THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XIX., NO. 112.—JULY, 1874
A Discussion With An Infidel.
Dr. Louis Büchner’s work, Kraft und Stoff, first appeared in Germany in the year 1855, and met with such a favorable reception by a numerous class of ignorant or wicked progressionists(95) that from that year up to the end of 1870 it passed through ten German editions, without counting the several translations into other languages. The present writer had lately the fortune, or the misfortune, to be presented with an English copy of this abominable work,(96) and was informed that the knights of the square and the trowel had taken a special interest in its propagation. It could not be otherwise; for the work itself is a masonic work. No one who knows the true character of freemasonry, and has read the book, can have the least doubt of its masonic origin. Only a mason of the blackest dye could have displayed such a cool effrontery, artful dishonesty, and diabolic malice as the author of Force and Matter did in almost every page of his little volume. Dr. Büchner is one of those dangerous men who have a great talent for perverting truth. He knows how to dazzle the simple with brilliant quotations, how to perplex the acute with unanswerable riddles, how to entangle the cautious in a web of plausible objections. He knows how to supplant reason by rhetoric; and the more embarrassing his case, the greater is his assurance and the higher his pretension. It is in the name of science that he pretends to speak. Such is the fashion just now. Secret societies began their open war against the church and against God in the name of philosophy; when beaten on this ground, they appealed to liberality, then to progress, then to civilization, and now to science. All these words, on their lips, were lies. Freemasons and their cognate societies have never been fond of real “philosophy,” and never had truly “liberal” views. The world never made any “progress” in the right direction when it followed them; their pretended “civilization” never meant anything else than the tyrannical subjugation of the church by “civil” powers. And now their “science,” so far as it is theirs, is only a travesty and prostitution of truth. The world owes nothing to them except the increase of crime, the loss of public honesty, and the threatened triumph of villany.
With Dr. Büchner, as with many others of the same ilk, science is a mere pretext. His real object is to attack God’s existence, a future life, human liberty, and all those truths which underlie sound philosophy, morality, and religious belief. A work so well calculated to do harm, and which has already infected with its poison a numerous class of readers, needs refutation, and we will engage in the unpleasant task. We hope we shall be able to show that Dr. Büchner’s Force and Matter, all its pretensions notwithstanding, is, in a philosophical point of view, a complete failure. One ounce of truth and a cartload of lies is just what the doctor dispenses to his benighted admirers throughout the pages of his baneful production.
To make things clearer, and to give Dr. Büchner the best opportunity of speaking for himself, we have thought of putting the whole discussion in the form of a dialogue between the doctor and ourselves. We know that a lengthy conversation with such a sworn enemy of truth may prove disgusting in a high degree, as he will utter nothing but sophisms or blasphemies. But the sophist must be unmasked and the blasphemer confounded. We hope our readers will excuse us for paying such attention to an infidel writer; we would have ignored him altogether, if his work were not as dangerous as it is unworthy of a doctor.
I. Flippancy And Scholasticism
Reader. Indeed, doctor, I fear that your Force and Matter will make you a bad reputation. Our most esteemed philosophers say that you are a sophist, and that a man of your attainments cannot be a sophist but by deliberate choice. They evidently imply that you are a knave and an impostor. As for myself, I confess that I do not see the cogency of your reasonings; but, before declaring you a knave and an impostor, I should like to hear from your own mouth what you may have to say in your behalf.
Büchner. I am not surprised, sir, at anything said against me. When I published my work, “I knew that my attempt was bold, and that I should have to sustain a fierce struggle with the prejudices of the age” (p. viii.) But “things cannot be represented different from what they are; and nothing appears to me more perverse than the efforts of respectable naturalists to introduce orthodoxy in the natural sciences” (p. xvii.) You say that our most esteemed philosophers call me a sophist. You mean the schoolmen, of course; in fact, the scholastic philosophy, still riding upon its high though terribly emaciated horse, conceives that it has long ago done with our theories, and has consigned them, ticketed materialism, sensualism, determinism, etc., to the scientific lumber‐room, or, as the phrase goes, has assigned them their historical value. But this philosophy, my dear sir, sinks daily in the estimation of the public, and loses its ground (p. xviii.)
Reader. I would remark, with your permission, that the public is not nowadays a very acute judge of these matters. For what does the public know of scholastic philosophy?
Büchner. By the public I mean the scientific world, sir.
Reader. The scientific world, dear doctor, knows very little of scholastic philosophy. I am sure you will not deny the fact. Can you tell me where, when, for how many years, under what professors, and in what books, your scientific men had an opportunity of studying scholastic philosophy? They have, no doubt, heard something of it—just enough to realize the fact that there was a science in the world of which they were profoundly ignorant. But this gives them no right to pass a judgment. I venture to say that neither you nor Moleschott, Feuerbach, Darwin, Tuttle, Huxley, or any of your school, have ever studied, or consulted, or perhaps even so much as touched with your hands, a single volume of scholastic philosophy.
