XIV. PERHAPS PROPHETIC
IT was the first time for many weeks that Louis had met Eugénie alone. He felt greatly excited, and naturally said to himself: “Ought I to manifest any appearance of avoiding her?... Or, on the contrary, shall I keep on? Any avoidance might make her think unfavorably of me.... But would it be prudent to speak to her?...” While thus debating with himself, he looked at Eugénie as she advanced towards him, handsome and dignified as ever, and as calm as he was agitated. He still kept on, yielding to an irresistible attraction without bringing himself to an account for it. As he advanced, he recalled how Françoise had praised her. “That dear woman,” he said, “could have no interest in deceiving me. A soul so upright and pure could only tell the truth. And who has had a better opportunity of knowing Mlle. Eugénie?... Well, I must study this unique girl a little more!... I will speak to her!... I have judged her too severely. I must learn her real nature. I must show her what I am. She has, I am sure, conceived some suspicion about me which she may already regret. At all events, my line of conduct here is plainly marked out. I am resolved to regain her esteem, and obtain her assistance in the good I am doing, in order that it may be done more effectually and speedily. Now is the time to make the attempt!...”
As he said this to himself, he met Eugénie. She did not appear at all embarrassed as he advanced to speak to her, but said, in a frank, natural tone: “You have been to see my patient; she spoke of you yesterday.”
“Yes, mademoiselle; I have just come from there. I do not think she will need our assistance long. Poor woman, or rather, happy woman, she is at last going to receive the reward she so well deserves!... But how many others there are still to be aided when she is gone!... There is so much wretchedness whichever way we turn! If there were only more like you, mademoiselle, to look after the poor!”
“And you also, monsieur. My father has told me something of your plans. I will not speak of my approval: my approbation is of little value; but I assure you they please me. Above all, I hope you will not allow yourself to be discouraged by difficulties you are likely to meet with.”
“I hope, with the help of God, to overcome them, mademoiselle. But the efforts of an isolated individual like myself are of little avail, especially when one has had no more experience and is no richer than I.”
These words were uttered in a tone of frankness and simplicity that produced a lively impression on Eugénie. “If he is sincere in what he says,” said she to herself, “my suspicions about him are unjust; but this frankness and simplicity of manner are perhaps subtle means of blinding my eyes.” She therefore remained on her guard. “Ah! monsieur, it is not money alone we should give the poor! What they need, above all, is advice, which you are much better fitted to give than I who have had no experience of life.”
There was a tinge of irony in these last words that did not escape Louis, but he pretended not to observe it.
“I do not think,” said he, “that I have had as much experience as you suppose, mademoiselle. However, a Christian seeks aid from a different source than the insufficient arsenal of human experience. What we should, above all, remind the poor of, what we should induce them to love, are the precepts of religion which they may have forgotten and no longer practise for want of knowing their value.”
“You are very pious, it seems, monsieur,” she said, in a slight tone of raillery.
“I must put an end to this,” said Louis to himself. “She seems to regard me as a hypocrite. I will prove to her I am not. If she refuses to believe me, her persistency in such odious and unjust suspicions will redound to her own injury.”
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I am not very pious, but I desire to be so, or rather to become so again, for I was as long as my mother lived. She was taken away too soon for my good, for I had need of her counsels and guidance. I have realized it since! You have doubtless had an account of my life. It may be summed up in three words: folly, despair, and return to God. I dare not pledge my word that this return is irrevocable: I have given too many proofs of weakness to rely on myself. God, who has brought me back to himself, can alone give me the necessary strength to remain faithful to him. But if I cannot promise ever to falter again, I can at least venture to declare that my conversion is sincere—so sincere that, having lost all I had, I regard this loss as extremely fortunate, for it was, in God’s providence, the means of leading me back to the faith. Such a benefit can never be too dearly purchased!”
Louis kept his eyes fastened on Eugénie as he spoke. She looked up more than once; the expression of his face and the tone of his voice were so evidently those of an honest man, that she felt all her doubts give way.
“Monsieur,” said she, “I do not know as I should reproach myself for what I said with regard to your piety, though I perceive it has wounded you, for it has led to an explanation on your part which....”
“Which has made me happy,” was what Eugénie was about to say, but she stopped quite confused as she bethought herself of the interpretation he might give to her words.
Louis comprehended her embarrassment; he saw her fears, and came to her aid. “Which you thought necessary, mademoiselle,” suggested he. “I can understand that. It is rather a rare phenomenon to see a young man pass from dissipation to piety.”
Eugénie immediately recovered her usual serenity. “Well, monsieur,” said she, “now I know your intentions and projects; I assure you my mother and myself will second them as much as is in our power. What is there we can do?”
“Tell me what charitable offices you like the least, mademoiselle, or what you find too difficult to perform.”
“That is admirable! We have often longed for a representative, a substitute, who could effect what we were unable to do. But how can we otherwise aid you?”
“You are kind enough, then, to allow me to be the medium of your alms. It is a pleasant office to receive contributions for the benefit of others, especially from people as benevolent as you, mademoiselle. I accept the post with lively gratitude, and will at once ask you for some good books for the library I have established for the workmen.”
“I will bring you twenty volumes to-morrow that are of no use to me, and are exactly what you want.”
Louis and Eugénie then separated. The interview was short, but it led to the very points which enabled them to study and appreciate each other better than they could have done in two hours in a salon.
That evening, Louis appeared to his workmen more cheerful and social than usual. He was at last sure of gaining Eugénie’s esteem. Without acknowledging it to himself, he already loved her to such a degree that he was extremely desirous of revealing himself to her under an aspect more and more favorable. This is loving worthily and heartily.
As to Eugénie, when she entered the presence of the poor woman she went to visit, she could not resist the desire of speaking again of Louis. An instinctive, perhaps superstitious, feeling made her believe, as well as he, that this woman, who was dying in so pious a frame of mind after so heroic a life, could not be mistaken in her opinion. “So pure a soul ought to be able to read clearly the hearts of those around her,” she said to herself.
“Has M. Beauvais been here to-day, Mère Françoise?” she asked.
“Yes, mademoiselle. I am glad you spoke of him. I do not expect to see him again in this world, and was so taken up with a favor I had to ask him that I forgot to express my gratitude for all his kindness to me. Every day he has brought me something new; but that is the least of his benefits. I particularly wished to express my thanks for all the good he has done me by his conversation. Ah! mademoiselle, how I wish you could hear him speak of God, the misery of this world, and the joys of heaven! If I die happy, it is owing to him. Before he came to see me, I was afraid of death. However poor we may be, we cling to life so strongly!... Thanks to him, I now feel I cannot die too soon.... I have told M. le Curé all this, and he made me promise to pray for one who has so successfully come to his aid. When I reach heaven, I shall pray for him and for you, mademoiselle. You have both been so kind to me. Promise to tell him all this.”
This testimony, so spontaneous and heart-felt, from a dying person, with regard to Louis’ goodness and piety, and this union of their names in the expression of her gratitude, produced a profound and lasting impression on the tender, romantic soul of Eugénie. All the way home she dwelt on what had occurred. She began to reproach herself for her suspicions—suspicions now vanished. It was not that she loved Louis, or even had an idea she might love him, but her noble mind had a horror of the injustice she had been guilty of towards an innocent and unfortunate man. “I will repair it,” she said to herself, “by faithfully keeping the promise I made him.”
That very evening, she spoke of Louis to her father and mother, repeating the conversation she had had with him, and expressing a wish to co-operate in the good work he was undertaking. “It is a work in which we cannot refuse our sympathy,” she said, “for its object is to ameliorate the condition of our workmen—a question that has preoccupied us all for a long time.”
Eugénie’s object in this was to induce her parents to express their opinion of Louis. She particularly wished to ascertain Mr. Smithson’s sentiments. He was almost an infallible judge, in his daughter’s estimation, and therefore it was with sincere deference she awaited his reply. It was the first time she had forced him to give his opinion of Louis, or that there had ever been any serious question concerning him in the family circle.
“My child,” said Mr. Smithson, “M. Louis means well, I think. He seems to be a considerate person, or at least tries to be. I approve of your wish to aid him in collecting a library; but, if he proposes your joining him in any other benevolent enterprise, you must consult me before coming to any decision. This young man, I say, has good qualities, but he is a little enthusiastic. His ardor just now needs moderating; after a while, it may be necessary to revive it. Let him go on. We will aid him when we can be of service, but must be a little on our guard.”
The oracle had spoken. Eugénie reflected on what had been said. It was evident that Louis inspired her father with some distrust. Mr. Smithson, according to his habit, left his wife and daughter at an early hour to work in his office.
XV. A QUESTION
EUGENIE, being left alone with her mother, resolved to obtain, if possible, some light on the question her father’s words had excited in her mind. She felt anxious to know why he distrusted Louis. He was now a subject of interest to her. This was not all: she had begun by judging him unfavorably; then she reversed her opinion. Now she had come to the point of wishing to repair her secret wrongs against him without his being aware of it.... But should she carry out her wish, or, on the contrary, return to her past antipathy?... On the one hand was the impression left by her interview with Louis; on the other, the depressing state of doubt produced by her father’s reticence. She was one of those persons who prefer certainty to doubt, whatever it may be. “My mother must be aware of my father’s real sentiments,” she said to herself; “I will ask her.” Nothing was easier. Mme. Smithson and her daughter lived on a footing of affectionate equality that I do not exactly approve of, but which excludes all restraint.
“Mother,” said Eugénie, “give me a sincere reply to what I am going to ask. What do you think of M. Louis?”
“You are greatly interested in this M. Louis, then? You talk of nothing else this evening. What is the reason? Hitherto you have paid no attention to him.”
“Yes; I am interested in him. I have been studying him. You know I have a mania for deciphering everybody. Well, he is still an enigma. Yet I am sure of one thing: he is a man to be thoroughly esteemed or despised, not half-way. In a word, he is that rare thing—a character. Only, is he a noble or a contemptible character?... The question is a serious one. I wish to solve it, but cannot with the light I now have.”
“Well done! here is some more of your customary exaggeration! Of what consequence is it, my dear, what he is? He has come here for well-known reasons. Your father was tired of attending to all the details of the manufactory, and employs him to take charge of essential though secondary duties. He pays him a very high salary—too high, in my estimation—but he is pleased, delighted with his aptitude and activity; that is all I care for.”
“Excuse me, that is not enough for me. I repeat: M. Louis is different from most men, mother. He is a man, and the rest are only puppets.”
“Really! I should not have suspected it. He seems to me quite commonplace.”
“But not to me.”
“What can you see in him so remarkable?”
“He has, or at least appears to have, an elevation of mind and constancy of purpose that are striking.”
“Why, my dear, you make me laugh. Really, if all the gentlemen you see would only adapt themselves a little to your humor, there is not one you could not turn into a hero of romance.”
“Not at all. The proof is that I have hitherto only seen men unworthy of any serious consideration. When did I ever acknowledge I had found a man of character such as I would like to see?...”
“And you think M. Louis this white blackbird?”
“I really do.”
“Well, I confess you astonish me. I never should have dreamed of your noticing him. Perhaps you have taken a fancy to him.”
“Mother, we are accustomed to think aloud before each other. I do not fancy him—understand that—in the least. I do not even believe I ever could fancy him. This does not prevent me from thinking him, as I said, different from other men. Whether in good or ill, he differs from young men of his age. But is he better or worse?—that is the question—a serious one I would like to have answered. Till to-day, I have thought him worse.”
“It is not possible! The poor fellow has committed some errors, as I have told you. I certainly do not wish to palliate them, but we must not be more severe than God himself: he always pardons.”
“It is not a question of his sins.”
“What is the question, then? You keep me going from one surprise to another this evening.”
“It is a question of knowing if he is the man he pretends to be—that is, one who has forsaken his errors, acknowledges he has gone astray, repents, and resolves to live henceforth in a totally different manner. If he is such a man; if he can resign himself courageously to his modest situation here, and, moreover, has the noble desire of comforting the afflicted, instructing the ignorant, and reclaiming those who have gone astray, I tell you M. Louis is worthy of the highest esteem; we ought to encourage and aid him with all our might. But if he is not the man I think—if these fine projects are only a lure, an artful means....”
“A means of doing what?... Goodness! Eugénie, you get bewildered with your fancies. Do you imagine he wishes to revolutionize the establishment, and supplant your father?...”
“Let us not exaggerate things, I beg, mother. What I wished you to understand was a delicate point. I hoped you would guess it from a word. Come, have you no suspicion of what so greatly troubles me?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Indeed!... I am astonished. Well, may he not manifest all this zeal, and affect all these airs of disinterested benevolence, to bring about a secret project?”
“What one, I ask you again? When you go to dreaming impossibilities, you know I can never follow you. Explain yourself clearly.”
“Well, since I am forced to call things by their right names, is he not aiming at my hand?”
“What a droll idea!... Why, he has not a sou left! Everybody knows that. He spent his property in six or seven years, and has nothing more to expect for a long time. So you believe he resolved to become religious, thinking that would be sufficient capital, in Mr. Smithson’s eyes, to obtain his daughter? I think he has too much sense to imagine anything so absurd; especially to give it a serious thought.”
“But if he hoped to please me by this means?... to win my esteem, my good will, my affection?...”
“All romance that, my dear.”
“But not impossible.”
“I prefer to think, for my own peace of mind and your father’s, that things will turn out differently. We have never intended you to marry a man without property. The idea of your having a husband who, instead of being wealthy, has squandered all he had, and might spend what you brought him!...”
“Ah! I understand you: you do not think him sincere.”
“I do not say that! He may be changed for the present, but who can be sure his conversion will be lasting?”
“It will if it is sincere; I am sure of that, for I have studied him. He possesses one quality which I either admire or detest, according to the use made of it: he has a strong will. He has been here a month, and, having nothing better to do, I have observed him, and have not discovered a single inconsistency in his conduct. He has always shown, exteriorly at least, the same love of labor, the same desire of doing all the good he can, and the same unassuming deportment. Either he is a man of rare excellence, or is uncommonly artful. I wish I knew exactly what my father thinks of him.”
“And why this persistency in discovering a mystery of so little importance?”
“Because I do not wish to despise M. Louis if he is worthy of esteem, and it would be wrong not to encourage him in well-doing if he has entered on that path with a sincere heart. Besides, I regard what he has undertaken and all he wishes to do as admirable as it is useful. I had been wishing for such an attempt to be made here, and could not be better pleased than to see my idea so speedily realized. M. Louis is, in my eyes, either a saint or a hypocrite. I have no fancy for loving either the one or the other; but, if he is a saint, I should feel like aiding him to a certain degree. After all, mother, is there anything in the world more desirable than to do good to those around us, especially when we are so situated as to make it a duty? Have you not often said so yourself?”
“You are right, my dear Eugénie. I feel what you say, and approve of it. As I advance in years, I feel a constantly increasing desire of laboring for Almighty God, for whom I have hitherto done so little. You need not fear; neither your father nor I have any doubts as to M. Louis. Nothing we have observed or have been told leads us to think him a hypocrite. As you desire it so strongly, I will tell you your father’s secret opinion, but do not betray me. He only dislikes one thing in M. Louis: he is too devoted a Catholic. It is all in vain: we cannot induce your father to like our religion. Catholics are too ardent every way, too superstitious, he says. He distrusts the engineer because he thinks him overzealous, that is all....”
When Eugénie went to her chamber, she selected the books she wished to contribute to Louis’ library, and then retired to rest, thinking of all the good that would now be done by him, as well as herself, in a place where want and every evil passion were to be found. Her noble, ardent soul had at length found its sphere. Hitherto she had dreamed of many ways of giving a useful direction to her activity, each one more impracticable than the rest. The right way was now open. Louis had pointed it out. Eugénie longed to become the benefactress of St. M——. Her imagination and her heart were pleased. It seemed to her as if she had become another being. She prayed that night with a fervor she had not felt for a long time. Then she fell into a reverie. In spite of herself, Louis’ image continually recurred to her mind. Before she fell asleep, she murmured a prayer for poor Françoise. Her name recalled the last words of that excellent woman: “In heaven, I shall pray for him and for you!” And circumstances were tending that same day to link them together as the dying woman had joined their names in prayer. There was something singular about this that struck Eugénie’s imagination. “Can her words be prophetic?” she said to herself. “So many strange things happen!... But this would be too much. He pleases me in no way except....” And she reviewed his good qualities, then blushed for attaching so much importance to the thought....
