired fresh gravity; for the government of fact, instead of seeing in the adhesion of men of order a motive for returning openly to conservative principles, believed it to be their interest to conciliate the men of disorder by supporting the principle of the Revolution.

Providence has drawn us from this position, apparently inextricable, and, by the result even of our faults, has made the cause of our divisions disappear. The Revolution has destroyed the governments blind enough to lean upon her. The power which exists to-day, and whose strength lies in the Assembly, has more than once acknowledged its provisional character. France is, then, free to return to the true principles of order, and to reunite under one flag all those who are sincerely devoted to the holy cause. Nothing prevents her fulfilling a celebrated prediction, and to close, by the proclamation of the rights of God, the revolution which opened with the proclamation of the rights of man.

II.

Herein lies our salvation: to the revolutionary principle, which weakens all powers and all social rights, in making them depend on man’s caprice, we must oppose the Christian principle, which gives them an immovable solidity, in reposing them on the supreme authority of God.

No innovation is required: we must simply return to the eternal law’s of social order. If imprudent architects attempt to change the laws of equilibrium, what should be done to repair the ruins accumulated by their folly? Remember those laws, and enforce their observation. There is also an equilibrium in the moral order, and it was the unpardonable fault of our fathers that they overlooked its most essential condition. Let us hasten to restore all splendor to the truth whose darkening was the cause of our misfortunes. Foreseen and accepted without dispute by the pagans themselves, this generative dogma of society was, in the dawn of Christianity, promulgated by S. Paul as one of the principal articles of revealed religion; and it did not cease to rule the nations of Europe until the epoch when, with the law of Christ, order and peace were driven from their confines. Reason and religion are in perfect harmony when they proclaim the Christian principle. They tell us, with one voice, that God, who directs all with so much wisdom in the material world, wishes equally, and with much more reason, that order should reign in the moral. In commanding men to unite in society, so as to assure by their common efforts the happiness of all, he imposes on them an obligation to bridle the selfish passions which unceasingly conspire against the general interest. And as the only efficacious means of keeping them in order is the institution of a power armed with strength for the defence of the right, God wills that this power should be created, if it does not exist, and obeyed when it exists.

Thus, according to the teaching of Christianity, civil power is divine in its origin, and, although a human element must interpose in the principle to determine the form and choose the depositary, he that is once elected commands really in the name of God. “All power comes from God,” says S. Paul; it is by order of God that it exists, and consequently it cannot be resisted without resisting the order of God, and without drawing down the damnation justly reserved for those who revolt against God.

It is evident that between this principle which belongs to Catholic faith, and the Gallican opinion of divine right, the difference is not so great as would at first appear. Both parties agree as to the origin of power, its mission, its rights, and its duties. Only on one point do they differ: according to one, the man who, in the commencement, was invested with power, received it immediately from God; while the other holds that the investiture was made by the expressed or tacit consent of society. This divergence is clearly more speculative than practical, as, with this exception, they both believe the same doctrine.

It is therefore wrong to seek any analogy between the revolutionary theory and the opinion of Catholic doctors the most favorable to the primitive rights of society. It is only necessary to thoroughly understand their doctrine to see this resemblance, which is merely apparent, instantly vanish. According to them, it is true that power depends for its first organization on those whom it will soon command; but once constituted, it is independent of them in its exercise within the limits inherent in the form of government. Society, in reality, is not the source of the authority with which it invests its elect: it is only the channel. If it has the right to determine the form and to choose the subject, it is also obliged to make use of this right, and to arm the power instituted by it with the full prerogatives necessary for the maintenance of order.

Nothing is wanting to authority thus understood; it has a precise end and an indispensable reason for being—the defence of individual rights, and the maintenance of public order. It has an immutable base—the will of God, the guarantee of rights and the protector of order. It has a universal and inevitable sanction—the eternal punishment which the contemners of the law cannot escape, even though they succeed in avoiding temporal chastisement. In resting social order on the first principle of all things, this doctrine places it in perfect harmony with the general order of the universe; and it is as satisfactory in theory to the mind of the philosopher as it is efficacious in practice in maintaining the order of society. Equally favorable to all legitimate interests, it elevates at the same time the majesty of power and the dignity of obedience; for, if it is glorious for rulers to command in the name of God, it is not less so for the governed to obey only God.

What, on the contrary, is the effect of the revolutionary principle? Instead of establishing authority, it destroys it; and, under the pretext of elevating obedience, degrades it.

It destroys authority; for there is no true authority, except where a superior will is invested with the right to command, and an inferior one is obliged to obey. Now, these two conditions cannot be realized in the revolutionary theory. The principle of this theory, such as Rousseau laid it down in his Social Contract, is that the power placed over civil society draws all its rights from the free concession of those whom it is called to command. It is, then, their mandatary, and not their superior; consequently, it has no more the right to command them than they are bound to obey it. Rousseau says it in these very terms: in obeying it, they only obey themselves; and, consequently, they can, when they please, dispense themselves from obedience.