Büchner. This may be; but it is quite enough for us to know that “the singular attempts of the old school to construe nature out of thought instead of from observation have failed, and brought the adherents of that school into such discredit that the name of natural philosopher has become a byword and a nickname” (p. xix.)
Reader. No, doctor. This is not true. The name of natural philosopher is still much respected and revered; and I trust nothing will ever succeed in making it despicable, except, perhaps, the shameless usurpation of it made by your friends, the free‐thinkers, whose philosophy is nothing but a mean conspiracy against truth. It is their fault, indeed, if the name of natural philosopher is sneered at when connected with their own persons. Why should they put on a garb which fits them not? If you call Moleschott or Darwin natural philosophers, every one certainly will smile; but call Ampère or Faraday by this name, and you will see every one take down his hat in sign of respect and approbation. Then, you should not imagine that because a few discoveries have been lately made by our men of science (I say a few, because most of them are only new applications of old theories, while many others are mere hypotheses), you should not imagine that we have acquired the right to despise the discoveries and the wisdom of all past ages. It was our forefathers who created modern science. Where would you be without a Kepler, a Galileo, a Newton, and scores of others, who laid down the ruling principles of all the branches of science? If they knew less than we do about empirical manipulations, they knew a great deal more about the conditions of legitimate speculation. To construe nature “out of thought instead of from observation” has never been their method; if I wished to retaliate, I could easily prove that it is yours.
Büchner (defiantly). Try, sir.
Reader. Well, since you challenge me, I shall ask you whether it is from observation, and not out of thought, that you have construed your “uncreated” matter. I know, and you also know, that it is only “out of thought.” But we shall have time to do justice to this and other topics. The point I now insist on is, that what you say of the scholastic method of “construing nature” is a rank calumny. Understand me, doctor. Natural science has two objects in view: the first is to ascertain the truth about natural facts; the second is to discover the nature of the principles and causes to which such facts must be traced. As the first of these two objects is attained by observation and experiments, so is the second by thought—that is, by reasonings based on the positive results of observation and experiment. Now, you must admit that the duty of the metaphysician is not to make observations or experiments. This belongs to the physicist. The metaphysician accepts the facts as ascertained by the physicist; and it is from such facts, not from thoughts, that he starts his speculation on the nature of things. Of course, if the physicist be wrong in his statement of facts, the metaphysician will be led astray and build a theory without foundation; yet the fault will not be his. And if the physicist be ignorant of some important law of nature, the metaphysician will be compelled to supply for the law with a guess at a probable hypothesis. This is in the nature of things. With a mutton‐chop you cannot make roast beef, can you?
Büchner. No, indeed.
Reader. I mean that our forefathers had not at their disposal such an abundance of means for investigating the secrets of nature as we now possess. Certainly, the most important of such secrets, before the time of Copernicus, were inaccessible to the metaphysicians. I allow, then, that the theory of the scholastics remained incomplete, and was most imperfect so long as universal attraction was unknown and chemistry undeveloped. But this proves nothing. The imperfection of the old physics gives you no right to affirm that the schoolmen construed nature out of thought. Speculation always implies thought; but to start one’s speculations from the data of observation, as it was customary with the scholastic philosophers, is not to reject observation.
Büchner. I demur to this statement, sir. It is well known that the old school was all grounded on the à priori method.
Reader. Certainly not, my dear doctor. One cannot reason without abstract principles; but when such principles are the result of experimental knowledge, it would be folly to pretend that they constitute an à priori method of construing nature out of thought instead of from observation. Do you demur to this also?
Büchner. What I assert, sir, is that “the times of the scholastic bombast, of philosophical charlatanism, or, as Cotta says, of intellectual jugglery, are passing away” (p. xix.)
Reader. You are not serious, doctor. First of all, you know nothing about scholastic bombast. Were you to read one page of any of our great scholastic doctors, you would be amazed at the simplicity of their style, and at the utter recklessness of your allegation. In the second place, the times of bombast and charlatanism are not passing away. Read Huxley. Can you find anything more bombastic than his Lay Sermons? Read Darwin. Is he not a philosophical charlatan? Read your own Kraft und Stoff....
Büchner. Brilliancy is not charlatanism, sir. It is a fact that while the pretended high speculations of the old school are hopelessly unintelligible, our discoveries, “by directing investigation to facts, have compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions of speculative dreams, and to descend to real life” (p. xxii.) Can you condemn us for this? “It lies in the nature of philosophy that it should be common property. Expositions which are not intelligible to an educated man are scarcely worth the ink they are printed with. The philosophical mist which envelops the writings of scholars appears intended more to conceal than to exhibit their thoughts” (p. xix.)