The next morning, she went with the books she had selected the night before. Fanny accompanied her. Louis received her with the exquisite politeness he never laid aside but with a cold reserve he had resolved to maintain towards her. Their interview only lasted a few minutes. Fanny, who had been easy for some time, was greatly astonished when asked to accompany her mistress to the engineer’s office. Their conversation showed they had recently seen each other, but under what circumstances she could not make out. All this redoubled her suspicions. On her way home with Eugénie, she remarked:
“That M. Louis is a charming young man; more so than I had supposed. What respect he showed mademoiselle! I am sure mademoiselle judges him with less severity than she did several weeks ago.”
“I have never judged him with severity,” replied Eugénie, with that lofty coolness which made those who did not know her accuse her of pride. “Why should I judge M. Beauvais? that is my father’s business.”
Fanny returned to the assault: “That is a queer notion of his to wish to instruct all those ignorant people. Much good will it do them! The more they know, the more dangerous they will be!...”
“Fanny, you should address such observations to M. Louis or my father. It is they who have founded the library and school, and they intend doing many other things without consulting you, I imagine.”
“Common people sometimes give good advice.”
“But they should give it to those who need it. All this does not concern me, I tell you again.”
“O the deceitful girl!” said Fanny to herself when alone in her chamber that night. “I always said she would deceive me. Where could she have seen him?... Is she already in love with him?... She is capable of it! But I will watch her narrowly, and, if it is not too late, will counteract her projects! I have a good deal to contend with, however. This M. Louis is an artful fellow. And on the other hand, it is no easy matter to lead Mlle. Eugénie.... I only hope she is not yet in love with him!... If she were to marry him instead of her cousin, I should go distracted.... Poor Albert! if he knew what is going on here. Fortunately, I am on the spot to watch over his interests. And there is more reason than ever to be on the lookout.”
XVI. LOVE WITHOUT HOPE
LOUIS came to see us as often as his occupations allowed. He made us a long call the very day after Eugénie gave him the books for his library, and seemed more excited than usual. He related his conversation with Mr. Smithson, and spoke of his pleasure at meeting Eugénie and regaining her good opinion by a frank explanation of his plans and the motives by which he was influenced.
“Well,” said Victor, “does she continue to please you?”
“More than I wish.”
“Why this regret?”
“It is only reasonable. My happiness is involved in being pleased with her.”
“Come, I see we shall not be able to agree on this point.”
“Yes, my dear friend; the more I reflect, the plainer it is that I ought not to become attached to her; at least, to make her aware of it, should such a misfortune happen. But I will not conceal it from you: I fear I already love her....”
“You are decidedly tenacious in your notions. Why do you torture yourself with scruples that are evidently exaggerated?...”
“All your friendly reasonings are of no avail. However disinterested my love might be, it would seem to her only the result of calculation; this is enough to justify me in my apprehensions.”
“I cannot agree with you. Delicacy of sentiment is a noble thing, but it must not be carried to excess. I am willing you should conceal your love for her till you can prove it sincere; that is, not the result of calculation—I will go still further: till the time comes when they voluntarily render homage to the nobleness of your intentions. But when that day comes, and you see that Mlle. Eugénie esteems and loves you....”
“She will never love me.”
“How do you know?”
“Mlle. Smithson has rare qualities which make her the realization of all my dreams, but I see I am not pleasing to her. Before any change in her sentiments is possible, she will have another suitor with more to offer her than I, and without a past like mine to frustrate his hopes. He will please her, and I can only withdraw. Well, I confess I wish to reserve one consolation for that day, feeble as it may be—the satisfaction of being able to say to myself: “She did not know I loved her.”
“My poor friend, you take too gloomy a view of the future.”
“Do not imagine my fears will result in a dangerous melancholy. I realize more fully than you may suppose the advantages of my present position. I might at this very moment be in another world—a world of despair.... To us Christians, such a thought is full of horror. Instead of that, I see the possibility of repairing the past, and of doing some good. When I compare my present life with that I was leading a year ago, the favorable contrast makes me happy! I had discarded the faith, lost the esteem of upright men, and given myself up to ignoble pleasures!—useless to the world, an object of disgust to myself. I had not the courage to look at myself as I was. How all that is changed! How happy I ought to be!... But, no; the heart of man is at once weak and insatiable. At a time when I ought to be happy, I am so weak as to yield to a love I should have denied myself. If I cannot overcome it, it will be a source of new regret. I know there is one means of safety, or perhaps there is—that of flight.... But, no; I will not, I cannot thus ensure a selfish security. It would be cowardly to recede before the noble work God has assigned me. There is no doubt now as to my future usefulness at Mr. Smithson’s. I could not find elsewhere the same facilities for doing the good I long to effect. I will remain....”
“I will not assert it would be cowardly to leave, but a man as courageous as you are and have need to be ought to remain at his post at whatever cost. Like you, I believe that is the post to which God himself has called you.”
“I shall remain.... You cannot imagine how happy I am there when my heart is not agitated. Provisions are dear this year, and we have quite a number of hands forced by want to leave Paris. These two things combined have produced unusual demoralization among the men we employ. Some give themselves up to drunkenness by way of relief; others, listening to the evil suggestions of hunger, conceive an inward hatred against those who are rich. There are a few ringleaders, and a good many disaffected men, all ready to yield to the most criminal proposals. Mr. Smithson is aware of this, and therefore fully approves of my plan for the amelioration of so mixed a set. I must do him the justice to acknowledge he has been generous. His wife and daughter are still more so. I shall therefore remain as long as I can. I only beseech God for one favor—to bless my efforts, and give me the courage necessary to make the great sacrifice if it be required....”
“Ah! then you really love Mlle. Smithson. I thought at the most you were only afraid of loving her.”
“No; I will no longer keep this secret to myself; it is too great a burden to bear alone. Besides, this concealment would not be worthy of either of us. I was still in doubt this morning, but have since read the state of my heart more clearly. And this is what enabled me to do so:
“I returned home from church this morning with Mlle. Eugénie and her mother. The church, you know, is a kilometre and a half from the mill, but the road is delightful. On coming out of church, Mme. Smithson, who is an excellent woman, and quite pleasant and easy in her manners, invited me, as it were, to accompany them. Mlle. Eugénie at first remained apart with her waiting-maid, but still near enough to hear what we said. We first discussed the things suitable to give the poor, and the utility of familiar conversation with them in their houses. I expressed a determination to perform this act of charity as often as possible. I begged Mme. Smithson to mention the families she thought it advisable to visit in this way, as she knows them better than I. She promised to give me a list. Mlle. Eugénie then drew near, and said she would add a few names to it; then, taking a part in the conversation, and even directing it with the grace she shows in everything, she spoke in turn of charity, religion, and literature with an elevation of thought and in such beautiful language that it was a pleasure to listen to her. From time to time we stopped to look, now at one object, and then at another—the large trees by the wayside, the bushes, or the cottages. Mlle. Smithson found something charming to say of everything. We were half an hour in going a distance we might have accomplished in twenty minutes—a delightful half-hour, but it had its bitterness, as all my joys will henceforth have. I see it is the will of God that I should expiate my offences. Like you, I am persuaded that the privilege of doing good—the most desirable of all privileges—is only to be purchased at the price of suffering.”
“Yes,” said Victor; “but at the price of what suffering? Who can assure you it is that of which you are thinking?... That is a secret known only to God.”
“That is true, but I am sure I had to-day a foretaste of the suffering I allude to. She was there beside me—that beautiful young girl who would be a model of feminine excellence did she not lack one quality—piety—a piety more womanly, more profound, and more simple. She said many striking things—things that go straight to the heart: there was perfect sympathy between her soul and mine, but I watched over myself that I might not betray the admiration, the delight, the emotion, with which I listened to her! In the expression of her eyes, the tone of her voice, and whole manner, I could see, alas! how indifferent she was towards me; that she regarded me as her father’s agent—a mere employé, worthy only of passing attention.”
“How do you know? You are so accustomed to reading hearts that perhaps you take imagination for reality.”
“I do not think so.... She has changed towards me, I acknowledge. She regards me as a sincere, upright person. I know how to keep in my place, but there she allows me to remain, and will continue to do so.”
Louis was extremely agitated when he left us that evening. My poor Victor, ill as he was, and he was now worse than ever, was thoughtful and sad for some time after Louis had gone.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
“I am thinking of Louis,” he replied. “I fear things may turn out badly for our poor friend. I do not know whether he will ever marry Eugénie or not; but I have a presentiment, I know not why, that this love is to cause him great suffering. And yet this attachment could not fail to spring up. If it is God’s will that Louis should pass through a severe trial, promise me to stand by him.”
“But you will also stand by him?”
“I shall no longer be here.”
Sad words! they were soon to be verified. Meanwhile, the hour of trial was approaching our poor friend—the trial he himself had foreseen.
XVII. A SOUBRETTE’S PLOT
MEANWHILE, Fanny was preparing sad hours for Louis.
Louis thought Eugénie maintained great reserve during the conversation that took place on their way home from church—so insatiable is one who loves! But Fanny received quite a different impression. Never had she seen her mistress so inspired, or converse with so much fluency and animation. Mme. Smithson’s kindness towards Louis, the appreciatory remarks she and her daughter made after their return home, and the dry, haughty manner with which Eugénie put Fanny in her place when she attempted to speak of the engineer, all excited the cunning servant’s suspicions in the highest degree.
“There is nothing lost yet,” she said to herself; “perhaps there has been no danger of it. Mademoiselle is not in love with him now, but she may be soon, if care is not taken. To delay any further would risk everything. I will hesitate no longer. How M. Albert would reproach me were I to warn him too late! How much I should reproach myself! Instead of having that excellent boy, so dear to me, for a master who would allow me to govern his house in my own way, I should be the humble servant of this gentleman, who is by no means pleasing to me, and who appears determined to make everybody yield to him. He is humble for the moment, because he has nothing; but I can read in his eyes: the day he is master here it will be in earnest. I shall then have to start. That would be distressing. There is only one way of avoiding such a misfortune: I must hasten to write Albert’s mother!”
So saying, Fanny seated herself at her table. An hour after, her chef-d’œuvre was completed. She reminded Mme. Frémin, her old mistress, of the affection she had always cherished for her and her son—which was true; she spoke of having wished for several years to see Albert marry Eugénie, and pointed out the perfect harmony of taste there was between the two cousins. This point, however, remained problematical. Fanny added that she should not be happy till the day she saw her two dear children united and established, and she herself living with them, entirely devoted to their interests.
Like all shrewd people, the soubrette reserved the most important communication for the end of her letter. She then remarked that Mlle. Eugénie seemed to be tired of the country, and it was time for Albert to offer himself; for, if another suitor appeared first, which she insinuated was by no means improbable, Albert might regret his delay. She had serious apprehensions.... Albert must really come. She would tell him all; he would never regret having undertaken the journey. But he must be careful, if he came, not to mention that she, Fanny, had urged him to do so. If she wrote thus, it was only because she was in a manner constrained by her affection for Albert and Eugénie. He must therefore be careful not to risk everything by his indiscretion....
This letter, carefully corrected and copied, was taken to the post-office in town the next day. No one suspected Fanny had written to Tante Frémin. It is useless to speak of the impatience with which she waited to see what her protégé would do. She trembled at the idea that he might not be roused till it was entirely too late to come.
XVIII. A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM
A WEEK after, Louis was again invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s, whose birthday they were to celebrate. The only people invited out of the family were the doctor and the Curé of St. M——. The curé’s invitation was an affair of importance, as you will see.
Mr. Smithson, as I have remarked, was an Englishman by birth. He had been induced by two motives to settle permanently in France when about thirty years of age: the climate suited his constitution better than that of his own country, and he could live more at his ease on the same income than he could in England.
Taking a house in Paris occupied by several tenants, his attention was drawn towards a young girl employed in a mercer’s shop on the ground floor of the same building. This girl was no other than the present Mme. Smithson. She lived with her mother, who was in comfortable circumstances, but made no pretensions. They were very estimable people, and gave the rich Englishman to understand that he could only be admitted as a visitor on condition of acknowledged serious intentions. Mr. Smithson at first hesitated. The girl was not rich, she belonged to a class he considered inferior to his own, and, what was more, they were of different religions. But it was too late to call reason to his aid. For six months he had felt a constantly increasing love for her. He therefore offered her his hand, merely requiring one concession on her part before he could marry her: she must embrace the religion he professed himself. Neither of the women who listened to this proposition was pious, but they did not lack faith, and they fulfilled the absolute commands of the church. They therefore replied, without a moment’s hesitation, that Mlle. Suzanne could not give up her religion for the sake of marrying him. At this, Mr. Smithson hesitated anew, but, as before, love carried the day. He renewed his offer, promising not to interfere with Suzanne’s religious belief if she would become his wife. He only made one condition to their marriage: they should respectively practise their religion without making any attempt to convert each other. As to the children, the boys must be brought up in their father’s belief, the daughters in that of their mother. Deplorable arrangement! showing the shameful indifference of both parties, or their foolish and culpable inconsistency. You know the church expressly forbids such concessions. It only tolerates mixed marriages on a precisely contrary condition: the parties to be married must pledge themselves that their offspring shall be brought up in the Catholic religion. I do not know how Mlle. Suzanne, in becoming Mme. Smithson, found means to evade this new difficulty. It is possible that, through ignorance or culpable weakness, she yielded to the terms without acknowledging it to any one. She doubtless hoped, when the time came for testing the arrangement, to find some means of extricating herself from it. At all events, they were married. Mr. Smithson remained an Anglican, and, astonishing to say, a thorough one. His attachment to the Church of England was easily explained by those who knew him. He still cherished an ardent love for his country, and almost reproached himself for leaving it. His fidelity to the English Church was a last testimony of attachment to the country he had abandoned.
When Eugénie was born, her father manifested a temporary sullenness and ill humor at her baptism that frightened Mme. Smithson. Nevertheless, she was firm. Eugénie was brought up very strictly, and her father gradually became accustomed to her being a Catholic, to see her practise her religion, and even hear her speak of it with enthusiasm, for she was enthusiastic on all great themes.
These were, it must be said, the only concessions Mr. Smithson made to the true faith. He never entered a Catholic church. He even refused to acknowledge that which its very enemies are forced to concede—the grandeur and utility of the enterprises she alone successfully achieves; the efficacious assistance she renders each one of us at critical moments in our lives; and the happiness—earthly happiness even—that she bestows on all who are faithful to her teachings. But the decided stand Mr. Smithson took against the true faith was specially manifested by his antipathy to the priesthood. Though he had lived a year and a half at St. M——, he had never had any intercourse with the Abbé Bonjean, the curé of the commune. Mme. Smithson and her daughter went to High Mass every Sunday, made the curé a brief call on New Year’s Day, and went to confession at Easter—that was all. I had some reason, therefore, to say it was a thing of no small importance to see the abbé at Mr. Smithson’s table. What had effected such a change in the mind of this dogmatic Englishman?... Had his daughter begged it as a favor?... By no means. Eugénie was not pious enough to care for the society of the curé.... Had Mme. Smithson ventured to break the compact which forbade her broaching, even remotely, the subject of religion to her husband? Still less likely. Madame had not the courage unless forced to revolt against some enormity like apostasy. What led Mr. Smithson to invite the abbé was the result of his own reflections. Since he had taken charge of a manufactory, and been brought in contact with a large number of workmen, some poor and others corrupt, he had felt an increasing desire of being useful to them, both morally and physically. Mr. Smithson had really a noble heart. Catholic benevolence excited his admiration more than he confessed. It caused him to reflect, though he was careful not to reveal his thoughts. These salutary reflections had gradually convinced him that, if he wished to reform the place, he must obtain the aid of some one not only of good-will like Louis, but of incontestable moral authority.... Where find a person with more means than the curé?... With the extreme prudence habitual to him—and he was more cautious now than ever, as it was a question of a priest—he was desirous of studying his future co-laborer. He could not help it; this black-robed man inspired him with distrust. “I will begin by studying him,” he said to himself; “and, for that, he must come to my house.” This plan decided upon, he acted accordingly. Without telling any one of his secret intention, without even giving a hint of it, except to his wife and daughter at the last moment, he invited the abbé.