Thus, instead of creating authority, the revolutionary principle renders it impossible; and since authority is the essential condition of the stability, strength, well-being, and existence even of society, it cannot be denied that this principle is the overthrow of social order.

But at the same time that it annihilates the majesty of power, it debases the dignity of obedience. It is very well to say to the members of society that, in obeying their mandatary, they only obey themselves; it will not prevent them in a thousand circumstances from being directed to do the contrary of what they would like. What will then happen? If the discontented are numerous and strong enough to make their will prevail over that of power, they will revolt; but, if resistance is impossible, they will be compelled to obey. What will be this obedience? The act of a slave who yields to force, and not the act of a reasonable man and a Christian who conforms his will to that of God.

Instead of the alliance which Christian doctrine establishes between the majesty of power and the dignity of obedience, the revolutionary theory creates an irreconcilable antagonism between these two essential elements of society; it is only by degrading the subjects that the rulers can ensure the execution of their orders.

This radical and absolute opposition between the two doctrines necessarily extends to their consequences. Whilst the Christian principle gives an inviolable stability to power, and guarantees with equal efficacy the rights of the subjects, the revolutionary principle has for result inevitable anarchy and tyranny.

Anarchy first; for how can a power which is absolutely without a base sustain itself for any length of time? Consistently with itself, the theory of the Revolution intends that society, in establishing power as its mandatary, should not strip itself in any manner of sovereignty. As society created it freely, by an act of its own will it can reverse it when it seems desirable, without any one having the right to demand an account of its acts. As a consequence, the revolutionary theory involves daily appeals to new plébiscites and to new elections for the overthrow of the established power, and the substitution of another more in accord with the present will of the nation; and, as the triumph of the discontented of yesterday will infallibly create other dissatisfied ones, these will have the right to organize to-morrow a new agitation to overthrow everything.

The constitution cannot legitimately reprove or arrest these attempts; for, emanating like the government from the national will, it is also subordinate to the fluctuations of that capricious sovereign. The small number of the agitators can be no objection; and you cannot oppose to them the wishes and rights of the majority. If there is no authority superior to that of man, all human wills are equal, and all equally sovereign. The number of those who differ from me gives them a preponderating force, but it does not confer on them a superior right. If, then, I think my sentiment the best, nothing can hinder me from working to make it prevail. By making use of intrigue and violence, the smallest minority easily becomes the majority; and, with strength, it acquires the right to do all that the revolutionary principle attributes to majorities.

What can be opposed to this argument? Is it not perfectly logical? If the consequences appear intolerable, there is but one means of escape—the return to Christian principle, alone capable of preserving social order from the convulsions to which it is condemned by these attempts against power. Christian doctrine repels the attacks made upon public order with much more severity than the violations of individual rights; it brands them as crimes of treason against society. Except in the extreme cases of which we have already spoken, it declares power inviolable; not in virtue of the personal prerogative of him who is invested with it, but in virtue of the interest of which he is the necessary guarantee.

Thus we have heard S. Paul tell us that he who resists power resists the order of God, and draws damnation on his head. This sentence, we know, does not agree with the verdict of public opinion, as indulgent in regard to political crimes as it is severe against those which come under the head of crimes of common right.

On which side is the truth? If public power is the indispensable bulwark of individual rights, can the attempt be made to overthrow it, without, at the same time, attacking all those rights? If a man, who, during the night, forces his entrance into a house, and seeks to enrich himself to the prejudice of the legitimate possessor, is thrown into prison as a criminal unworthy of compassion, how can he merit less severe punishment who shakes the entire social edifice, to gratify his cupidity and ambition at the expense of the public peace? Nothing is clearer: in listening to the revolutionary theories in preference to the Christian doctrine, public opinion is in complete disagreement with reason.

Would to God that it was all limited to a theoretical opposition! Unfortunately, nothing is more practical than revolutionary error; as, for a century, the conclusions to which logic has led us have been but too well confirmed by experience. Nothing, then, is wanting to enable us to judge the two rival doctrines with full knowledge of the case. We have seen them at work—one for fourteen centuries, the other during the age nearest our own time; they have given their measure, and are known by their fruits. One, in semi-barbarous times, endowed France with the unity, glory, concentration of strength, and expansion which placed her in the first rank among the nations of the world; the other, in an age of advanced civilization and unheard-of material progress, heaped ruins upon ruins on our unfortunate country—religious ruin, moral ruin, social ruin, political ruin, financial ruin, military ruin—nothing remained standing when with the principle of authority the necessary foundation of society was overthrown.