Reader. It is all a mistake, doctor. If you reflect for a moment on your oracular sentences, you will see that they are mere nonsense. You say that it lies in the nature of philosophy that it should be common property. I wonder if this can be true. I fancy that philosophy, like any other science or discipline which is acquired by study, is the property of those alone who have studied it; and I hope that no man of sense will contest such an evident truth. You say that philosophical expositions should be intelligible to every educated man; but this is true only on the assumption that the education of which you speak includes a thorough training in philosophy; which, unfortunately, is not the case with a great number of so‐called educated men. You say that whatever is clearly conceived can be clearly expressed; but you forget that what is clearly expressed for the scholar may still be obscure to the uninitiated. Is it possible that a doctor like you, and a president of a medical association, should overlook the fact that every science has a number of technical terms and scientific phrases which must be learned in special books and by special study before its speculations can be comprehended? It is therefore supremely ridiculous to talk of “the mist that envelops the writings of scholars.” Everything is misty to the uninstructed. Let him study, and the mist will disappear; for it is not the doctrine that wants clearness, but it is the eye of the ignorant that is blurred.
And now, what shall I say of that pompous phrase of yours, that modern discoveries “have compelled thought to leave the misty and sterile regions of speculative dreams, and to descend to real life”? I hope you will allow me to call it “modern bombast” and “philosophical charlatanism”; for I cannot call it by any other name. If you mean by such words to denounce Kant, Hegel, Schelling, and other German dreamers of the same school, I have nothing to say in their defence; but if you intend thereby to stigmatize the Catholic schools, to which you Germans, no less than the rest of the civilized world, owe your intellectual education, I cannot help saying, dear doctor, that your hostile insinuations are dictated by malice and hatred of truth. Why do you defame what you know not? How can you call a sterile region that speculative philosophy which formed all our great men? or dreams those evident conclusions against which reason cannot rebel without slaying itself? Is not this very strange in a doctor? You were confident that “intellectual jugglery,” to use Cotta’s expression, would be stronger than historical truth; but we are quite prepared to meet you on this ground as on others; for we Catholic thinkers are not afraid of bombastic words. We do not even think that your “jugglery” is at all “intellectual.” For is it intellectual to make sweeping assertions when you can give no proofs? Or is it intellectual to sneer at your opponents, instead of replying to their arguments? I presume, dear doctor, that your freemasons alone would see anything intellectual in such a proceeding.
Büchner. You imagine, sir, that I must be a freemason. I shall not answer that, as it has nothing to do with my book. Yet I wish to inform you that freemasonry everywhere favors the progress of “modern science”; and therefore I would not object to being called a freemason, whether I am one or not. But as to making assertions of which I give no proofs, I defy you, sir, to substantiate the charge; and as to my not replying to my opponents, I am sure you will modify your judgment when you examine the prefaces to the various editions of my work.
Reader. I accept the challenge. It will not be more difficult to give you full satisfaction on these two points than it has been to rebut your flippant denunciations of the scholastic philosophy.
II. Tergiversation And Jugglery
Reader. You say, then, that in the prefaces to the various editions of your work you have replied to your opponents.
Büchner. Certainly I do.
Reader. I have read all your prefaces. In the very first you make this declaration: “We will not be in want of opponents; but we shall only notice those who speak from experience and combat us with facts” (p. xx.) This amounts to saying: “When we shall be attacked with any sort of arms, arrows, pistols, knives, swords, guns, and sticks, we shall not defend ourselves except against sticks.” Against sticks, of course, you may defend yourself by the use of other sticks; but, if you are attacked with artillery, will your sticks be to you a sufficient protection? You knew very well, when publishing your book, that you were to be attacked with reasons. To declare that you would notice only those adversaries who would attack you with facts was to declare that you were not ready to meet your real opponents.
Büchner. Against fact there is no reasoning.
Reader. This is not the question. It is true that against fact there is no reasoning; but when we argue against your false conclusions, we do not attack your facts, but your sophisms only, most erudite doctor.
Then you add that “speculative philosophers may fight among themselves from their own point of view, but should not delude themselves into the belief that they alone are in possession of philosophical truth” (p. xx.) These words reveal your tactics, which are: “Let them fight among themselves, and not against me; but if one of their number attacks me, and I cannot hold my ground, let him know that, if he is right, I also am right; for he is not alone in possession of philosophical truth.” This is, doctor, the silly plan of defence you have adopted and carried out against the attacks of Catholic philosophers. How can you, then, pretend that you have answered your opponents? I mean your real opponents.
When the Frankfurter Katholische Kirchenblatt took you to task for your impious and absurd publication, what did you answer? Here are your words: “We shall pass over the fierce denunciations of the Frankfürter Katholische Kirchenblatt, conducted by the parish priest, Beda Weber. The melancholy notoriety which that individual has acquired, as one of the most eccentric of the ultramontane party, permits us simply to dismiss him. We shall only tell the reader that the Frankfürter Kirchenblatt carries its hatred against the modern direction of science so far as to recommend the application of the criminal law against its representatives. The public may thus learn what these gentlemen are capable of, should they ever become possessed of power. The same bloody hatred with which science was once persecuted by religious fanaticism would revive anew, and with it the Inquisition, and auto‐da‐fés, and all the horrors, with which a refined zealotism has tortured humanity would be resorted to, to satisfy the wishes of these theological cut‐throats. We must turn from these enemies, quite unworthy of a serious refutation, to another opponent” (p. xxiii.) Here, then, you confess that you have cowardly turned your back to the enemy.