Louis had already begun to understand his employer’s prejudices, and was therefore extremely astonished when he arrived to find the curé had been invited. But his astonishment was mingled with joy. He had already become acquainted with the abbé, and had been to confession to him more than once, and had more than one conversation with him. The curé was even aware of all Louis’ plans, and, as may be supposed, gave them his entire approbation.
There was some stiffness and embarrassment as the guests seated themselves at table, and looked at one another; but, after a few moments, the genuine simplicity of the abbé, who was no fool, and the doctor’s facetiousness, broke the ice. Mr. Smithson alone maintained his usual reserve. He had sent for the abbé that he might study his character, and he was not neglecting it. As to Louis, seated opposite Eugénie, he seemed to emulate the wise man of the Scriptures who had made a compact with his eyes and his tongue. He tempered the fire of his eye, restrained his flow of words, and courageously filled the part he had imposed on himself—that of a man serious unto coldness, calm unto insensibility.
Everything passed off very well till the dessert. Mr. Smithson then directed the conversation to the condition of his workmen, and spoke of his desire to ameliorate it. Eugénie warmly applauded what her father said; she spoke of some visits she had made, and gave many interesting details respecting the families she had assisted.
The good abbé had, alas! one fault. Priests have their faults as well as we—fewer, without doubt, but still they have some. The curé’s defect was a want of prudence. He was agreeable in conversation, and had the best intentions in the world, but he did not weigh his words sufficiently. He never troubled himself about the interpretation, malevolent or otherwise, that certain people might give to them. He was a good man, but not sufficiently mindful of our Saviour’s counsel to be wise as a serpent and simple as a dove. He was amiable and sincere, but lacking in discretion: that was a misfortune. At a time of religious indifference and of impiety like ours, more than usual prudence is necessary for all who love their religion: the impious are so glad to find a pretext for their calumnies! The abbé now began in the heartiest manner, and very sincerely too, to compliment Mr. Smithson for all he had said, and Mlle. Eugénie for all she had done. He gave a thrilling but true sketch of the ravages want and immorality were making among the working-classes, and dwelt on the necessity of an immediate and efficacious remedy. All this was proper. There was nothing so far to criticise. But the abbé should have stopped there. He had, however, the indiscretion to keep on, adding many things ill adapted to those before whom he was speaking. “I know what remedies are necessary,” said he; “and who of us does not? They are—instruction to a certain degree, visiting the poor in their houses, dropping a good word, and, above all, the infinite service of leading them back to the holy Catholic religion, which alone knows how to influence the heart of man, and inspire benevolent souls with the wisdom and perseverance necessary for perfecting their noble enterprises. I hope I wound no one’s feelings in expressing myself thus. What I have said is only a well-known truth, readily acknowledged by a multitude of upright souls who have not, however, the happiness of belonging to us.”
Mr. Smithson said nothing. He felt the shaft, however blunted, that was aimed so directly at him. The curé himself seemed conscious of having gone too far in the ardor of his untimely zeal. The Englishman was one of those men who only retort when obliged to: he remained silent. The poor curé hurt himself still more by enthusiastically eulogizing Louis a few minutes after in these words: “M. Louis, by another year, you will have shown yourself the good angel of the whole country around.”
This appeared exaggerated to Mr. Smithson. It excited his jealousy, already awakened. He imagined he saw proofs of an understanding between the curé and the engineer in this unfortunate remark. Their understanding had an evident aim, in Mr. Smithson’s eyes, to diminish his moral influence, and even suppress it. “That is the way with Catholic priests,” he said to himself. “They are ambitious, scheming, eager to rule, and knowing how to find accomplices everywhere.” The curé and Louis thenceforth became objects of suspicion, though he was careful not to show it outwardly.
Louis had begun to understand human nature, and at once realized all the imprudence of the curé’s remarks. He foresaw the bad effect they would have on the master of the house. He tried in vain, by some adroit turn in the conversation, to lessen, if not to annul, the unfortunate impression the abbé’s conversation might have produced. The curé persisted in his opinion, and only added to his previous blunder. Louis felt he should not gain anything, and stopped short with so distressed an air that it was pitiful to see him.
Mr. Smithson, led away by his prejudices, thought Louis’ depression the consequence of his accomplice’s betraying so awkwardly the secret tie between them. “The engineer is, perhaps, the more dangerous of the two,” he said to himself. “I should never have suspected their plan, had it not been for the abbé’s imprudent frankness.” Hence he concluded there would be more need than ever of keeping an eye on his subordinate.
Eugénie, though not pious, understood her religion too well, and loved it, or rather, admired it too much, to be astonished at what the curé had said. She thoroughly agreed with him, but, as the conversation became serious, she only attended to the most important points, and paid but little attention to the abbé’s imprudent remarks. The praise he bestowed on Louis did not seem to her excessive. She rather approved than condemned it. She did not, therefore, suspect the cause of Louis’ sadness, but attributed it to a want of ease naturally occasioned by the inferior position into which he had been thrown by his misfortunes. More than once she came to his aid, politely addressing the conversation to him. Seeing him still preoccupied, she ended by proposing after dinner that he should sing something to her accompaniment. Louis excused himself. “I insist upon it,” she said, in a tone of sweet authority that instantly transported him into a new world. He forgot the curé’s imprudence, its probable effect on Mr. Smithson, and his own difficult position. The first time for a long while—ten years, perhaps—he had one of those moments of cloudless happiness that rarely falls to man’s lot, and can never be forgotten. It seemed as if a mysterious, ravishing voice whispered that Eugénie was beginning to love him. At least, he no longer doubted for the moment the possibility of her loving him some day. Louis had the soul of an artist, and possessed undoubted talent, and he sang that evening as he had never sung in his life.
When the song was ended, he turned toward Eugénie, and read in her eyes sincere astonishment and admiration, but nothing else. All his doubts, all his sadness, revived. An instant before, his heart overflowed with joy: now he was so cast down that he was alarmed, and wondered what misfortune was going to happen to him. I am not exaggerating: ardent natures often pass through such alternations of extreme joy and sadness. The evening passed away without any new incident. Before midnight, the guests returned home, and were free to yield to their own thoughts. The few hours just elapsed had modified the sentiments of all who had dined together at Mr. Smithson’s.
Eugénie, without allowing it to appear outwardly, had also had one of those sudden revelations that like a flash reveal everything with unexpected clearness. For the first time, she fully realized the possibility of loving one whom she at first despised. Louis’ dignified, melancholy air, his grave, earnest manner of conversing, his remarkable musical talent, and the sympathetic tone of his voice, all produced an effect on Eugénie she had never experienced before. Not that she loved him yet, but she asked herself how long her indifference would last. First impressions are hard to efface from ardent souls. Eugénie was alarmed at the idea of loving one who had at first inspired her with so much distrust. She resolved to watch more carefully over herself, and keep an observant eye on one who might take a place in her heart she did not wish to give, unless for ever.
This was wise. One cannot take too much precaution when there is reason to fear the heart is disposed to yield. The heart is the best or the worst of counsellors, according as it is guided or abandoned by reason. Besides, Eugénie was wholly ignorant of Louis’ feelings towards her.
Poor Louis ended the evening in disheartening reflections. He began by dwelling on a painful alternative: either Eugénie did not suspect his love for her, or, if she perceived it, her only response was a coldness that was discouraging. “And yet,” thought he, “if I am mistaken!... If she already loves me in her heart!... If at least she could some day love me!” ... He smiled. Then another fear, still worse than the rest, crossed his mind. “Well, if it were so, there would be another obstacle in the way more dangerous than the indifference of Mlle. Eugénie herself—the opposition of her father. He would never consent to the marriage. His antipathy to me has always been evident. The abbé has completed my ruin. I am henceforth a dangerous man—a fanatic—in Mr. Smithson’s eyes!”
“What shall I do?” added Louis, by way of conclusion. “Shall I give up the work I have undertaken? Ought I to practise my religion secretly, in order to give no offence?... No, indeed; that would be cowardly, unworthy of a man of courage, and criminal ingratitude towards God, who has been so merciful to me.... No hateful concessions! With the divine assistance, I will do what I think is for the best. Whatever happens will be the will of God.... Whatever it may be, I shall be sure of having nothing to repent of....”
To be serious, I should add that Louis, in forming this resolution, was not so heroic as he really believed himself to be. He was young, he was in love: and youth and love have always some hope in store.
It is useless to speak of Mr. Smithson. We are aware of his sentiments. Louis was not wrong in his fears respecting him. And yet, however sad Louis’ position might be, it was soon to become still more so. A new cloud was rising without his suspecting it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
MARRIAGE SONG.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Love begins upon the heights, As on tree-tops, in the spring, April with green foot alights While the birds are carolling: Aye, but April ends with May: Love must have the marriage-day!
II.
Love begins upon the heights, As o’er snowy summits sail First the dewy matin lights Destined soon to reach the vale: Love-touched maidens must not grieve That morn of love hath noon and eve!
III.
Love begins with Fancy first, Proud young Love the earth disdains But his cold streams, mountain-nursed, Warm them in the fruitful plains Ere the marriage-day be sped:— Peal the bells! The bride is wed!
PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.
A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF “THE CATHOLIC WORLD.”
THE suggestion often made in your excellent magazine, that Americans in general, and American Catholics in particular, should be supplied with some means of acquiring sound knowledge of philosophical truth, led me to consider what particular plan might be most adapted to this end, and what resources were at our disposal for carrying out successfully such a praiseworthy undertaking. The result of this my investigation is not calculated, perhaps, to excite that degree of interest which the subject deserves; yet, as it may be the occasion of other useful reflections on the part of those who wish to promote this enterprise, I have decided to offer it to your philosophical readers.
I assume that our plan should unquestionably embrace either all that is worth knowing in philosophy, or at least all that is needed for the explanation and vindication of all important truths, as well as for the radical refutation of all modern errors.
To carry out such a plan, a writer would need an extensive knowledge and a keen appreciation of the teachings of the scholastic philosophers and theologians, and especially a masterly comprehension of the general principles on which those teachings have their rational foundation. Such a writer, I think I may safely add, should be of that sort of men who not only know the doctrines of the great masters of the old school, but who also feel the greatest respect for those eminent thinkers; and he should be prepared boldly to follow their leadership in all fundamental questions concerning principles, without the least regard for what is now circulated as “modern thought.” His style should be modern, but his principles should be the principles sanctioned by the wisdom of all past ages.
Every one, of course, will allow that we modern men, in many branches of natural science, have attained to a degree of information vastly superior to what the ancients even dreamed of. Accordingly, we may not improperly consider ourselves better qualified than they were for the solution of a great number of physical questions, of which they are known to have either overlooked the very existence, or missed the true interpretation. It is quite certain, however, at the same time, that we are immensely inferior to them with regard to strictly philosophical knowledge; and this is the more surprising as one would suppose that our superior information concerning the laws of nature would have enabled us to reach truth from a higher standpoint, and to correct and improve, even to perfection, the philosophical theories of the old school. Yet the fact is certain and notorious: we have only a few good philosophers, while we need a great many to stand against the torrent of infidelity.
As it is, I think that no man of judgment will deny that we cannot raise ourselves to a competent philosophical level and secure the triumph of truth unless we learn again, and turn to account in our war against our modern barbarians, those doctrines that triumphed over the barbarians of old, and made Europe remain for centuries the shining centre of the civilized world. Wisdom was not born yesterday, and philosophical principles are as old as mankind; hence, new facts may be seen, but no new principles of philosophy can be invented.
It therefore remains for us, if we wish to spread sound knowledge and foster true wisdom, to cling to the old philosophical principles, to vindicate them so far as in our present struggling condition it may be necessary, and to apply them judiciously to the close discussion and consistent settlement of arising questions. This is the road that will lead us to the goal; and it is a short and easy one, too; for the first principles of all things are not very many, and can be mastered with ease, while their application needs only two conditions, namely, first, a sufficient knowledge of the primitive facts and laws of the physical order; and, second, a rigorous logic.
As the main object we should have in view is the improvement of American thought concerning moral and social truths, it might seem that the work of which I am speaking should mainly be a work of moral philosophy, comprising the treatment of all natural rights and natural duties whether of individuals or of societies, and leaving dialectics and metaphysics mostly in the background as idle speculations, or at least as teaching nothing that is essential to the happiness and prosperity of private and public life. It is a fact that the general reader is inclined to look upon all logical and metaphysical subtleties as a string of mere quibbles or an array of unsubstantialities. Though I am sure that, in the present wretched state of our public education, many would be found, even among our best citizens, ready to adopt and countenance such a view of the subject, I must say that the view is intrinsically wrong.
Philosophy is a whole whose parts are not merely integrant, but constituent; for each of these parts is essentially linked with the others. As time cannot exist without motion, so neither can moral philosophy without logic and metaphysics; and so sure as no velocity can exist apart from a moving body, even so rational philosophy cannot exist apart from all metaphysical truth. To see this the more clearly, let us examine what are the relations that bind together the parts of philosophy.
The old division of this science into rational, real, and moral, which we find to have been given by Plato,[147] is drawn from the inmost nature of things and the very constitution of philosophy. Everything that is perfect, whether it has an existence in the fields of reality, or only in the region of thought, is found to involve in its constitution, 1, something competent to give a certain determination; 2, some other thing liable to receive such a determination; 3, some third thing which is the immediate result of the concurrence of the other two. That which gives a determination is called the “formal” constituent of the thing; that which receives such a determination is called the “material” constituent of the same thing; finally, that which results is called the “formal complement,” and is the actual constitution or the very actuality of the thing thus constituted. Thus, for example, the human soul, inasmuch as it gives life to the human body, is the formal constituent of man; the organic body, inasmuch as it receives life through the soul, is his material constituent; and actual conscious life, which is the immediate result of the concurrence of soul and body in one compound nature, is the actuality of the being thus constituted, and makes it formally complete in its individual reality.
Now, philosophy is similarly made up of three such constituents. The formal constituent and, as it were, the soul of philosophy (and of all other sciences, too) is logic, or rational philosophy. Its duty is to impress a kind of rational stamp on the objects of science by applying to them the process of definition, division, and argumentation, which is the scientific process, and constitutes the “form” of science. For this reason, logic holds that place in regard to any object of science which the soul holds in regard to its body, and is therefore to be considered as the formal constituent of philosophy.
The material part, or the body, of philosophy is “all real being as such,” or, in other terms, all the subject-matter of metaphysics, or real philosophy; for metaphysics is nothing but the knowledge of real things acquired through the consideration of their intrinsic constitution; hence, all reality, be it created or uncreated, matter or spirit, substance or accident, is the “material” constituent of philosophy inasmuch as it is subjected to the scientific form by the application made to it of the logical process. The objective truth of things, so long as it is not subjected to the searching scrutiny of speculative reasoning, mostly belongs to the lower region of experimentalism, which scarcely deserves, though it has usurped, the high name of science; but, when pervaded by intellectual light, rises suddenly as vivified by it, and takes up its place in the serene region of metaphysics, where it shows itself in all the glory of its ontological beauty. Hence it is that metaphysics may be compared to a living body, of which logic is the soul.
Finally, by the application of logic to objective realities, namely, by the study of metaphysics, a wonderful bond is established between the rational faculty and objective truth, the first getting hold of the second, and the second reacting after its own manner on the first; so that reason, enlightened by objective truth, knows how to pronounce a right judgment on the merit of things, and in its natural rectitude feels compelled to give them that relative place in its estimation to which each of them is reasonably entitled. As the soul, therefore, owing to its intimate connection with the body, “feels” what suits or suits, not the requirement of the animated organism, and is pleased with the one, and displeased with the other, so also reason, owing to its clear possession of objective truth, “perceives” what agrees and what clashes with: the objective order of things, and, with the authority of a judge, pronounces its sentence that the first must be approved, and the second condemned. Such dictates of reason form the object of moral philosophy; and it is through them that the moral law is naturally communicated and promulgated to all rational creatures.