And let it not be imagined that, in thus delivering the social body to the ravages of anarchy, the revolutionary principle guarantees it against the rigors of tyranny. No; it condemns it inevitably to suffer those rigors. At the same time that it disarms power with regard to the wicked passions, it arms it with an all-powerful force against the most sacred rights. Rousseau avowed it frankly; and, from the Convention to Prince Bismarck, all revolutionary governments have practised this lesson. Nothing escapes the sovereignty of the state from the moment that the state is emancipated from the authority of God. The soul of the citizen belongs to it with the same title as his body; the questions of doctrine are not more independent of its control than those of policy; the church and the school are under its jurisdiction as well as the public streets and the prison.

Since society recognizes no authority above it, and the state represents the social will, it is absolute master, it is all-powerful, it is God. It is the state that makes justice and truth, that creates rights, that is the supreme arbiter of conscience; and its omnipotence, as unlimited as fragile, leaves to the citizen but the choice between two expedients: either to bend with docility under its yoke by abdicating all moral dignity, or to overthrow it, with the certainty of seeing it replaced by an equal tyranny.

Thus the revolutionary theory, which is permanent anarchy, is at the same time organized despotism. At other periods, we have seen society, deprived of its equilibrium, oscillate between these two extremes, passing in turn from anarchy to tyranny, and from tyranny to anarchy. Thanks to revolutionary progress, we can enjoy simultaneously the advantages of these two states, and taste the vexations of despotism, without escaping the agitations of anarchy. Since the proclamation of the pretended liberal principles, we have seen disappear the liberties which, under the most absolute systems, were considered as inviolable. Provincial and communal franchises, the rights of the father over his children, of the proprietor over his possessions, of the testator over his estate—all have been grasped by the iron hand of the state. It has broken all counterbalancing influences, and those that it has not completely annihilated only subsist during its good pleasure.

How different is the theory of power, regarded by the light of Christian principle! Instituted for the protection of rights and the repression of injustice, it extends its jurisdiction only by the means necessary for attaining its end. As soon as it would leave that sphere, it becomes an usurper. Its power is limited in every sense by divine law and by the pre-existing rights of the subjects; for, instead of the revolutionary theory that the state creates the rights of private individuals, it is Christian doctrine that the rights of individuals incapable of defending themselves rendered necessary the creation of the state.

According to the first, society is everything, the individual nothing; according to the second, the individual alone has immortal destinies, and civil society is but a temporary means to facilitate the accomplishment of those destinies. The least of the subjects has, then, the right to oppose his conscience as a brazen wall against the unjust will of a despot; and, if this protestation is not heeded, another voice will soon be heard which will resound to the extremities of the universe—the voice of the incorruptible defender of justice, and the protector of oppressed weakness; of him whom God has placed on the earth to speak in his name, to promulgate his law, and to recall alike princes and people to the respect of justice.

It is not necessary to give further proof of the doctrine we have endeavored to explain. There is not one of our readers who will not instantly understand the principle whose restoration we have declared indispensable for putting an end to the fatal reign of the Revolution. We were not wrong in giving it the name of principle, as from it flow all the laws of political order, at the same time that itself is immediately derived from the very idea of that order. It is, then, necessary, universal, and absolute; it extends to all times, all forms of government, all degrees of civilization. At once political and religious, rational and revealed, it belongs to universal ethics, and is part of the traditional dogma. He who denies it will be condemned by the church as a heretic, and will be disowned by reason, as both a rebel against evidence, and guilty of an attack on the essential laws of social order.

III.

If we have succeeded in demonstrating this truth, it will not be difficult to decide upon the duties it imposes upon us, and the means we must employ to incline in the way of salvation the undecided balance of the destinies of France.

Since the proclamation of the revolutionary principle in the last century was the commencement of our ruin, we can only save ourselves by denying it with all possible solemnity, and in placing the contrary principle as the basis of the future constitution of our country. We must, in fine, leave the ways which have misled and lost all the powers that during fifty years have assumed in France the mission of restoring public order. Undoubtedly, none of them accepted the revolutionary theory to its full extent; they even by more than one act implied its negation. But these isolated efforts, extorted from them by the instinct of preservation, did not prevent them from habitually submitting to the influences of the Revolution, and even often rendering homage to its principles.

Sprung from its bosom, they dared not deny their origin, and they did not understand that, while shrinking from this disavowal, they condemned themselves to be overthrown by the blind force which had lifted them on its shield. One after the other they deceived themselves, and France with them, by taking “the great principles of ‘89” as the palladium of their thrones and their dynasties. It was asking a guarantee of duration from the most energetic dissolvent, and giving a solemn falsehood to France as a political creed. We have shown elsewhere that, under ambiguous formulas intended to deceive thoughtless good faith, the declaration of 1789 contains, in seventeen articles, the pure theory of the Revolution. We willingly admit that this hypocrisy of language might, at the first moment, put on the wrong scent a generation intoxicated with the desire of reform; but to be still seduced by it, after so many bloody revolutions have too clearly commented this ambiguous text, would be intolerable.