Büchner. Cowardly?
Reader. Yes. If you do not like the word, I will say prudently. In fact, the reason you allege—that such an enemy was unworthy of serious refutation—is a miserable pretext. Whoever is not blind can see that your furious declamation against Beda Weber was an impudent attempt at crushing, if possible, by insults, the man whom you could not defeat with reasons. It is mean and disgusting. What can your readers say when you dare not even let them know Beda Weber’s objections, on the plea that the reverend priest “has acquired a melancholy notoriety as one of the most eccentric of the ultramontane party”? If such is the verdict of the masonic lodges, we cannot but congratulate Beda Weber for the compliment paid to him. His very “hatred against the modern (masonic and infidel) direction of science” shows that he is a man of sound and clear judgment; and his opinion that “the criminal law” should be applied against the atheists and the corruptors of youth recommends him to us as a man of order and a true friend of civil society; for nothing is more necessary for the preservation of order and the peace of society than the enforcement of law. When such men make denunciations, they should not be “simply dismissed,” dear doctor. Religious fanaticism, refined zealotism, tortures of humanity, persecution of science, and the rest, even if they were not thread‐bare lies, would not authorize you to “simply dismiss” a learned opponent as unworthy of serious refutation. I will say nothing about that malicious insinuation concerning “what these gentlemen are capable of, should they ever become possessed of power.” Were they capable of any monstrosity, this would not help your defence of Force and Matter. But those gentlemen have been possessed of power for ages, and the nations redeemed from barbarism, and enriched with monuments of art, and with scientific, literary, and charitable institutions, show “what they were capable of.” Of course freemasonry is capable of something else; a glance at the present deplorable condition of Germany suffices to show what you are capable of when you are possessed of power. But, I repeat, were we as wicked, in your opinion, as you are in fact, this would be no reason for not answering our arguments. Your book is an attack against religion. The professors of religion are therefore your natural opponents. It is to them, therefore, that you owe your explanations. And yet this is what you publicly profess yourself unable to do.
Büchner. I never made such a profession.
Reader. You made it very openly. “With regard to parsons and ecclesiastics,” you say, “who never cease to enlighten and to assail us with their eloquence, we beg to repeat that we cannot discuss with them” (p. lxiv.) Of course you endeavor to cover your retreat, as usual, by pretending that “these good people have, from the beginning of the world, had the privilege of using their zeal and ignorance in crying down everything that does not suit their business” (ibid.); but this vile language only betrays your inability to cope with them. You are so generous as “not to disturb them in their vocation,” because “no rational man doubts the total incapacity of these gentlemen to enter upon such questions” (p. lxv.)
Büchner. Why should I answer them? They are mere theologians; and I maintain that “there is no theological or ecclesiastical natural science, and there will be none so long as the telescope does not reach the regions where angels dwell” (p. lxv.)
Reader. This is a very poor excuse, dear doctor. Theologians are not debarred from dealing with natural sciences. To mention no others, Copernicus was a canon; Secchi is a Jesuit; Moigno is a priest. Moreover, the subject of the question is not natural science, but your sophistry; and you cannot deny that ecclesiastical studies make men competent to judge of logical blunders. But, leaving all this aside, did you not try to refute the Allgemeine Zeitung, though you pretend that “in struggling with such pen‐heroes, it seems to you that you are acting like Don Quixote” (p. xxviii.)? Did you not fight, also, against Mr. Karl Gutzkow, although he, “as is well known, has never impeded the daring flight of his genius by the ballast of science” (p. xxix.)? And, to omit others, did you not do your best to answer the Allgemeine Kirchen Zeitung, although it meets you, as you say, “with theological eccentricity and rodomontades” (p. xxxvii.)? It would appear, then, that you are not afraid of accepting battle when you have any hope of overcoming your adversary. And therefore, when you shrink from answering your Catholic opponents, it is evident that you do so only because with them you have no hope of success.
Büchner. You are quite mistaken, sir.
Reader. No, indeed. I am certain that you cannot hold your ground against a Catholic opponent, and I am ready to show you immediately that such is really the case. I have already told you that your Force and Matter is a book full of sweeping assertions, of which no proof is given. You challenged me to substantiate the charge, and I have accepted the challenge. I say, then, that your very first proposition, on which all the other arguments employed in your work are ultimately based, is one of those assertions of which no proof is or can be given. Do you accept the battle on this ground?
Büchner. I do.
Reader. Please, then, what do you consider to be the fundamental proposition of your work?