Hence, it is evident that the knowledge of morality is the result of an intellectual knowledge of the real nature of things, and of their intrinsic perfection, exigencies, and manifold relations. Hence, also, the conclusion that the rational, the real, and the moral order, though distinct objects of knowledge, are so bound together in one general science that it would be scarcely possible to speak of the one without referring to the other. Hence, finally, the further conclusion that the greater the importance of a true and thorough knowledge of morality, the more stringent is the necessity of securing to it the foundation of good, sound, and intelligible metaphysics. To neglect the latter would be to tamper with the most vital interests of the former.
Perhaps I might go even further, and say that what we need just now is not so much a new book of logic or of ethics as of metaphysics. A good metaphysical work is the surest foundation both of a good logic and of a good moral philosophy. The laws of thought and the laws of morality must be explained in accordance with the laws of real being; and the better we understand these last, the more truly conversant shall we become with the first. Besides, with respect to logic and ethics, we have no new doctrines to teach, whilst in metaphysics we have to settle a number of old and new questions regarding the constitution of natural things, and their causality, and their mutual connection, as we find that such questions are not satisfactorily treated either by the ancient metaphysicians or by our modern unphilosophical physicists. Such questions regard, as I said, natural things; but their solution has a bearing on many other philosophical doctrines, because it materially effects the terminology by which those doctrines are to be expounded.
I do not wish, nor would this be the place, to enter into particulars with regard to the method which might be followed in the treatment of different philosophical subjects; yet I think it worth remarking in general that the fewer the principles on which a philosopher shall build his reasonings, the more clear, uniform, and satisfactory will his demonstrations generally prove; and, on the other hand, in proportion as these principles shall be higher, the fewer will be needed. This leads me to believe that one of the best means which could be made available for the much-desired success of the undertaking would be to take our standpoint as high as possible (according to the very nature of philosophy, which is scientia per summas causas), and to base our demonstrations on the very first constituent principles of being. Looking down from such a height, we could easily dissipate the vague phantasmagory, and control the dangerous influences of many other so-called principles or axioms whose intrusion into the body of philosophy is due to ignorance or wrong interpretation of the facts and laws of the physical world. It is through these assumed principles that a very lamentable discord has been fostered and perpetuated between the votaries of physics, on the one hand, and those of metaphysics, on the other; and it is through the same cause, that even now the same student, after learning one thing as true in his class of metaphysics, is obliged to hear it declared false in his class of natural philosophy. This should not be; and we may hope that it will not be when our philosophical reasonings are ultimately grounded on first principles, and when no secondary principles are admitted which are not demonstrated, or corrected, or restricted by some evident and adequate reduction to first principles.
But now a question is to be answered which professors of philosophy will perhaps be the first to propose. The question is this: Can a sound and thorough work of philosophy, such as we want, be written in common and popular English, so as to prove easy reading for the average American student? Or must a special language be used which none but trained philosophers will understand?
Every one who knows how peculiar is the language of other sciences and arts will anticipate the answer. Of course, the English tongue is as fit as any other to express common thoughts; but common thoughts are the thoughts of common people, who do not commonly think with the utmost philosophical precision, nor talk of matters (of which there are many in philosophy) that transcend the common wants of their ordinary avocations. This being the case, it is obvious that, in writing a philosophical work (especially if it be intended to serve as a text-book for our higher Catholic institutions), it will be necessary to make use of a special language, which, though English, cannot be that easy-going and popular English which we find in common use, but must be a precise, guarded, dry, methodic, abstract, and perhaps stiff language, such as the gravity, subtlety, and difficulty of philosophical investigations often require.
I said, “Especially if the work is intended to serve as a text-book,” because, in this case, it will be absolutely necessary to adopt in it the whole of the philosophical terminology that has been handed down to us by our Catholic ancestors. Terminology, in all branches of study, is the faithful exponent of the various achievements of science, and contains, as it were, a summary of all that mankind has succeeded in learning in the course of centuries. To ignore more or less the philosophic terminology is therefore to ignore more or less the wisdom of all past ages. Moreover, it is only by means of an exact terminology that a teacher can convey the knowledge of exact truth to his pupils’ minds; and accordingly, all who study philosophy ex professo need to be well acquainted with its language, that they may acquire a clear, distinct, and precise knowledge of things; so that, when called upon in after-life to discuss or expound philosophical matters in a plain and popular way for the benefit of the unlearned, they may use such circumlocutions as will not essentially conflict with the truth of things. Experience shows that those who have not a clear and distinct conception of things, however much they may try to explain themselves, are never well understood.
But what if our work be not especially intended for the class-room, but only for common reading? Would it still be difficult to have it written in a plain and intelligible manner? I think it would, unless, indeed, we leave out the most fundamental questions of metaphysics. If we were asked only to write a few “academical” essays on philosophical subjects, without concerning ourselves with the intimate nature of things, it would not be very difficult to perform such a task in tolerably readable and popular English; but if we are asked to go to the root of things, and to give a consistent, clear, accurate, and radical account of them and of their objective relations; if we are expected to lay down and explain those grounds of distinction between similar things that will enable us to avoid latent equivocations, to detect paralogistic inferences, and to expose the sophistry of our opponents; if, in short, we must prepare a standard work which will create a deep and lasting interest, and take hold of the public mind by its fitness to uproot prejudice, to confound error, and to silence, if possible, all philosophical knavery, then, I say, we cannot do this in the language with which people are generally familiar, without filling it with a number of other words, phrases, and formulas of our own. This, however, should not be looked upon as discouraging; for the popularity to which a work on philosophy aspires is not the general popularity of the newspaper or the novel, but a popularity confined within the range of deep-thinking minds. Philosophy is not intended for blockheads nor for the general reader; hence, if these have no relish for our philosophical style, we shall not, on that account, complain of any want of popularity.
We must own, however, that a number of philosophical words have become popular in other modern languages which are still above popular comprehension in the English; and on this account the range of popularity of a philosophical work will be less in our country than it would, all other things being equal, in France, Italy, or Spain. In these last countries, where languages are so nearly akin to the philosophic Latin, and where the study of philosophy under the supervision of the Catholic Church formed for centuries a prominent part of public education, every educated person soon learned how to express in his national idiom what he had been taught in the Latin of the schools. It is through this process that the language of philosophy gradually became, in those countries, the language of all educated people. In England, the same process was going on up to the XVIth century, and, if continued, would have led to the same results; but it was checked at the time of the Reformation, to the unphilosophical and maleficent genius of which it must therefore be ascribed that all further popular development of the philosophic language has been arrested for three centuries in the Anglo-Saxon race.
Had England remained Catholic, and continued, like her sister nations, to cultivate the fields of speculative knowledge, there is little doubt that English writers, and the clergy in particular, would have popularized and brought into common use those philosophical and theological expressions which had been received already in their dictionaries, and might have been a most valuable instrument for improving the intellectual education of the country. But while this process of familiarizing speculative knowledge was carried on throughout Catholic Europe, England had something else more pressing to do: she busied herself with tearing to pieces and burning the metaphysical and theological books she had inherited from the great Catholic founders and luminaries of her universities. How could the Anglo-Saxon race attain to even a common degree of philosophic development under the sway of a system which was the very negation of philosophy? Could any one be a philosopher, and yet “protest” against conclusions of which he had to concede the premises? Protestantism was not the offspring of reason, but of passion and tyranny; it is carnal, not intellectual; it popularizes matter, and studies material comfort, but cannot raise the people to the contemplation and appreciation of eternal and universal truth. Hence, whilst in all the branches of knowledge which are connected with their senses the English people made remarkable strides, in philosophy they remained infants; and it was only by rowing the boat against the stream that a few privileged beings saved some relics from the great national wreck. Even now the Anglo-Saxon Protestant is fated to admire Hume and Bain, Darwin and Huxley, Mill and Herbert Spencer; and it will be long before he realizes that it is a shame to talk of these sophists as “our great national philosophers.”
The same evil that stayed in England the process of popularization of the philosophical language, caused this language to remain deficient in many useful and some necessary words wherewith other nations wisely enriched their vernacular tongues. This is equivalent to saying that the English idiom, even as used by the learned, does not always afford sufficient facilities for the exact expression of metaphysical relations, and that, therefore, a writer who wishes to be quite correct in treating of them will be tempted to take liberties with the language, and will yield to the temptation.
As an example of this, suppose we wish to say in plain English what S. Thomas Aquinas teaches in the following sentence (in 1. Sentent. Dist. 2. q. 1, a. 2): “In Deo est sapientia, et bonitas, et hujusmodi, quorum quodlibet est ipsa divina essentia; et ita omnia sunt unum. Et quia unumquodque eorum est in Deo secundum sui verissimam rationem, et ratio sapientiæ non est ratio bonitatis in quantum hujusmodi, relinquitur quod sunt diversa ratione non tantum ex parte ipsius ratiocinantis, sed ex proprietate ipsius rei.”
How should we here translate the word ratio? Andrews’ Dictionary gives reason, account, business, relation, regard, concern, care, manner, plan, reasonableness, proof, and such like; to which we may add the very word “ratio” used by the English geometricians to express the quotient of a quantity divided by another of the same kind. Now, which of these terms can we employ in the present case? There is not one of them which would not transform this beautiful and important passage of the angelic doctor into a clumsy piece of nonsense. To speak of the reason of wisdom, of the concern of goodness, of the manner of eternity, or of the business of immensity would be absurd. The temptation to infringe on the rights of lexicographers is therefore evident. But what other English word can we employ? Should we translate, the concept of wisdom, and the concept of goodness? By no means. Not that this last meaning of the word ratio is not legitimate, but because it is not what we need in the present case; for the holy doctor does not say that God’s wisdom and goodness are distinct only on account of our conceptions, but explicitly teaches that they are distinct on their own grounds, “ex proprietate ipsius rei.” Hence, “concept” is not the right word; and, instead of “concept,” we should rather say “that which is the ground of the concept.” Yet this circumlocution, besides being too long to replace a single word, does not exactly correspond to it, as every intelligent reader will easily perceive. The force of the word ratio might be sufficiently rendered by the compound expression “objective notion”; but this is forbidden by our dictionaries, according to which the word “notion” has only a subjective sense. We cannot translate “the nature” of wisdom and “the nature” of goodness, because it would then seem that divine wisdom and divine goodness are of a different nature objectively, and therefore really distinct; which is not the case, as they are only mentally distinct, though on their own real grounds. Perhaps, to avoid misconceptions, we might add an epithet to the word “nature,” and translate ratio sapientiæ as “the notional nature of wisdom,” that is, as that formality which is distinctly represented by the notion of wisdom. This last expression might be considered tolerably correct; yet I should prefer to stick to the Latin ratio, which is so much simpler and clearer, and which has, moreover, a general and uniform application to all objects of thought; as we everywhere find ratio intelligibilis, ratio entitativa, ratio generica, ratio specifica, ratio personæ, ratio substantiæ, and a great number of similar ratios. And, again, the word ratio has another very superior claim to adoption, inasmuch as it is the only word that exactly expresses the transcendental unity resulting from the conspiration of a material with a formal principle, and implies in its concrete meaning the two principles from which it results as actually correlated; for, as the geometric ratio implies a numerator and a denominator correlated as “that which is mensurable” and “that by which it is measured,” so the ratio intelligibilis, the ratio entitativa, and all the others, imply and exhibit a potential and a formal principle, correlated as “that which is determinable” and “that by which it is determined”; and as the terms of a geometric ratio, inasmuch as they are correlated, give rise to a simple result which is the value of the ratio, so also the constituent principles of all beings, inasmuch as they are correlated according to their mutual ontological exigency, give rise to the actuality of the ontological ratio. It would therefore appear that, if mathematicians are allowed freely to use the word “ratio,” as they do, in the peculiar sense just stated, metaphysicians too, a fortiori, may be allowed the free use of the same word in that general sense which I have pointed out, and which, solely through English philosophical apathy, was unduly restricted to its present narrow mathematical meaning.
What I have said of this word may suffice as an instance of the poverty of our philosophical language. There are other words which philosophers are sometimes disappointed not to find in our dictionaries, and which it will be necessary to borrow from other sources, or to translate from the works of the schoolmen; but, as I cannot come to particulars without entering into discussions which would lead me much further than I at present intend to go, I will say nothing more on this point.
I beg to conclude with a last remark which some readers may deem superfluous, but which should not be overlooked by the teachers or the friends of philosophy. It is not so much the want of proper words as the vague and improper use of the words which we already possess that is calculated to impair the merit and mar the usefulness of an English work of philosophy. If I knew that any one was engaged in such a work, I would earnestly entreat him to spare no efforts to the end that all indefiniteness or looseness of expression may be excluded from it, and to take care that his philosophic language be, if possible, as precise and as carefully wielded as that of the mathematician. In philosophy, nothing is so dangerous as loose reasoning; and loose reasoning is inevitable with a loose terminology. Truth, by careless wording, is often changed into error, and even great heresies are frequently nothing but the incorrect expression of great truths; according to the remarkable sentence of S. Thomas: Ex verbo inordinate prolato nascitur hæresis. Hence, all those terms which in the popular language have a vague meaning should in philosophy be either avoided or strictly defined, and constantly taken in the strict sense of the definition.
I remember having found years ago, in the works of an Italian philosopher whose celebrity has since vanished, nine or ten different definitions of the word idea. Which of such definitions he adopted as his own I could not discover; but it seemed to me that he adopted them all in succession, according as they suited the actual needs of his multiform argumentation—a proceeding which, while confounding the minds of his readers, was certainly not calculated to give weight to his conclusions. This same word idea in our popular English is extremely indefinite; it stands for object of thought, plan, judgment, opinion, purpose, and intention, none of which would be the correct philosophical meaning of the word; for “idea,” in all the approved treatises of psychology, means the knowledge of a thing directly perceived in any object of first apprehension. Hence, no accurate philosopher would say that we have an “idea” of God, or of his immensity, or of virtue, but only that we have a “concept” of God, of his immensity, of virtue, and of all those other things that are not objects of first apprehension, and the notions of which can be acquired only by a special operation of the intellect on pre-existing ideas. This distinction between “idea” and “concept” is very important in psychology, and should therefore be adopted in a philosophical work at the very first beginning of logic, as a first precaution against the equivocations of the ontologists.
It is not my intention to point out other words the popular meaning of which must be sharply looked into by a philosopher before he makes use of them; I will only add, in connection with the word “idea,” that, in the classical books of philosophy, the direct knowledge of the existence of a thing was not called “idea,” but notitia. In English, we have the word “notice”; but this word means, according to Webster, the act by which we have knowledge of something within the reach of our senses, whilst the Latin word notitia means rather the permanent knowledge acquired by that act; whence we see that the Latin notitia facti cannot be translated “the notice of the fact,” and yet why should not a philosopher be allowed to use the word “notice” in the sense of the Latin notitia when he wishes to contrast the knowledge of the existence of a thing with the knowledge of its properties? This would be, after all, only a late justice done to the word by again recognizing its primitive legitimate meaning.
On the contrary, the word conscientia, which in Latin has two distinct meanings, the psychological and the moral, in English has been represented by two distinct words, “consciousness” and “conscience.” This is a real improvement, so far as it goes. But the word “consciousness,” which properly expresses the knowledge of self and of the affections of self, has already acquired, as used by modern authors, a very indefinite meaning, inasmuch as it already replaces not only the Latin conscientia, but every kind of knowledge as well; so that our educated men do not scruple to declare their consciousness of the rotation of the earth, or their consciousness of your presence in the room. In philosophy, where no word should be liable to two interpretations, such a promiscuous and illogical use of the word is really intolerable; and I respectfully submit that the word should by all means be again restricted to its natural signification.
Not to tire the reader with other considerations of a similar nature, I will come to an end. My object has been to point out in a general manner what I considered to be most needed in a good English philosophical work. Certainly, a work based on unobjectionable principles, ample in its scope, complete in its parts, and precise in its terminology, would be a great boon to the higher classes of American society. Let a writer come forward who, besides a sound knowledge of philosophical truths, possesses the rare art of expressing them correctly and forcibly in plain language, and he will see his efforts so fully rewarded that he will never regret the labor he may have endured in such a difficult undertaking.