If we push blindness to this excess, will we deserve to be called the most intellectual people in the world? We have been duped by a comedy of fifteen years; will it be so with a comedy of a hundred? It is thus that posterity will name the century in which the principles of ‘89 were the theme of the most gigantic mystification found in history. All the civilized nations have been more or less cheated by this jugglery of the most precious liberties, in the name of liberalism; but France has played a separate part. It is she who, after being herself deceived, endeavored to make the entire universe share in her deception, and thus took upon herself both the shame of the fraud, and the responsibility of the imposture.

Let us be done with this odious falsehood, and return to reality. Let us seek true liberties in the proclamation of true principles, and ensure respect for the rights of man by the restoration of the authority of God.

This is the first duty that the vital interest of France imposes on all men called to take any part whatever in the re-establishment of power.

But henceforward we have another obligation to fulfil. Honest men of all parties must unite in the proclamation of the Christian principle, and renounce any alliance with the defenders of the Revolution. Former parties must disappear, and only leave in the field the great armies of order and disorder. This division alone has a reason for existing in the present state of society. Old parties, on the contrary, can only be divided by personal questions, to which it would be shameful to attach any importance in presence of the dangers that menace society. All parties, even those that seem to yield the most thorough allegiance to the Revolution, contain a greater or less number of friends of order whose equivocal connections do not prevent their disowning, in the bottom of their hearts, the revolutionary principle.

The moment has come to separate these contrary elements united by purely accidental affinities. We are approaching one of those fatal dates that betokens the end of one world, and the commencement of another; one of those partial judgments of Providence that prelude the general one by which divine justice will close the era of time, to open that of eternity. Now, as then, the terrible blows of the Almighty dissipate illusions, crush adverse interests, and bring to light the two contrary tendencies which have been hidden in the depths of hearts; the two opposite loves that, since the beginning of the world, have divided humanity into two hostile cities.

It is, then, indispensable to take a side; the time of tergiversation and compromise is past; we must be for truth or falsehood, for order or the Revolution, for Jesus Christ or the infernal chief of all rebels. And it does not suffice to carry the truth in the heart: it must be professed openly and courageously. The more evident is the necessity of adhering to the Christian principle, the more manifest is the double obligation that flows from it for honest men of all parties to form a compact league, whatever may have previously been their mutual estrangement, and to separate themselves from the revolutionists, with whom circumstances may have connected them.

We will go on no further, for we have resolved not to leave the region of principles; but the men to whom Providence has given the mission and power to save us cannot stop there. They must bring down the saving principle from the region of abstractions to that of facts, give it a concrete existence, a determined form, a durable organization, a strength sufficient to maintain itself, and to raise us up. It is not our province to guide them in the accomplishment of this task; may God give them, with the light which will show them the path of salvation, strength to follow it, and draw France after them! They are called to be nothing less than the saviours of their country and of Christendom; for it is not only the destinies of France which they hold in their hands, but those of Christian civilization, incapable, if France yields, of escaping from the invasion of the double revolution of Cæsarism and demagogism. May they feel the gravity of the situation, and understand that such great peril demands heroic resolutions!

To worthily fulfil this mission, the most important, perhaps, ever confided to a deliberative assembly, they must rise above all consideration of persons, all interests of parties, and they must choose, in the sincerity of their conscience, the man and the form of government that will most surely guarantee the restoration of the Christian principle, and the repudiation of the revolutionary, the destruction of anarchy and Cæsarism, the protection of every right, and the re-establishment of true liberty. This choice, which alone can save us, will not be difficult from the moment that they agree on the principle from which it must proceed, and the end which must be attained; and once the choice made under the eye of God, it will be still less difficult, with his help, to make it acceptable to France.

The Comte de Breda recently recalled to us, as appropriate to the time, the consoling and prophetic words written by Joseph de Maistre in 1797, at an epoch when the restoration of order appeared still more difficult than at the present time: “Can we believe that the political world moves by chance, and that it is not organized, directed, animated, by the same wisdom which shines in the physical? The great criminals who overthrow a state necessarily produce heart-rending wounds; but, when man works to re-establish order, he associates himself with the Author of order, he is favored by nature—that is to say, by the harmony of secondary causes, which are the ministers of divine power. His action has something in it of divine; it is at the same time gentle and imperious; he forces nothing, and nothing resists him.”

GRAPES AND THORNS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE.”

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