Büchner. It is this: “No matter without force, and no force without matter” (p. 2).
Reader. Is this proposition altogether universal, so as to admit of no possible exception?
Büchner. Yes, sir, absolutely universal, without any possible exception.
Reader. Then please tell me on what grounds such an absolute universality can be established.
Büchner. On many grounds. First, as Dubois‐Reymond profoundly remarks, “fundamentally considered, there are neither forces nor matter. Both are merely abstractions, assumed from different points of view, of things as they are. They supplement and presuppose each other. Separately they do not exist. Matter is not like a carriage, to which the forces, like horses, can be put or again removed from. A particle of iron is, and remains, the same, whether it crosses the horizon in the meteoric stone, rushes along in the wheel of the steam‐engine, or circulates in the blood through the temples of the poet. These qualities are eternal, inalienable, and untransferable” (pp. 1, 2).
Reader. I would remark that the qualities of matter are not eternal. Of course, as long as matter continues to exist, its essential constitution must remain intact; but to say that the qualities of matter are eternal is to assume not only that matter will last for ever, but also that it has existed from all eternity. Science has no right to make this assumption, since it has no means of ascertaining its truth; for evidently eternity does not come under observation and experiment. But leaving aside this question, which we may examine later, I say that your quotation from M. Dubois does not account for the universality of your proposition.
Büchner. Hear Moleschott: “A force not united to matter, but floating freely above it, is an idle conception” (p. 1).
Reader. This is a mere assertion.
Büchner. Hear Cotta: “Nothing in the world justifies us in assuming the existence per se of forces independent of the bodies from which they proceed and upon which they act” (p. 2).
Reader. This is no proof. It is quite clear that those forces which proceed from the bodies cannot be independent of the bodies. But your proposition is that no force whatever can exist without matter; and therefore you should prove that all forces, without exception, are dependent on matter.
Büchner. First of all, we must admit that there is no matter without force. “Imagine matter without force, and the minute particles of which a body consists without that system of mutual attraction and repulsion which holds them together, and gives form and shape to the body; imagine the molecular forces of cohesion and affinity removed; what then would be the consequence? The matter must instantly break up into a shapeless nothing. We know in the physical world of no instance of any particle of matter which is not endowed with forces by means of which it plays its appointed part in some form or another, sometimes in connection with similar or with dissimilar particles. Nor are we in imagination capable of forming a conception of matter without force. In whatever way we may think of an original substance, there must always exist in it a system of mutual repulsion and attraction between its minutest parts, without which they would dissolve and tracelessly disappear in universal space. A thing without properties is a non‐entity, neither rationally cogitable nor empirically existing in nature” (pp. 2, 3).
Reader. Very good so far. But this is no recent discovery; it is an old truth constantly taught, and much more exactly expressed, by those schoolmen whom you imagine to have been “the persecutors of science.” Thus far, then, you have only rehearsed the old doctrine. But now you have to show that, as there is no matter without force, so also there is no force without matter.
Büchner. Yes. “Force without matter is equally an idle notion. It being a law admitting of no exception that force can only be manifested in matter, it follows that force can as little possess a separate existence as matter without force” (p. 3).
Reader. Take care, doctor! You are now assuming what should be proved. You assume a law, admitting of no exception, that force can only be manifested in matter.
Büchner. The law is known. “Imagine an electricity, a magnetism, without the iron or such bodies as exhibit these phenomena, and without the particles of matter, the mutual relation of which is just the cause of these phenomena; nothing would then remain but a confused idea, an empty abstraction, to which we have given a name in order to form a better conception. If the material particles capable of an electric condition had never existed, there would have been no electricity, and we should never have been able by mere attraction to acquire the least knowledge or conception of electricity. Indeed, we may say electricity would never have existed without these particles. All the so‐called imponderables, such as light, heat, electricity, magnetism, etc., are neither more nor less than changes in the aggregate state of matter—changes which, almost like contagion, are transmitted from body to body. Heat is a separation, cold an approximation, of the material atoms. Light and sound are vibrating, undulating bodies. Electrical and magnetic phenomena, says Czolbe, arise, as experience shows, like light and heat from the reciprocal relation of molecules and atoms” (pp. 3, 4).
Reader. Have you done?
Büchner. Yes, sir.
Reader. Is this all your proof?
Büchner. Yes, sir.
Reader. Then allow me to state that you have not shown what you promised. You have proved, indeed, that the forces of matter exist nowhere but in matter; but as every one admits this, there was no need of your proof. Your duty was to prove the universal proposition, no force without matter; and therefore you had to show that there are no other forces than the forces of matter.
Büchner. This is evident; as “force can as little exist without a substance as seeing without a visual apparatus, or thinking without an organ of thought” (p. 4).
Reader. I am afraid, doctor, that you do not speak to the point. The question is not whether a force can or cannot exist without a substance; it is, whether there is no other substance than matter. Before denying the existence of force without matter, you must conclusively show that all substance is matter.