A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.
CHRISTE’S CHILDHOODE.
TILL twelve yeres’ age, how Christ His childhoode spent All earthly pennes unworthy were to write; Such actes to mortall eyes He did presente, Whose worth not men but angells must recite: No nature’s blottes, no childish faultes defilde, Whose Grace was guide, and God did play the childe.
In springing lockes lay chouchèd hoary witt, In semblance younge, a grave and aunchient port; In lowly lookes high maiestie did sitt, In tender tunge, sound sence of sagest sort: Nature imparted all that she could teache, And God supplyd where Nature coulde not reach.
His mirth, of modest meane a mirrhour was, His sadness, tempred with a mylde aspecte; His eye, to trye ech action was a glasse, Whose lookes did good approue and bad correct; His nature’s giftes, His grace, His word, and deede, Well shew’d that all did from a God proceede.
—Southwell.
THE TROWEL OR THE CROSS
FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.
“This is your hour, and the power of darkness.”—S. Luke xxii. 53.
CONCLUDED.
III. JESUIT AND NEW PROTESTANT
EARLY the next morning, the count was awakened suddenly from his slumber. The three bells of the church-tower gave forth sorrowful tones. The peasants assembled from all parts. Von Scharfenstein opened a window, and looked in vain for the rising smoke, in order to discover the whereabouts of the fire; but neither flame nor smoke was to be seen. And yet all the inhabitants, men, women, and children, were moving in the same direction, so that there must have been some cause for the alarm.
“Where is the fire?” he asked of an aged man, who could hardly walk even with the aid of his cane. “Where is the fire, good man?”
“There is no fire; the gendarmes are here to arrest our pastor.”
Von Scharfenstein closed the window.
“This is too much,” said he angrily. “The Freemasons, who are ordinarily cunning enough, have this time committed a great mistake. If the sons of the cross are not more prudent than the sons of the trowel, there will be bloodshed in this case. The peasants will defend their priest with scythes and axes.”
Meanwhile, the police commissioner who had come from the city with two gendarmes endeavored to put a stop to the ringing of the bells. Before going to the church, he had foolishly stationed the gendarmes upon the high step of the pastoral residence, so that the Jesuit should not escape.
“Stop the ringing of the bells,” cried out the commissioner to the bell-ringers.
“Ring away!” exclaimed a sturdy, well-dressed farmer who had closely followed the commissioner. “Continue to ring; the bells are ours; there is fire!”
“I am the police commissioner,” said the officer sternly. “I am here by the command of the government, and I repeat my orders to stop at once the ringing of the bells!”
“And I am the burgomaster of this place, and repeat that the bells shall be rung,” replied the angry and excited villager. “You have no right to command here, and much less in the church. When the whole parish is assembled, the bells shall be stopped, not before.”
The commissioner ground his teeth. He quailed before the determined aspect of the burgomaster, and returned to the priest’s house. There his anger changed into fear. The large yard before the house, the surrounding walls, and the street were thickly covered with people. He saw threatening looks and fierce eyes glaring upon him when he ascended the steps. The crowd was as yet quiet, but already there were signs of a coming storm.
The police commissioner unceremoniously entered the presence of Prince Joseph von Eberstein, the Jesuit father.
“There, look!” he exclaimed rudely. “That is your work—open rebellion against the government!”
“Pardon me, Herr Commissioner,” replied the priest calmly; “how could I have caused the tumult, since I had no knowledge of your coming?”
“You have nevertheless incited the people to revolt against the government, and here is the result of your teaching!”
“Sir, I have not incited the people against the government; the government itself, by a violent and unjustifiable act, has provoked the honest wrath of these simple peasants. I beg you to be less prejudiced.”
The bells were now silent; in the yard, a threatening murmur was heard; the crowd seemed to be greatly incensed, and the commissioner saw that the situation was becoming very critical. He listened at the window.
“To carry away our priest like a thief, like a murderer!” exclaimed a trembling voice. “We will not permit it; he must remain here!”
“If our pastor was a servant of Judas,” said another voice, “and would betray our religion to the Freemasons, then they would not persecute him. But because he is a pious, conscientious priest whom we all love and respect, they wish to take him away.”
“Yes; that is the reason.”
“We will not suffer it; we will keep our priest; he shall not go!” exclaimed many voices confusedly.
The officer looked at the excited crowd, and acknowledged that it would be dangerous to use violence.
“I regret this commotion,” said Prince von Eberstein. “If, however, you choose to follow my advice, you can yet take your prisoner.”
“What is your advice?”
“Send away the gendarmes at once; their presence only serves to exasperate the people. After that, I will speak to my parishioners, and will enter the carriage with you.”
“Your advice is discreet,” replied the commissioner, who went out, and commanded the gendarmes to leave Weselheim forthwith.
The departure of the gendarmes tranquillized the crowd. The threats ceased, and the clinched fists were opened. Upon the steps of his residence the prince now appeared dressed in his cassock.
“May Jesus Christ be praised, your reverence!” exclaimed the assembled parish.
“Now and for ever, dear children! First let me thank you for the love and sympathy you have always shown me during my stay among you. You know that the government objects to my remaining here because I am a foreigner. I have been frequently directed by the temporal power to leave my parish. But because our Lord Jesus Christ has not commanded the temporal powers to preach the Gospel, to administer the sacraments, or to govern the church, but has given that right to the Pope, the bishops, and the priests, and because I have derived my mission not from the temporal authority, but from the church, I have refused to leave the dear fold entrusted to my care, nor shall I leave it. In order that these unfortunate disturbances may not recur again, I intend to accompany the commissioner to the city. There I will lay the whole affair before our most gracious king, who is a wise and just ruler. I shall ask him to arrange matters so that I shall not be molested again in the discharge of my sacred duties. Are you satisfied, dear parishioners?”
The deepest silence reigned.
“Your reverence,” exclaimed a voice, “if you promise us to come back, then we are satisfied.”
“I promise it to you,” answered the priest firmly.
He then re-entered the house.
“Herr Commissioner, have the carriage immediately brought before the steps, so that any further excitement may be avoided.”
This was done. When, however, the children saw their pastor getting into the carriage, they commenced to weep aloud, in which the girls and women joined, so that heart-rending lamentations filled the air. The driver whipped the horses, and the carriage almost flew through the now desolated village.
“Do not weep so!” said Keller; “our pastor will return: he has promised it.”
“But if they imprison him?” said a timid woman.
“Ah! bah! things have not yet come to such a pass!” observed the burgomaster; “the parish will protect him!”
The people now separated. Only the burgomaster and some of the influential villagers remained in the priest’s house conversing together. In a short time, another carriage stopped at the door. The astonished men saw an official wearing a very rich uniform descend from the carriage.
“I think I know him,” said Keller. “Yes; I am right: he is one of the four Freemasons.”
A priest who accompanied the official was received by the villagers with sharp and suspicious looks.
“Good-morning!” said the friendly official. “I am rejoiced to meet here in the priest’s house such a number of gentlemen. Herr Burgomaster, if I am not mistaken?”
“Yes; I am he, and these are the councilmen.”
“This is splendid; what a fortunate circumstance!” remarked the official. “I am the government counsellor, and have come to introduce this reverend gentlemen into his office, so that the good parish of Weselheim should not be one moment without a pastor.”
The men looked at one another; they were greatly perplexed, and seemed hardly to understand what was going on.
“But, Herr Counsellor,” said the burgomaster, “we have a pastor. He went only an hour ago to the city to see his most gracious majesty the king, and to-morrow he will return.”
“You are mistaken, Herr Burgomaster,” assured the smiling counsellor and grandmaster of the Freemasons. “The Jesuit will not return.”
The last words fell like a thunderbolt among them.
“What?—O ho!” exclaimed the men. “We shall see! Our pastor is the Rev. Herr von Eberstein; we wish no other.”
“Unfortunately, Herr von Eberstein is a foreigner,” replied the counsellor, shrugging his shoulders. “I introduce to you a pious priest whose zeal will certainly bring a blessing upon the parish.”
The priest bowed and smiled, but the villagers evidently did not like him.
“What is your name, if we may be allowed to ask?”
“My name is Stechapfel” (thorn-apple), answered the priest.
“What! Stechapfel?” cried they all, drawing back.
“Are you not the New Protestant Stechapfel of whom we have read so much in the newspapers?” inquired Ewald, one of the councilmen.
“I am not a New Protestant, but an Old Catholic,” replied Stechapfel.
“It is really so—it is he!” exclaimed Keller. “Do you know, Herr Stechapfel, what you call ‘Old Catholic’ is understood among Catholics as ‘New Protestant’? We know also why the heretics of our day have invented the word ‘Old Catholic’: they did so to throw sand in the eyes of the people; as if they, the heretics, had remained faithful to the old Catholic doctrine, but the Pope and all the bishops and priests, as also all Catholics, had renounced the true faith. Luther, the first Protestant, did the very same thing. He accused the Pope and the bishops of having left the old doctrine, but that he, Luther, had retained it, for which reason he was an Old Catholic. The same is repeated to-day; it is deception—pure deception; therefore we do not call these deceivers ‘Old Catholics,’ but ‘New Protestants.’”
“I deplore all this confusion,” replied Stechapfel devoutly. “I have nothing to do with Luther nor with heresy of any sort. I keep firmly to the Old Catholic doctrine.”
“Please listen to me, Herr Stechapfel; I wish to ask you something,” began Keller, moving his cap on one side of his head. “Do you believe that the Pope is infallible when he explains and defines how an article of faith or of morals is to be understood?”
“No; I do not believe it, because it was never believed before,” replied Stechapfel.
“Was never believed before—only hear that!” exclaimed the villagers, laughing.
“Then let me continue—I am not through yet,” said Keller. “You believe, therefore, Herr Stechapfel, that the Pope and all the bishops erred when they maintained this doctrine in the council?”
“Of course they erred; for they invented a new article of faith,” answered Stechapfel.
“Ha! ha! That is too absurd!” cried out some of those present.
“Do not laugh, men; it is not a laughing matter,” said Keller. “Now, Herr Stechapfel, since you are to be our pastor, you can perhaps explain something that I do not understand. Our Lord instituted an infallible teaching tribunal in his church before he ascended to heaven. That he was obliged to institute this infallible tribunal I can understand; for fifty years would not have elapsed after his ascension, before learned men would have begun to misinterpret and distort his doctrine. Therefore an infallible tribunal was necessary, that it might tell the people what is and what is not the doctrine of Christ. Our Lord has also promised and given to this infallible tribunal the Holy Ghost, that he should remain with it unto the end of the world, and establish it in all truth. But now, this tribunal, that is, the Pope and the bishops, has declared that the Head of the church is infallible when he gives to the whole world a decision or an interpretation concerning the meaning of an article of faith or morals. Now follows what I do not understand. You New Protestants maintain that it is not so. But if it is not true, then the infallible tribunal has erred; then our Lord has told a falsehood. How does this all agree, Herr Stechapfel?”
The counsellor and the priest could not conceal their vexation.
“You are well instructed,” said Schlehdorn.
“This is in consequence of having had a good and zealous priest,” replied the burgomaster. “Are you not a New Protestant, Herr Counsellor?”
“By no means! I hold fast to the original doctrine of the Holy Catholic Church; therefore I am, strictly speaking, an Old Catholic.”
“I do not believe it!” exclaimed Keller, with a fierce gleam in his eyes. “You are a Freemason; although you have shaved off your beard and moustache, yet I know you. Did you not a few days ago meet three other Freemasons on the Vogelsberg (mountain of birds)? Did you not then say, ‘The trowel or the cross’? Did you not say that there was no God, no devil, no heaven, no hell?”
“You are mistaken in the person,” replied the astonished official, in great embarrassment.
“Well, what of it?” cried Ewald consolingly. “Do not for that reason excite yourself, Herr Counsellor. We knew long ago that the New Protestants had very little religion. Who are the most zealous New Protestants? Just those who never go to confession or to holy communion. They have wrapped themselves in the little cloak of ‘Old Catholicism,’ so that they might work the better against the Catholic Church.”
“Enough!” exclaimed the official, who had regained his self-command. “I am not here to expose myself to rude attacks, but to introduce this priest into his office.”
“That is not necessary!” exclaimed the men. “You can take the New Protestant at once back again with you; we do not want him.”
“We are not in Bavaria,” said the burgomaster. “We shall be faithful to the Pope and his bishops; we care nothing for the infallible professors. We do not believe that any man is infallible of himself; but the Pope is infallible by virtue of his office as teacher; and the Holy Ghost is neither promised nor sent to the professors.”
“Herr Burgomaster,” began the counsellor sternly, “I make you responsible for the safety and official influence of Pastor Stechapfel.”
“Alas! Herr Counsellor, you have asked too much!” replied the burgomaster. “We in this village are Catholics in the strictest sense of the word. Therefore, we cannot have Herr Stechapfel, because he is a New Protestant. Do you imagine, Herr Counsellor, that the people will allow themselves to be commanded in religious matters? Do you think that our faith is to be knocked into and out of our heads by police-clubs, just because you say the word? No; I refuse to become answerable for the New Protestant pastor you have brought us, and I also assure you that, if he enters the church, the people will run out.”
Keller, who had evidently devised some plan of action, gave the burgomaster a secret sign.
“I think,” said he, “as the government counsellor has come purposely hither, we should give Herr Stechapfel a trial. By the way of beginning, you should introduce Herr Stechapfel into the pastor’s residence.”
“You have spoken very wisely,” answered Schlehdorn. “I must now go; farewell, gentlemen!”
The official thereupon returned to the city, and Stechapfel and the burgomaster entered the priest’s house.
Keller remained outside; he spoke earnestly with the other men, and the nature of his communication created great but suppressed mirth among them.
After a short interval, Keller and Ewald appeared before Stechapfel.
“Have you maturely considered the matter? It will not do,” commenced Keller. “If it becomes known in the village that an Old Catholic New Protestant is here, there would be a terrible tumult. The people would be wild at the thought of having a man as their pastor who is more infallible than the Pope and the bishops, and who is at the same time excommunicated. To avert misfortune, you must leave at once!”
“I protest against such treatment; I shall remain!” exclaimed Stechapfel.
“You can protest as long as you wish; it becomes you very well, for you are a New Protestant!” replied Keller indifferently. “But remain here you cannot!”
“The government has sent me as pastor to this village, and I shall maintain my right to the position!” exclaimed the Old Catholic.
“Bah! the government! That is New Protestant nonsense! If you were a Catholic, you would know that the government has no right to dispose of ecclesiastical offices. Offices of the church are bestowed by the church. Therefore, you must go! Where is your hat?”
“This is an outrage; it is nothing less than violence!”
“There, take your hat! I ask you whether you will leave voluntarily?”
“No; I will not go!”
“Well, then, we will accompany you until you are out of the village,” said Keller; and he put his arm under that of Stechapfel, while Ewald executed the same manœuvre on the other side. In vain did the intruder resist. The strong men took him out of the house, across the yard, and through the village. The people of Weselheim stood around and laughed at the comical scene.
“Whom have you there?” asked a passer-by.
“We have here an Old Catholic New Protestant who has strayed away from Bavaria. We are now showing him the way out of the village.”
“What are you doing?” cried out another, in surprise. “I hope you will not lay hands on a priest?”
“Certainly not,” said Ewald; “we only expel the wolf who wished to creep in clothed as a sheep.”
A short distance out of the village, the men halted.
“So, Herr Stechapfel, now you can proceed alone,” said Franz Keller. “If you wish to be again taken out, then you must revisit us; it will be a pleasure for us to escort you as we have just done. If you are really a duly ordained priest, then I ask your pardon; but I have not to ask pardon of you personally, for you bear too close a resemblance to the traitor Judas. You can tell the gentlemen in the city that we in Weselheim shall remain true to the cross: the trowel the Freemasons may keep for themselves. Good-by!”
IV. APPEAL FOR HELP
FROM the tower of the palace floated a banner—a sign that the king had taken up his residence there. In the royal park, a gentleman in the prime of life was walking. His countenance bespoke a kind disposition, and his dark eyes were full of spirit and intelligence. He sought out the most lonely paths, and seemed lost in thought, while his gaze rested upon the lovely flowers of the forest, the green moss, and the gigantic oaks. Hurried steps are heard coming up the well-gravelled road; joy beams from the face of the gentleman; he stretches out his arms, presses the youthful count to his bosom, and imprints a kiss upon his forehead.
“Have you come at last, my Adolph? How fresh and handsome you look!”
“No wonder, your majesty! I drink water, and eat potatoes with sour milk,” replied the count merrily.
They walked on arm in arm. The count was distantly related to the king, who was a great lover of art, and therefore took pride in the poetic talents of his young relative.
“For how long has your majesty freed yourself from the affairs of state?” asked Adolph.
“For two weeks—a short time. Even here I cannot rest; I have promised an audience to many persons.”
“Why did you promise?”
“Because those who wish to see me belong to a powerful organization,” replied the king. “The grandmaster of all the Freemasons of the country will present an address to me—in two days, I believe.”
“The grandmaster?” exclaimed the count, taking his portfolio from under his arm. “These leaves contain both good and bad. To keep either secret from the king would be treason, and on my part a great violation of my duty as his friend.”
“Have you written a drama?”
“Yes, your majesty; or rather, I have copied one; you also are one of the actors, as well as the grandmaster. Can I begin to read?”
“Certainly; I am most anxious to hear what you have written.”
Von Scharfenstein, after a few words of introduction, described his hiding-place in the forest, and the circle of unsuspecting Freemasons assembled at his feet. He then commenced to read. The king listened with undivided attention. Gradually a dark frown settled upon his brow.
“Many thanks for your valuable communication,” said he, when Von Scharfenstein had finished reading. “So I am a narrow-minded man who does not rule, but is ruled! Outrageous impertinence!”
“It is contemptible and vulgar; but what else do you expect from Freemasons!” answered the count.
“And these very Freemasons are always professing to be the most obedient servants of the crown,” said the indignant king. “They are constantly clamoring about the dangerous designs of Rome upon other governments, and they also pretend to decry the intrigues of the ultramontanes!”
“In reality,” replied Von Scharfenstein, “it is these men of the trowel and apron who undermine the authority of the crown; they make the people hate their rulers, they violate and wound the holiest feelings of subjects, and they do this clothed in the garment of official authority. I will give you an example.” And the count related the forcible expulsion of the Jesuit father, and the request of the inhabitants of Weselheim.
The king walked a few steps in silence.
“Justice shall be given to the oppressed, and punishment to the guilty,” said he, and then turned towards the palace.
Two days later, the councilmen left their village, dressed in their best attire, and carrying with them the prayers of all the inhabitants. The burgomaster led the procession, followed by the others, until they entered the royal park. The nearer they approached the palace, the slower were the footsteps of the men; for it is no trifling matter for humble subjects to enter the presence of their king.
“George, do justice to our cause!” said Ewald to the burgomaster.
“I will do all that I can, but you must help me!” And the burgomaster wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
They walked in respectful silence upon the clean gravel-path that led to the palace. At some distance from them, they espied their good friend Count von Scharfenstein coming up a by-road. He saw the diffidence of the men, and saluted them kindly, in order to infuse new courage into them.
“The parish of Weselheim is held in high estimation by the king, for he only gives audience here to princes and to very intimate friends,” said he. “Therefore, you must speak freely to him. The king likes a plain and truthful statement of facts. At the same time, my friends, the question is, Can the king help you, that is, for any time to come? There is only one thing which will be of help.”
“What does your lordship mean?” inquired Keller.
“I mean that the Freemasons and liberals aim at the destruction of religion. They have worked at this for many years, and not in vain. They have succeeded in expelling in many places a large number of priests from the schools, so that the children, if possible, may grow up without religion. They have declared war against conscientious bishops and priests. At present they have driven out the Jesuits, because they are very active and zealous in the discharge of their duty. After the Jesuits will follow the other religious orders, then the seminaries will be closed, bishops and priests will be deprived of their rights, and the church as they imagine, will be rendered helpless. It is a most cruel tyranny, and a real stigma upon the German name; but what can be done? The tyrants are all powerful.”
“Our gracious king can put a stop to their wickedness,” said the burgomaster.
“You are mistaken,” replied Scharfenstein. “The king cannot do everything. He has sworn to uphold the constitution, and he must keep his oath. If, therefore, the representatives of the country, the Chamber of Deputies, make laws hostile to religion, the king is often obliged to confirm them. Consequently, only one thing can really help you.”
“And what is it, if we are permitted to ask your lordship?”
“It is for you to exercise more prudence in the elections for the Chamber and the Diet. Send pious, religious men as your representatives to the Diet, and then your religion will not be insulted, and you will have good laws. Why are the Freemasons now in the ascendency in the Chamber, in the ministry, in the government, everywhere? And who are to blame for it? The people, yes, the people have given the reins to their bitterest enemies. If the Catholic people had elected proper representatives, the Freemasons and liberals would never have become so powerful. If, therefore, the enemies of religion use their power for the destruction of the church and of religious belief, it is very natural, and the careless indifference of the people is the cause of their triumph.”
“Your lordship is right,” answered the burgomaster.
“It will be very different at the next election,” said the other men.
“I hope so,” remarked Von Scharfenstein. “Remember what I tell you. Only one thing will be of lasting benefit to you, and that is to send practical Catholics to the Diet; and this you can do if you choose. Unscrupulous men who do not believe in God, in eternal reward or punishment, do not hesitate to deprive the people of their religious rights, to impose oppressive taxes upon them, and to make slaves of free men!”
The villagers acquiesced in what was said.
“I wish that we had never believed the sweet-sounding words of the liberals and their lying newspapers,” remarked Ewald. “We must really confess that, as a people, we are too ignorant, and allow ourselves to be too easily duped.”
“It is time for you to become prudent,” replied the count.
The deputation had now reached the palace.
“Do you see the man with the long official staff in his hand, standing there in the hall? Tell him who you are, and he will take care of you.” Saying this, Von Scharfenstein saluted them, and returned to the park.
V. THE AUDIENCE
IN the audience-chamber there stood three gentlemen in animated conversation: the grandmaster and two other Freemasons, the director, and university professor. They were handsomely dressed, and wore several orders upon their breasts. They seemed to be very familiar with their surroundings, for they moved about with perfect unconcern. The grandmaster of the Freemasons especially appeared to be full of his own importance, and he glanced haughtily at one of the king’s attendants when he entered the apartment.
“Something has gone wrong to-day,” said he, looking at his watch. “It is already a quarter of an hour after the appointed time. I have never been treated so before.”
“I also remark something unusual,” exclaimed the director. “There, behind the table, stands a chair of state. The king never seats himself when giving audiences; why, therefore, has this rule been violated? There is a bell upon the table—what does all this mean?”
“The king has his humors, no doubt,” replied the grandmaster sarcastically, placing meanwhile an address upon the silver salver which stood upon the table.
At once the folding-doors opened, and the king entered, looking grave and dignified. He advanced towards the chair of state, and, placing his hand upon it, he waited until those present had finished bowing. No gracious smile lighted up his features, and he returned their salutation with a scarcely perceptible nod of the head.
“Most gracious majesty!” commenced the grandmaster, “it cannot have escaped your notice that a serious disturbance threatens the peace of the whole German Empire, as well as the kingdom which is so happy as to be governed by your wise and prudent rule. The infallibility of the Pope, so dangerous to the state, and invented only to bring princes and people under the sceptre of the Roman Pontiff, has provoked universal indignation. Everywhere societies and meetings are protesting against this usurpation of Rome. At Munich and Darmstadt, good and learned men have taken part in the proceedings. In both cities, resolutions were passed which your majesty will be graciously pleased to accept.”
The king silently took the address from the salver, and laid it upon the table.
“Your majesty will permit me to remark,” continued the grandmaster, “that, at the Protestant Diet of Darmstadt, the Jesuits were specially designated as the most dangerous conspirators in the service of Rome, and particularly hostile to the German Empire. Now, as the Society of Jesus exists also in your majesty’s dominions, we have ventured, actuated solely by the interest we take in the peace and political welfare of the kingdom, to humbly petition that your majesty will insist upon the immediate expulsion of the above-named society.”
“Are you a Catholic, Herr Counsellor of the High Court?” asked the king.
“Strictly Catholic, your majesty—strictly Catholic,” replied the Freemason. “I hold firmly to the old doctrines of the Holy Catholic Church, and shall resist with all my strength the innovation of the last council.”
“According to what you say, your petition asking for the suppression of the Jesuits does not come with such ill grace from you, for you, as a Catholic, speak about Catholic affairs,” said the king. “But why a Protestant diet should meddle itself with the ecclesiastical discipline and religious belief of Catholics is beyond my conception. The Catholics also have public meetings; but I never hear that they concern themselves in the slightest degree about Protestant matters. I am aware of the resolutions passed by the Protestant Diet of Darmstadt, and regret them exceedingly, because they are only calculated to grieve Catholics, to disturb the peace, and to seriously embarrass governments. The Gustave Adolph Society is a proof how, in former times, Protestants have united themselves with the foreign invader and destroyer of our country against the Catholic Emperor of Germany. Hostile treatment, or even an attempt to suppress the Catholic Church on the part of the state, might in like manner force Catholic Germans to unite themselves with a foreign power in opposition to the Protestant Emperor of Germany. A faithful people are not in need of forgiveness if they love their God and their religion more than they do the tyranny of their fatherland.”
The Freemasons were astonished; they did not expect to hear the king speak as he did.
“You make mention of the resolutions of the glass palace at Munich, which were also directed against the Jesuits,” continued the king. “Do you believe the grave accusations which they bring against the Society of Jesus?”
“I have the fullest conviction of their truth,” replied the grandmaster, bowing low.
The king now seated himself, and looked through the address. The men of the trowel cast significant glances at each other.
“A ruler must be just; he should never belong to a party,” said the king. “You demand the suppression of men who are highly respected and venerated by thousands of my subjects. The Burgomaster and principal men of Weselheim are here to petition for the restoration of their pastor, a Jesuit father. If, after hearing these men, I am convinced that the actions of the Jesuits correspond with the Munich resolutions, then I will not be disinclined to grant your request for the suppression of the society; but, if the contrary, then justice must be done!”
He rang a bell. The folding-doors at the lower end of the salon opened, and the burgomaster, together with the councilmen of Weselheim, entered, all looking anxious as to the result of the interview. The king rose from his chair, and his whole manner changed; with a friendly gesture, he invited the embarrassed deputies to draw nearer.
“Ah! Herr Burgomaster, I am delighted to see you again!” said he to the burgomaster, giving him his hand. “You have not become older in the course of the year—always young and active. How are the trout? Shall I see any more of them upon my table?”
“O most gracious king!” replied the delighted burgomaster, “the whole parish will catch trout for your majesty.”
“I am glad to hear it!” rejoined the king. “And how is your little golden-haired son with the rosy cheeks? Has he grown tall?”
“Two feet taller this year; your majesty would not know him!”
The councilmen were enchanted. The ice was broken.
“You desire your pastor, the Jesuit father, to return to you again?” began the king, seating himself in the chair. “That is right; such a request is honorable to you all. Parishioners should always esteem a worthy pastor. But, my dear people,” he continued, “there are some difficulties. It is asserted that the Jesuits are men dangerous to the state; that their teachings are destructive to morals. It is further said that the Jesuits conspire against the government; that they are opposed to the enlightenment of the people; and I am therefore petitioned by some of my subjects to authorize their expulsion. These are the very words contained in the address I hold in my hand.”
The men looked at one another; they evidently did not comprehend the meaning of the accusations made against the Jesuits.
“I ask pardon, your majesty; but we do not understand you,” said the burgomaster. “We know, indeed, that there are many who hate the Jesuits, and who wish to see them exterminated, none more so than the Freemasons. But your majesty must not listen to such persons; for even our Lord was accused by his enemies of inciting the people, of being dangerous to the state; and they even went so far as to nail him to the cross. If our Saviour would come again to-day in the flesh, the Freemasons would not be satisfied until they had crucified him again.”
The king cast a quick look at the flushed countenances of the Freemasons.
“I ask you, upon your conscience,” said he to the burgomaster, “if your Jesuit father ever taught immoral doctrines?”
“O great heaven!” exclaimed the excited burgomaster. “Immoral doctrines—our pastor? Why, your majesty, he is like a saint, and he does his best to make saints of the whole parish. If two young persons of a different sex live together without being married, our pastor never rests until both have given up their scandalous life and are married. If enmities exist, and lawsuits and quarrels, our pastor is indefatigable until he effects a reconciliation. Thus, our pastor is like an angel for our parish. Formerly there were many who hated each other; we had dissensions among ourselves; but now everything is peaceable and quiet in the village, and all this we owe to our pastor, the Jesuit father.”
“And what he does for the children is beyond belief, your majesty,” said Keller. “He visits the schools every day; the children love him. In former times, parents had to command the children to pray in the morning and the evening; now they pray without being told to do so. And our children are so obedient, for our pastor impresses upon them the full importance of the fourth commandment.”
“Has your pastor no enemies in the parish?” inquired the king.
“Yes, most gracious majesty; he has enemies, that is, three rascals, who would like to see him driven out,” said the burgomaster.
“You see, gentlemen,” said the king to the officials, “that your accusations against the Jesuits are by no means confirmed.”
“The Jesuit of Weselheim may perhaps be an exception,” replied the grandmaster.
Franz Keller seemed possessed with a desire to speak, but he controlled his impatience.
“Your majesty will excuse me for saying that the accusations against the Jesuits appear very surprising to me,” remarked Ewald. “In the Bible, we read that the Jews dragged our Saviour before the high-priests, and accused him of different crimes. And when our Saviour defended himself, one of the servants struck him in the face, whereupon our Saviour said: ‘If I have spoken evil, give testimony of the evil; but, if well, why strikest thou me?’ It is the same with the Jesuits. If they are really as wicked and criminal as their enemies assert, well, let them be brought before the law, and be punished according to the law. But if nothing can be proved against them, why continue to slander and persecute them, and to treat them like murderers and thieves?”
“Very well said, and very true!” answered the king.
“Most gracious king, I can tell you what people are against the Jesuits—the Freemasons,” began Keller, unable any longer to keep quiet. “A short time ago, I heard them talking on the Vogelsberg. These three gentlemen (pointing to the Freemasons) were there, and one other. The one with the gray beard said: ‘The trowel or the cross, that is the watchword!’ Then they all declared that the religion of Christ must be exterminated; and, because the Jesuits are good preachers and zealous priests, therefore they must be the first to be overthrown. And they also said that, when the altars were destroyed, the thrones must be demolished. What else they said, most gracious king, I will not grieve you by repeating.”
The king looked silently, but with an expression of severe displeasure, at the officials.
“Will your majesty permit us to withdraw?” inquired the grandmaster.
“You will remain; we have not finished yet,” replied the king sternly.
“Most gracious king,” entreated the burgomaster, “be kind enough to look through the window.”
The king did as requested, and saw at the foot of the hill the whole parish of Weselheim congregated together—men, women, and children. They all stood with their faces turned towards the palace. Many knelt upon the ground. The king was visibly affected at the sight.
“The whole village unite with us in asking your majesty to give us back our dear, good, pious Jesuit father,” said the burgomaster.
At this moment, a chamberlain appeared, and handed the king a written communication.
“He is very welcome; admit him at once!” commanded the king.
The delegation were attentive spectators of what was transpiring. In the antechamber they heard the voice of the pastor, who now entered the salon, and was most graciously received by the king. The presence of royalty alone prevented loud exclamations of delight from his parishioners, whose faces shone with joy.
“The Society of Jesus was very active during the last war,” said the king, after certain formalities had been gone through. “How many German Jesuits were on the scene of action?”
“Nearly all, your majesty—one hundred and eighty-eight,” replied the Jesuit. “Our older members took care of the sick; for, during the war, all our colleges were converted into hospitals.”
“No proof of hostility to the state,” remarked the king, turning to the officials. “How many Freemasons were employed in attending to the sick and wounded in the hospitals during the war?”