Büchner. “Nothing but the changes we perceive in matter by means of our senses could ever give us any notion as to the existence of powers which we qualify by the name of forces. Any knowledge of them by other means is impossible” (p. 4).
Reader. I should be glad to know how you can infer from such a remark that all substance is matter. What you perceive in material objects proves, indeed, the existence of matter and of the forces of matter; but how does it prove the non‐existence of other substances and of other forces? You, surely, imagine that our senses are our only source of knowledge, and that the supersensible, as unknowable, must be consigned to the region of dreams.
Büchner. Certainly. “We maintain that human thought and human knowledge are incapable of discovering or knowing anything supersensual. This is the necessary general result of modern investigation” (p. xli.)
Reader. A curious result indeed! By which of your senses do you perceive abstractions, such as philosophy, morality, affirmation, veracity? I put you the alternative: either show that you touch, hear, smell, taste, or see, with your material eyes, any of such abstract notions, or confess, according to the general result of your ridiculous modern investigations, that you can have none of such notions, and are essentially incapable of reasoning.
Büchner. You try to draw me out of the real question, sir.
Reader. By no means. It is your denial of our capability of knowing anything supersensual that draws us out of the question.
Büchner. My object was to show that there is no matter without force, and no force without matter. This proposition can be established without any special reference to our mental operations.
Reader. You may try; on condition, however, that our knowledge of the supersensible be not called in question.
Büchner. The science of force is physics. “This science makes us acquainted with eight different forces: gravitation, mechanical force, heat, light, electricity, magnetism, affinity, cohesion, which, inseparably united to matter, form and give shape to the world” (p. 18). Any force which cannot be reduced to a combination of these forces is therefore to be looked upon as chimerical. Nothing is more evident.
Reader. Evident? I think, doctor, if I were you, I would be ashamed of uttering such a rank sophism. You beg the question altogether. What right have you to assume that there are no real forces in the universe but those mentioned in our physical treatises? To assume this is to assume that there is nothing in the world but matter—the very thing which you should demonstrate. And therefore you are as far as ever from having shown your universal proposition, no force without matter. Indeed, you will never show it. Truth is stronger than you.
Büchner. Then tell me, sir, on what ground do you base your belief in the existence of supersensual forces?
Reader. Excuse me, doctor. We were not discussing the question, “What are my grounds for believing their existence?” Our question was, “What are your own grounds for proclaiming their non‐existence?” When a man makes an assertion contrary to the common belief, it is his duty to give good reasons in its support. If he cannot, let him give up his assertion, and go back to the common belief. Common beliefs, on the contrary, are in no need of special demonstration so long as they are not attacked with plausible reasons. That there are supersensual forces is a common belief. As you have failed to adduce any serious proof to the contrary, this common belief remains unshaken. You ask on what grounds I base my belief. I might answer that I base it on the ground of universal consent, and I might show that this universal consent must have a universal foundation, which cannot be invalidated. But I will tell you a special reason for admitting supersensual forces. It is that there are facts which cannot be accounted for by the forces of matter.
Büchner. What fact? Do you mean the exploded fact of creation?
Reader. I will soon come to the fact of creation, if you wish, and compel you to swallow back your nasty epithet. But the fact I alluded to was that the phenomena of consciousness and of volition are unaccountable, if there is nothing besides material forces. This you cannot deny; for you say you “cannot but acknowledge that in the relation of brain and soul, phenomena occur which cannot be explained from the simple physical relation of force and matter” (p. lxiv.) As long, therefore, as you admit nothing but matter and material force, there are facts which, by your own confession, cannot be explained. Thus, you see, not only have you failed to substantiate your fundamental assertion, no force without matter, but you are constrained, on your own showing, to admit forces that transcend matter.
III. Creation
Reader. You say, doctor, that creation is an exploded fact. May I ask why?
Büchner. “Those who talk of a creative power, which is said to have produced the world out of itself, or out of nothing, are ignorant of the first and most simple principle, founded upon experience and the contemplation of nature. How could a power have existed not manifested in material substance, but governing it arbitrarily according to individual views? Neither could separately‐existing forces be transferred to chaotic matter, and produce the world in this manner; for we have seen that a separate existence of either is an impossibility” (p. 5).
Reader. I beg to remind you that we have not seen the impossibility of force without matter. All your efforts to show it have been vain. It is childish, therefore, on your part, to pretend that those who talk of a creative power “are ignorant of a first principle founded upon experience and the contemplation of nature.” The contemplation of nature is, on the contrary, the ladder by which rational creatures ascend to the knowledge of the Creator. You ask: How could a power have existed not manifested in material substance? I answer by another question: How could the world have existed, if no such power exists? This is the real question at issue. And pray, doctor, do not speak of separately‐existing forces transferred to chaotic matter. This is not the way we account for the production of the world. We do not admit of chaotic matter before creation. And again, do not suppose that we can ever dream of a Creator producing the world out of himself. We are not pantheists; and we know that the world has been produced out of nothing. This is the true notion of creation according to both theology and philosophy.
Büchner. Very well. But “the world could not have originated out of nothing. A nothing is not merely a logical, but also an empirical non‐ entity. The world, or matter with its properties, which we term forces, must have existed from eternity, and must last for ever—in one word, the world cannot have been created” (p. 5).
Reader. These are bold assertions indeed. How can you make them good?
Büchner. “The notion ‘eternal’ is certainly one which, with our limited faculties, is difficult of conception. The facts, nevertheless, leave no doubt as to the eternity of the world” (p. 5).
Reader. What facts, if you please?
Büchner. Here is one fact: “That the world is not governed, as is frequently expressed, but that the changes and motions of matter obey a necessity inherent in it, which admits of no exception, cannot be denied by any person who is but superficially acquainted with the natural sciences” (p. 5). Now, if the world is not governed by a superior power, we cannot make it dependent for its origin on any superior power. This leaves no doubt as to the eternity of the world.
Reader. I wonder, doctor, if you have ever learned or understood the first principles of philosophy. Young students may teach you that, from the necessity to which matter is subjected of obeying certain laws of motion, it is absurd to infer the necessity of its existence. What is subject to obedience is not independent, and what has a necessity of obeying is essentially dependent. Moreover, do you not see that what is subject to change cannot be necessary, and cannot be eternal? You appeal to natural sciences. This is ridiculous. There is no need of modern sciences to know that the phenomena of the material world follow an invariable law. This was known in all past ages; yet no man in his senses has thought of concluding that therefore matter was a necessary being. Pagan philosophers, who had lost the primitive traditions of mankind, admitted uncreated matter without further examining the question; but none of them pretended to prove the eternity or necessity of matter from its subjection to definite laws of motion. The absurdity of such a deduction is manifest. Suppose a geometrician were to argue thus: What follows an invariable and necessary law exists from eternity; but every triangle follows this invariable and necessary law: that the sum of its angles equals two right angles; and therefore every triangle exists from eternity. What would you reply?
Büchner. I would reply that the laws of geometry are mere abstractions.
Reader. And so are all physical laws also. When a thing exists, it cannot but be what it is according to its essence. If it is a figure of geometry, it exists according to geometric laws, and has its geometric properties; and if it is a material substance, it cannot but have the properties of matter, and so long as it exists it cannot but retain the same properties. This is evident. But from the fact that a thing existing is necessarily subject to the laws of its nature you cannot conclude that it necessarily exists, unless, indeed, you are not even superficially acquainted with the laws of reasoning. Hence it is clear that your argument has no weight.
Büchner. “But that a power—taken for the once in its abstract sense—could only exist so long as it is active is no less clear. In assuming, therefore, a creative absolute power, a primeval soul, an unknown x—it matters not what name we give it—as the cause of the world, we must, in applying to it the notion of time, say that it could not have existed either before or after the creation. It could not have existed before, as the notion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of nothing or inactivity. It could not have been a creative power without creating something. We must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a time been inert in the presence of chaotic and motionless matter—a conception we have already shown to be absurd. It could not have existed after the creation, as rest and inactivity are again incompatible with the notion of force. The motion of matter obeys only those laws which are inherently active; and their manifestations are nothing but the product of the various and manifold accidental or necessary combinations of material movements. At no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached by our telescope, could a single fact be established, forming an exception to this law, which would render the assumption of a force external, and independent of matter, necessary. But a force which is not manifested does not exist, and cannot be taken into account in our reasoning” (p. 6). What do you answer, sir?
Reader. I answer that this pretended argument cannot entrap any one but an ignorant man, or one who desires to be cheated or to cheat himself. And first I observe that you begin by surmising that the Creator would be “an abstract power”; now, the surmise is an absurdity. Secondly, you suppose that we “assume” a creative absolute power—which is not the case; for we do not assume its existence, but we prove it. Thirdly, you call the Creator “a primeval soul, an unknown x”; and both expressions are very wrong indeed. Fourthly, you say that we must apply to the Creator “the notion of time”—which is sheer folly; as every one knows that time has no existence but in the successive changes of created things. Even you yourself say that “the mere application of a limited notion of time to the creative power involves a contradiction” (p. 7). And therefore, when you affirm that the creative power “could not have existed either before or after creation,” you commit a great blunder by assuming that before creation there should have been time. But leaving aside all this, and supposing that the phrase “before the creation” may be understood in a legitimate sense as expressing the priority of eternity and not of time, I will come directly to your argument.
You say that a creative power could not exist before creation, “as the notion of power is not reconcilable with the idea of nothing or inactivity.” This reason proves nothing, except, perhaps, your ignorance of logic. Try to reduce your argument to the syllogistic form, and you will see what it amounts to.