“The care of the sick does not belong to the vocation of a Freemason,” answered the grandmaster shortly.
“Much is said and written to-day concerning the extraordinary power of the Jesuits,” said the king to the reverend father. “I have in vain endeavored to discover the secret of this power; you may perhaps be able to enlighten me on the subject?”
“Your majesty, the so-called power of the Jesuits is a mere phantom invented by our enemies to excite the fears of the credulous,” answered the priest. “In fact, the Jesuits are, of all men, the weakest. They are slandered, persecuted, suppressed. In many places, they have not even the right to exist or to breathe, as in Bavaria and Switzerland. All societies are protected in Bavaria, all associations can exist in Switzerland, except the Society of Jesus. If the Jesuits, therefore, possessed in reality the power claimed for them, they would not permit their members to be treated like slaves, as they now are.”
“I believe you,” rejoined the king. “Being a foreigner, your reverence had to abandon the sphere of your labor; but now I grant you the right of a subject, and liberty to return to your mission. May you live many years to be a blessing to the parish of Weselheim!”
He took the hand of the priest, and led him to the village delegation.
“Here, you have your pastor back again! Honor and obey him!” said he to them.
“Most gracious king, may Almighty God reward you a thousand times for what you have done!” exclaimed the men, down whose cheeks the tears were streaming; and, if two of the chamberlains had not interfered, and led them out of the salon, they would have committed many breaches of etiquette, so great was their joy.
The king now approached the Freemasons; his manner was cold, but his eyes were ablaze with indignation.
“I thank divine Providence,” said he, “for having exposed before my eyes the cunning and malicious snare in which you sought to entrap me. The Jesuits are not the enemies of culture nor of the state; but the Freemasons are. The foundation of culture is Christianity, and not Freemasonry, which is the enemy of Christianity. In my kingdom, the cross, and not the trowel shall be the symbol of government. The Jesuits neither teach nor practise a false and corrupt morality, but the Freemasons do, for they seek to overthrow not only altars but thrones. The Freemasons are unscrupulous, false, and perjured officials, for they have presumed to say that their king to whom they have sworn fidelity was a narrow-minded man who did not govern, but was governed! It would be nothing more than just to have the whole order prosecuted for high treason!”
The excited king ceased speaking. The Freemasons, who at first looked defiant and unconcerned, now trembled with fright. His majesty stood for a while in perfect silence. From the foot of the hill resounded many hundred voices chanting the grand hymn of praise, the German Te Deum, while they accompanied their beloved pastor to the village.
The king, who had recovered his self-command, now pronounced the following sentence: “The director, the Counsellor of the High Court, the professor of the university, and the government counsellor Schlehdorn are from this time forth deprived of their offices. I shall not institute judicial proceedings against them, out of regard to the feelings of their innocent families!”
The king turned, and left the salon.
The Freemasons looked at one another. Upon the lips of the grandmaster an ironical, revengeful smile was seen.
“A blow in the water will startle any one, if it is given unexpectedly,” said he, “and our present discomfiture is only of that nature!” he continued, with a peculiar movement of the hand, and in language whose obscure meaning they evidently understood. “Brethren, our labors in a small sphere are only discontinued that we may resume the work on a grander scale; for the trowel of the Freemasons shall yet build the arch that covers the grave of the greater as well as of the smaller!”
The other Freemasons bowed affirmatively to the words of the grandmaster, and followed him out of the salon.
WHAT IS CIVILIZATION?
THE word civilization, adopted into almost every European language, is derived from the Latin of civitas, a city, and civis, a citizen. Webster thus defines civilization: “It consists in the progressive improvement of society considered as a whole, and of all the individual members of which it is composed.” And further: “A well-ordered state of society, culture, refinement.” Now, it is worth while to inquire into the tangible ideal of that people to whose language we are indebted for this comprehensive word. The Romans considered their empire the appointed head, by divine right, of the whole world. They could not take in the idea of their supremacy being disputed, much less resisted, and hence the proud motto, “Civis Romanus sum,” which was meant to express the ne plus ultra of human dignity. No greater honor could be bestowed upon a stranger, whether ally or conquered foe, than to make him a Roman citizen. It was a title more valuable than that of Cæsar; it had privileges attached to it which neither the blood of a Machabee nor an Alexander could claim; it compelled greater respect than the heroism of a Leonidas or the uprightness of a Socrates. Thus early had false notions of material civilization corrupted the genuine meaning of a word which should always stand, not for political supremacy, but for moral excellence. Rome, the heart of the dominant empire which had vanquished and absorbed at least two civilizations of higher degree than its own, the Hebrew and the Greek, has transmitted to the word civilization the spirit of its intensely local autonomy. Every kindred word derived from the same root has a like meaning, especially “civility,” a synonyme of “urbanity” (from urbs, a city), thereby conveying the insinuation that city customs alone have that grace and refinement necessary to pleasant social intercourse. Another meaning naturally flowed from this arbitrary assumption of perfection to imperial Rome. Civil came to mean national as opposed to foreign; as we say, for instance, civil, for intestine, war. More or less all nations of the world have adopted this way of looking upon civilization as a local thing; and, to the greater majority of mankind, there is a certain flavor of disparagement implied in the terms foreign and foreigner. We speak in a tone of half-concealed pity of men from far-off countries, as if they must needs be a little lower in the scale of creation than our enlightened selves. We have not forgotten that “barbarian” and “foreigner” were terms used interchangeably by the Greeks, and our local pride still unconsciously crops out in the most childish and laughable demonstrations. Nothing shows better how very arbitrary is the interpretation of the word civilization than our various estimates of its essence. The Chinese who wears yellow for mourning smiles compassionately at the European in his dusky garment of sorrow; and the European who is accustomed to eat his dinner with a knife and fork thinks that a nation can hardly be civilized which tolerates the use of chop-sticks. To come nearer home, we have known an Englishman of distinguished birth and position refuse the hand of his daughter to a French diplomat, a nobleman of the old stock, an accomplished gentleman, a rich land-owner, for the weighty reason that “he was a foreigner”!
The word “barbarian” (from the Greek βάρβαρος) is given in Webster’s Dictionary as meaning, in the first and literal sense, foreign. Barber or Barbar was originally the native name of a part of the coast of Africa. The Egyptians, fearing and hating its inhabitants, used their name as a term of contumely and dread, in which sense it passed to the Greeks and Romans. Thus the kindred words barbarous and barbarity have kept the meaning of “cruel and ferocious,” but the main stock of βάρβαρος generally signifies the two almost synonymous things, “foreigner” and “barbarian”! The imitative sound of barber was applied by the Greeks to the ruder tribes whose pronunciation was most harsh and whose grammar most defective. Dr. Campbell says that the Greeks were the first to brand a foreign term in any of their writers with the odious name of barbarism. This word with the Greeks had the additional general meaning of ignorance of art and want of learning, and as such has been used by Dryden. Barbaric remains to this day the synonyme of foreign and quaint, far-fetched, as Milton, following the Greeks, has used it:
“The gorgeous East with richest hand, Showers on her kings barbaric gold and pearl.”
But Dryden has also put the more unusual word barbarous for the same thing:
“The trappings of his horse embossed with barbarous gold.”
The misapplication of all these terms, and more especially of “civilization,” is of daily recurrence. We cannot open a newspaper without seeing its self-eulogium expressed in the term “a journal of civilization”; we cannot read a leading article on the financial prosperity of the country without finding it confidently stated that such prosperity is an infallible sign of civilization; we hear of railroads “carrying civilization” among the wild tribes of Central Africa; and we see atheism and false science parading their unhappy progress as the “march of civilization.”
Now, admitting the very just definition we have quoted above, that civilization is “the progressive improvement of society as a whole, and of each individual member of which it is composed,” it seems to us conclusive that only one perfect form of it could exist on earth, i.e. that which flourished for a short time in the Garden of Eden. Mankind in the state of innocence was ipso facto civilized, and civilized to the highest moral and intellectual degree possible to mere human creatures. Had there been no original sin, and had Adam’s posterity continued in utter sinlessness to inhabit the peaceful and fruitful earth, we should have had that well-ordered state of society in which the only progressive improvement would have been ever-increasing love and knowledge of God.
But this, the only perfect civilization, was lost with all other precious gifts—incorruptibility, innocence, and clear insight into the things of God. The state of grace followed the state of innocence, and man, having fallen from his innate mastership over nature when he fell from his mastership over himself, found that civilization and progressive improvement must henceforward mean nothing to him but the painful effort to regain as much of his former power as God would allow him, in guerdon of his repentance, to regain. All civilization since the Fall, therefore, has been only approximative, and can never be more than this. This explains why the highest civilization has been attained only since Christianity has prevailed, the state of accomplished redemption being the most perfect mankind has yet reached, superseding even the state of expectancy of the Hebrew dispensation. It explains, too, why the Jews were the most civilized of all ancient nations—a point to which we will refer at greater length in another place. From the few details briefly mentioned in Genesis, we infer that the earliest civilization after the Fall was by no means inferior to our own as far as material prosperity was concerned. Besides the obvious callings of husbandman and shepherd, always the first and indeed indispensable foundation of civilized life, we find that during the lifetime of Adam, i.e., the first thousand years after the Creation, cities were built and the arts cultivated. Cain was the first to build and organize a town, and his descendant Jubal is called the father of “them that play on the harps and organ.” Tubal Cain was “a hammerer and artificer in every work of brass and iron.” Hunting and the use of weapons were of course familiar to the pioneers of the human race, for tradition tells us that it was while hunting that Lamech slew a man, supposed by some to have been Cain, mistaking him for a wild beast. It was not long before solemn religious ceremonies were instituted, as appears from this passage: “This man (Enos) began to call upon the name of the Lord,” which is thus interpreted: although Adam and Seth had called upon the name of the Lord before the birth of their son and grandson Enos, yet Enos used more solemnity in the worship and invocation of God. The natural bent of fallen man, however, prevailed over the efforts of a few faithful souls, and that material civilization which, could we in imagination reconstruct its gorgeous completeness, would undoubtedly not fall below that of the great empires of Assyria, Egypt, or Persia, led surely though insensibly to moral corruption. The fatal beauty of the women of Cain’s race, “the daughters of men,” their wealth too, doubtless their worldly prosperity and lavish display, tempted the descendants of Seth, “the sons of God,” till, in a few hundred years, “all flesh had corrupted its way,” and “it repented God that he had made man.” This was the first example of the deteriorating effect of mere animal civilization, and, alas! how faithfully has it been copied in all ages since! How persistently and with what unwearying perseverance have its details of profligacy been imitated by the succeeding generations of mankind!
A historical review of each separate attempt at civilization made by the dispersed nations after the building of the Tower of Babel would be a serious task, and its result too long for these pages; but, before we leave this part of our subject to turn to the more abstract question of the essence of civilization, let us stop to remark what a high pitch of human culture had already been attained in times so remote that, save through revelation, no memorial of them remains to us. Wendell Phillips has partially developed this idea in his lecture on the “Lost Arts,” proving that three-fourths of our discoveries are plagiarisms, that our best witticisms are borrowed from the Indian and the Greek, and that our most boasted arts are but gropings in the dark after some vanished ideal of antiquity. And how much more learning than we can conjecture must there not be utterly buried out of sight in the sealed records of antediluvian times! The only likeness which we can safely boast of with those colossal days is the likeness of unbelief and corruption. The “mighty men of old,” of whom the Bible so mysteriously speaks, were doubtless as much above our standard of intellect and even of prosperity as vulgar superstition ranges them above our standard of physical strength and height. A veil of mystery shrouds them and their lives from our utmost research, and we know only one thing for certain; that is, their sin and its awful doom—little more than is told us of the fall of Lucifer and his angels, yet enough to teach us that all civilizations which in their arrogance dare to defy the laws of God must inevitably fall beneath his rod.
And now, what is civilization? What is the “good of society considered as a whole”?
Two things are indispensable to it—the inviolability of the family, and the stability of the laws of property. On these two pillars, humanly speaking, is society built, and whatever is antagonistic to these fundamental principles is necessarily and directly antagonistic to civilization.
Paternal and patriarchal government was the first known because the most natural; and, when the increasing number of families confused the original system and complicated its duties, the ruler chosen to take charge of the whole tribe or nation still looked to no higher title than that of father of his people. The stability of the laws regulating property was in all lands reckoned the gauge of prosperity and the test of national vigor. The desire of personal possession, of undisputed ownership over a tract of land however small, is a natural and legitimate instinct of man; its realization alone can bring with it to each individual that independence, that self-respect, which, in the aggregate, creates the feeling of national honor. Patriotism is not an intangible virtue; it springs from the broader basis of domestic affection; it follows the feeling of responsibility induced by the knowledge of having a personal stake in your country’s advancement. The Romans have left us their motto: Pro aris et focis—“For our altars and our hearths.” If we could no longer qualify these hearths as ours, what a lessened interest they must necessarily have in our eyes! The man who works for himself alone is reckless even if brave, lukewarm even if conscientious. He may do his work, but he does it without enthusiasm. He who works for those near and dear to him, to gain or defend a patrimony for those who in the future will take his place and bear his name, is gentle, considerate, patient, far-seeing, persevering, as well as brave and conscientious. But granted that these social and domestic laws are well-guarded, in what else does civilization consist? There are four things which dispute the title to forming the highest test of a well-ordered state of society: riches, political freedom, education, and religion. Some men would combine these elements in varied quantities to form their ideas of civilization; others would sink every element but one, and try the experiment as long as it could be made to minister to their own private aggrandizement; others, again, look for the visionary supremacy of one element alone, and the subordination to itself of every other, whether baser or nobler. We need not say to which class we hope to belong—the sequel will show.
Does civilization consist in riches, whether national or individual? True, the command of wealth inspires respect in neighboring peoples; for national wealth means large resources, speedy armaments, flourishing colonies, and means of thwarting the commerce of lesser nations. But national wealth is seldom attained unless from the basis of individual wealth. It is impossible for the state to absorb and administer such resources as these, and yet to compel private citizens to lead lives of Spartan frugality. The individual cannot be made to acknowledge any right on the part of the state which will interfere with his own right of accumulating capital, provided he makes over to the government a fair share of his profits in the shape of legitimate tribute. Private wealth then becomes the source of private luxury and extravagance, and behind extravagance lurks moral decay. Factitious wants are created, an abnormal state of society is brought about, unmanning the body and weakening the mind. To many men, riches simply suggest new means of indulging in vice; and to all men, vice, in the long run, means disease. Material prosperity has thus reached its apogee, has overshot its mark, and has found a fitting punishment in physical deterioration. There is yet another side to the question. Inordinate riches in the hands of a few, especially if unsupported by territorial prestige, by hereditary honors and the semi-feudal spirit which in Europe still links the agricultural and landed interests in personal association, are apt to breed class jealousies, and to estrange labor from capital. A civil war far more terrible than an armed insurrection is set on foot and slowly undermines the political structure. It is true that the most fatal example of this kind was the upheaval of the French Revolution of ‘93, and that it took place under a monarchical government; but, though monarchical, it was not a feudal government, and the men whose birth, wealth, and station marked them out as the victims of the people’s rage were essentially men whose associations had long been dissevered from the land. Their estates had been abandoned to unscrupulous agents or sold to ambitious roturiers; and for what reason? That its price might cover their needless display at an unstable court! At the present day, where is socialistic agitation most rife in Europe? In the manufacturing towns: not in the agricultural districts. Almost to a man, every factory-gang is ready to turn against its employer; while, in the country, laborers will even die in the defence of their landlords. In the former case, the master is always a “self-made” man, a man of the people, or at least one whose associations are obscure; in the latter, the master is the hereditary representative of gentle blood and gentle nurture, the personal friend of each man on his estate, identified with the neighborhood, and attached to the soil.
The verdict of history has certainly gone against the theory that times of material luxury, pushed to its furthest extent, are therefore times of great national prosperity. Athens was at the height of her ultra-refined civilization when the rude and martial Roman conquered her autonomy; Rome herself, made effeminate by the conquering vices of her conquered foe, was at the giddiest pinnacle of merely physical prosperity when the resistless tide of the barbarians poured over her frontiers; Spain had just grasped the New World with its teeming riches when she fell from her political supremacy in the Old; France was revelling in her Augustan Age when the tocsin of the Revolution woke her from her dalliance. Great wealth has everywhere been the herald of national misfortune; and, as if to set off this truth yet more palpably, we have the republics of Sparta and of Switzerland to show us that, both in classic and in modern times, frugality is the best preservative of freedom.
But the existence of abnormal wealth as a criterion of civilization has yet another phase. If it is possible under a republican form of government and under a constitutional régime, it is still more likely to reach gigantic proportions under a despotic system. Thus the East produces more princely fortunes than even the “enlightened” West, because, wealth being restricted to fewer individuals, it follows that these few fortunes must be colossal. Unlimited pomp, dazzling trains of slaves and camels, a fabulous blaze of gems, a limitless harem, seem to be matters of course for the favored few whose almost omnipotence has become proverbial among men as typical of the East. Therefore, if wealth be a gauge of civilization, we must conclude that despotism is the most civilized of states, since it is certainly the most favorable to the accumulation of riches. If so (and, for the sake of argument, let us grant it), how shall we reconcile this conclusion with the claims of the second and, according to some, infallible test of civilization—political freedom?
We understand by this the extreme of so-called self-government, the government by ballot and universal suffrage. We have had but very lately many signs of its woful fallibility; we have seen how cleverly it can throw the cloak of legality over the most unblushing frauds; we have seen hired violence control the very medium of government itself. Men who respected themselves would as soon touch pitch as defile their hands with voting tickets, or stand up by the side of illegally naturalized citizens, pressed into momentary service by the unscrupulous manipulators of the ballot-box. A form of government which in theory is more perfect than any other, and more in accordance with ideal human dignity, but which in sober practice has sometimes been found an inadequate safeguard against corrupting influences, is not apt to strike any one who has been familiar with the results of the last few years’ political wire-pulling as the most exalted criterion of civilization. The cant phrase of political freedom has unhappily come to mean political corruption, which hardly entitles this second candidate for the exclusive patent of civilization to a lengthened discussion in these pages. The third is education.
This is certainly a more plausible test than the two former. Learning, the arts, the sciences, the classics, all relate to the higher part of man’s nature, and reflect honor on those who strive to be their interpreters. This seems worthy of man, akin to his primeval state, and like the occupation of his future life. But alone even education cannot stand. When dissevered from religion, it falls, either into atheism or fanaticism, sometimes into both. At least one example of its pernicious moral results when thus left to itself is the brilliant shame of the Medicean renaissance. In the new groves of Academe, the ducal gardens of Fiesole, heathen voluptuousness speedily followed heathen philosophy; polished manners and elegant diction redeemed loose morals and equivocal conversation; Christianity was voted barbarous, and Christian pageants uncouth. It was the age of Boccaccio. The poison spread far and wide, the fever of a misdirected and one-sided education seized all classes, and the fathers of the church were forgotten for the lascivious poets of Greece and Rome. The mysteries of Bona Dea were almost enacted over again, the dances of Bacchus were revived, and the processions of Venus and Cupid took the place of Christian solemnities. The corruption was thus forced on the people, who, excited by gorgeous public entertainments of pagan complexion, caught the hollow enthusiasm of their rulers, and emulated the servile Romans of the empire who cried out, Panem et circenses, while they blindly surrendered their freedom into the crowned showman’s hands. Material prosperity and godless learning combined, stifled the last semblance of Florentine liberty under the rule of the Medici. In France it was atheism concealed under the guise of learning which prepared the way for the Revolution of ‘93; it was the delicately veiled irony, and the sportive unbelief of Voltaire’s disciples, which first made the “little rift within the lute.” The savage leaders of the Reign of Terror had nothing to do save crown with the guillotine the elaborate system of corruption already founded by the “philosophers.”
Education without religion has been as treacherous and as frail a support to the civilization of men as the reed that pierces the hand of him who leans upon it; political freedom (?) without religion has been only another name for a retrograde movement towards anarchy, and material wealth without the controlling influence of religion has proved the most dangerous because the most emasculating of allies to those nations who have built their civilization on its basis.
Each and all of these experiments have fallen far short of the ideal of the Garden of Eden, and each has practically confessed by its failure the radical infirmity of the theory it represented. The reason is self-evident: a system which undertakes to guide the complex workings of human nature cannot afford to disregard any of nature’s manifold instincts, and, by obstinately refusing to give a place to all legitimate aspirations, overbalances itself, and falls sooner or later into a trap of its own setting. You cannot govern man through his animal wants alone or through his intellectual yearnings only, any more than you can rule him solely through his spiritual instincts. He must be fed, clothed, and housed, true, but this alone will not satisfy him; his reason cries out for development and exercise, and his heart also puts in a claim to the notice of any one who would undertake to rule him. It is true that man is not an angel, and that spiritual food alone would not allay his hunger, but it is equally true that he is not a brute being, to be abundantly satisfied with good fodder and a dry stable. His nature is threefold: animal, intellectual, and spiritual, and claims an equal recognition of each of its phases. Neither mere riches addressed to the contentment of his lower instincts, nor mere educational and political advantages addressed to the satisfaction of his nobler self, are enough for his welfare; his soul is a higher region yet, and one which demands yet more imperatively an adequate amount of attention. This soul it is which, when bound and blinded as it but too often is in mere worldly systems of civilization, ends by grasping, like Samson, the insecure supports of this partial civilization itself, and in the untamed strength of despair dragging down the fabric in ruins at its feet.
There remains one more element which is still claimed by a brave minority, as the essence of all true civilization, and that is religion. This is the most comprehensive criterion of a “well-ordered” state of society, for it includes all the rest as a matter of course. Religion is not incompatible with the possession and accumulations of wealth, as some erroneously suppose, but she requires that such interests shall be amenable to the dictates of moderation, and of charity; she does not scout learning as an ally, but eagerly welcomes it, so long as it keeps within its province and does not use its power to stifle the spiritual nature of man; she is no enemy to political freedom or to any particular form of government whatever, but she firmly resists the claims to omnipotence which every strong government, whether popular or absolutist, has in the hour of its worldly triumph invariably made. With a wisdom the counterpart of that which equalizes and controls the various forces of nature, religion holds in her hand the various emotions, passions, and necessities of man, and balances according to a divine standard the proportions in which each one may be legitimately satisfied. She subordinates the lower satisfactions to the higher, in exact proportion as the lower nature of mankind is, or should be, subordinate to the higher; she places delegates in each inferior sphere, that there may be no violence done to the spiritual order in furthering the interests of the material; she bids honesty watch over the legitimate increase of wealth, integrity temper the efforts of men in the cause of political freedom, and reverence guide them in the pursuit of learning. She gathers up these single threads of our lives, and, weaving them into a triple cord, imparts to them a strength which her blessing alone can confer, and which individually they could never have attained. It is she alone who skilfully brings within the practical reach of the poor, the oppressed, and of the ignorant, those theories which in the mouth of worldly apostles seem either poetical dreams or subversive and socialistic principles. It is she who is the true reformer, the true progressist, the true patriot. But why is she so? Simply because she is also the only true conservatrix in the world. Her mission is to foster the good, to seek it out, to make it known, to assimilate it to herself, to absorb it into her system. Material good is not excluded; wherever it is, it belongs of right to her; whether it be old or new, foreign or native, it matters not, religion takes it into her bosom, gives it immortality, sanctions its use, recommends its adoption. Being founded on the rock of truth, she can safely stoop to draw from the wreck of error any fragment of good contained in it, whether it be a scientific, a literary, or a domestic addition to the stock of ideas which is the common property of human nature, and of which she stands the perpetual guardian. This broad, open-armed, fearless, progressive spirit is the nearest approach to the ideal of the lost paradise: this is civilization—this is Christianity.
As an example of the superiority of religion over any other test of civilization, let us return for a moment to what we have said of the Jews. To the only reasonable and dignified conception of the Godhead known to the nations of old, they added the only worthy conception of human duties and responsibilities. Their domestic system was the only one in which woman bore a seemly part; their political organization, whether in the desert, under Moses and his “rulers over thousands, and over hundreds, and over fifties, and over tens”[148] (the same division afterwards prevalent in the Roman army), or in the land of Chanaan under the Judges, was essentially self-governing, federal, and independent. Their laws were minute in detail and stringent in execution, not only after their establishment as a nation in Chanaan, but during the forty years of their nomadic existence in the wilderness, a period which with any other people would have been one of irremediable lawlessness. Compacts and treaties are mentioned in the Bible even before the direct segregation from the world of what was afterwards known as the people of Israel. Abraham and Lot agreed solemnly and peaceably to settle the differences between their followers, by each tribe taking up its abode within certain given limits; Abraham and Abimelech came to a public understanding, the former meaning to do the heathen and alien leader no harm, and the latter restoring a well of which his servants had possessed themselves by force; Abraham insisted upon paying a full and fair equivalent in money to the Hethite who offered him gratis the funeral cave of Mambre; Eleazar made between Isaac and Rebecca a formal marriage contract; Esau when he had voluntarily sold his birthright, though at the bidding of necessity, was bound to hold by his rash cession; Jacob made and faithfully kept with his uncle Laban an engagement to give him his services for fair wages for a given number of years. Such social compacts, rigorously adhered to even when made with idolaters, are among the most convincing proofs of the high state of a country’s civilization, and present a strange, suggestive contrast with the rude polity of nations who, at that time and even many ages later, knew no right of property save that of forcible possession, and no guarantee of good faith save that which the sword could enforce. Attention to the duties of hospitality, another prominent sign of civilization, was a characteristic of the Jews. We have so many Biblical examples of this that it is impossible to give them. The division of the community into fixed orders of occupation is another recognized sign of an advanced state of society. Of course this and many others were held by the Jews in common with several nations of heathendom, some eminently distinguished for heroism, for honor, for learning, etc; and yet which of all the polished nations of antiquity had not some festering sore of pauperism, superstition, or barbarity, to conceal beneath its fair outside of dazzling “civilization”? The people of God, on the contrary, the only representatives of the true religion, were free from such social ulcers, and, even when their history shocks us by scenes of mysterious cruelty, it is universally admitted that the hand of God was working through them, and that they were but as instruments wielded in the dark by a power mightier than themselves.
Agriculture, or the “arts of peace,” called by some the representative of civilization, was an honored calling among the Hebrews. The riches of Judith and of Booz were fields and cattle; the promises of future prosperity scattered through Holy Writ are always typified by “fields and vineyards”; the inheritances and dowers of the sons and daughters of Israel were herds and fields, and so jealous was each tribe of its landed possessions that it was enacted that its members should intermarry only among themselves, under pain of forfeiting all claim to the legal portion allotted the offender. So careful of the condition of the land and its products were the divinely inspired laws of the Hebrews that they provided every seven years a season of rest, “the Sabbath of the land,” when for a twelvemonth the fields should not be ploughed nor the vineyards pruned, neither any fruit forced to grow and produce by artificial means. It would take a volume to develop this mysterious superiority of the chosen people, as regards even material civilization, over every other contemporary nation during fully two thousand years. They saw whole systems of social economy rise from barbarism, and fade away into political dotage, or disappear beneath the heel of conquest; they watched nations live and die, and drop out of the memory of mankind as completely as Pharao’s hosts were hidden by the waves of the Red Sea, and yet they stood firm and indestructible, with unchanged laws, with fixed customs, a people small in number, but great in tradition, invincible as the sun, immovable as a rock. And why? Because their political existence and their social system was founded on truth, and controlled by religion. The Hebrew nation was the one holy and only true church of those days. And for the same reasons which gave the Jews that supernatural vitality, Christianity is at this day in the van of civilization. Everything we have said of the one applies to the other; the signs which we noticed as such prominent features of Jewish polity—division of orders, fixed occupations, care for agriculture, good faith, property and family laws, individual and federal government—whence have they come to us? We say it unhesitatingly, from Christianity. To put it into plainer language, let us say, from the church, and chiefly through the monastic orders.
These armies of peaceful conquerors invaded the morasses and forests of the North, and, carrying with them all that made the Hebrew system divine, planted that very system in the midst of the barbarian hordes. The monks were the first agriculturists, the first mechanics, the first engineers, of our modern civilization. What need to tell again the story of their giant labors and glorious success? After teaching us how to build our houses, to till our fields, to protect our rights, to clothe our bodies, they taught us how to beautify our lives by art, and store our minds with learning. They gave us cathedrals, that we might know how glorious was the God they taught; they gave us Roman, Greek, and Hebrew lore, that we might see how liberal was the Master they served. The laws under which all European nations and their offshoots now live were framed on the model of the Canons of the Church, themselves based on the Tables of the Mosaic law; and the sciences, the literature, and the arts, of which we in our pygmy self-glorification are so proud, have been painfully transmitted to us by the patient labor of monastic scholars. Christianity in the person of these heroic pioneers has paved the way for all the civilization we can boast of, and those who seek to divorce civilization from Christianity thereby disown their very title-deeds. Once blot the church out of the map of the world, and civilization will speedily follow. Thank God that that, at least, is now impossible!
Having therefore inherited all that made the Hebrew system the most perfect approach to the ideal of the Garden of Eden, Christianity stands to-day in the position of the only legitimate representative of true civilization. For one thousand five hundred years, Christianity meant Catholicism, and to the reign of her undisputed supremacy belongs every important discovery, every material progress, the world has ever made. Why then, when we face to-day that world which owes it to the church that it is strong enough to face anything—do we meet everywhere the reproach of intolerance, of retrogression?
Is the reproach true to-day which in the days of S. Columba was false? Have we changed, has the church changed? If not, where is the fault?
It lies, as all human mistakes do, in the confusion and perversion of terms. The world in its aberration has turned against its teacher, and wounded itself with the weapons that only a practised and steady hand may safely wield. It has erected its own puny tribunal at the foot of God’s throne, and judged the Eternal from its own point of view. If the childish madness were not so sad in its results, it would make one smile at its presumption. But it has the power of damning a human soul, and of frustrating the work of God himself on Calvary, so that we dare not smile at its arrogance, how supremely ridiculous soever it may be from a merely philosophical point of view. It is this aberration of the human mind which for the last three centuries has dubbed Christianity as retrograde. When the Pope’s Syllabus made the difference clear between true progress and its infidel counterfeit, the world cried out that he was retrograde. “See” it said, “he condemns the liberty of the press, the liberty of association, the right of self-government, the spread of education; he would have heretics burnt at the stake, and all Protestant sovereigns deposed from their thrones.”
Was it so? We know that it was not. We know that it was the abuse, not the use, of these things which was condemned, and that the denunciation of error is a very different thing from the extermination of that error’s victims. We know this, and the world too knew it, but it suited the purpose of the world to say otherwise, and to raise against us the cry of intolerance, fanaticism. Well, be it so; but who fashioned the languages in which that cry is raised, who taught the world the meaning of such words as intolerance and fanaticism, who led the way to the contrivance without which the liberty of the press could not exist?
Our civilization, it is true, is of a different order from that now in fashion. It is a civilization which has no need of iron ships and monster armies; it can subdue and humanize by other methods than the bullet and the shell. It tolerates all and any customs that do not strike at morality; it can adapt itself to any nation, and make itself all things to all men. It does not pin its faith to the color of the skin, the fashion of a garment, or any social conventionality; it does not supersede individuality, either personal or national, but engrafts itself upon it and makes it serve a higher purpose. It does not address itself exclusively to one branch of human development, but cultivates them all, each in its turn, making them subservient at last to the spiritual interests of the soul.
TO A FRIEND.
If ever, lady, any word of mine, Spoken in sorrow, came to thy own heart With any sense of comfort or of peace, My sorrow that before was half divine Becomes a joy! and I would never part With its remembrance. Why should sorrow cease That makes one happy? I would rather twine Roses than cypress round a grief so dear; And I could set as in an emerald shrine That sadness in my soul for evermore. How gladly would I live that evening o’er Thinking of thee! Not vain, amid the scenes Of that proud park, my mood was, from the shore Watching the slow state of those ermined queens.
GRAPES AND THORNS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE HOUSE OF YORKE.”