Büchner. The syllogism will run thus: A power can exist only as long as it is active. But the creative power before the creation was not active. Therefore the creative power could not exist before the creation. I hope this proves something else than my ignorance of logic.
Reader. And yet your logic is sadly at fault. Do you not see the equivocation lurking in the middle term? What do you mean by active? Does this word stand for acting, or for able to act? If it stands for acting, then your major proposition is false; for a power exists as long as it is able to act, although it is not actually acting. This is clear; for have you not a power of talking as long as you are able to talk, although you may actually be silent? If, on the contrary, the word active stands for able to act, then it is your minor proposition that will be evidently false; for the creative power, before the creation, was able to create the world, although we conceive it as not yet creating anything. Hence your nice syllogism is a mere sophism, and your conclusion a blunder.
Your other assertion, “It could not have been a creative power without creating something,” is likewise sophistical. For the epithet “creative” in your argumentation means “able to create”; and consequently it does not entail actual creation, but only its possibility. Thus the blunder is repeated.
But you proceed: “We must, therefore, suppose that this power has for a time been inert in the presence of chaotic or motionless matter.” In these few words I find three mistakes: First, you again introduce time where there can be nothing but eternity; secondly, you assume that a power not exercised is inert—which is false, because inertness means destitution of self‐acting power; thirdly, you put chaotic and motionless matter in the presence of the creative power before this power has been exercised—which is to assume that chaotic matter was not created, but only received movement. You understand, doctor, that in arguing, as you do, from the point of view of your adversaries, you cannot take such liberties. If you wish to refute creation, you must take it as it is understood and defended by its supporters; or else you will only refute your own hallucinations. But I will not insist on these latter remarks. I made them only that you may better realize how deficient and miserable is your method of reasoning.
Büchner (bitterly). Thank you for the compliment.
Reader. However, I have more to say; and I hope, doctor, that you will not lose your temper, if I proceed onward in the same strain. In the second part of your argument you say that the creative power “could not have existed after the creation, as rest and inactivity are again incompatible with the notion of force.” This is evidently a mere reiteration of the sophism just refuted. If the reason you allege had any weight, it would follow that, when you have ceased curing a patient, your medical power would vanish, and, when you have ceased talking, your talkative power would be extinct; in fact, rest and inactivity, according to you, are incompatible with the notion of power. I say “power,” although you here make use of the word “force,” which is calculated to mislead your readers. The word “force” is frequently used to express a quantity of movement; and, of course, rest and movement exclude one another; hence to designate the creative power by the name of “force” may be a dishonest trick, though a very clumsy one, to inveigle readers into the belief that rest and creative power are incompatible. Here, however, I must point out another great blunder, which a man of your talent should have been able to avoid. There is a truth, doctor, of which you seem to be quite ignorant, though certainly you must have heard of it more than once. It is that the creative power, after the production of creatures, does not remain inactive. Creatures need positive conservation, and would fall into nothingness were they not continually kept in existence by the same power by which they have been first brought into being. Hence the creative power is always at work. What is, then, your supposition of its inactivity but a new proof of your ignorance?
What you add concerning the motion of matter has no importance. I might admit with you that, prescinding from miracles (which you are blind enough to deny), “at no time and nowhere, even in the most distant space reached by our telescope, could a single fact be established which would render the assumption of a force external, and independent of matter, necessary.” This, however, regards only the stability of the laws of motion; and it would be absurd to infer that therefore the existence of matter and its conservation need not be accounted for by an external cause. But you again give a proof of your ignorance by adding that “the motion of matter obeys only those laws which are inherently active.” What does this mean? Try to understand the term “law,” and you will see that to call law “inherently active” is an unpardonable nonsense. And hoping that this suffices to show the absolute worthlessness of your pretended argument, I will let you go on with your other allegations.
Büchner. You do not reflect, sir, that in your theory the creative power must have been idle for an eternity; and this cannot be admitted. For “to consider the power in eternal rest, and sunk in self‐contemplation, is an empty arbitrary abstraction without any empirical basis” (p. 6).
Reader. Not at all, doctor. To consider God in eternal rest is not an empty arbitrary abstraction; it is a real and necessary conclusion from incontrovertible premises. Is it philosophical to assume, as you do, that creation would likely put an end to God’s eternal rest? God always rests unchangeably in himself, whether he actually exercises his creative power or not. He has in himself his happiness, and in himself he rests for ever independently of creation. This we say without thinking for a moment of your “empirical basis.” For we know that it is a silly thought, that of endeavoring to find an empirical basis for a purely intellectual truth. But if by the want of an empirical basis you mean a want of known facts from which to show God’s existence and infinite perfection, then your duty would have been to substantiate your assertion by showing that such facts are not real facts, or have no connection with the existence of a supreme being. This you have omitted to do, and thus all your argument consists of bold assertions, not only without proofs, but without the possibility of proof.
Is it not strange, then, that you fancy to have cornered your readers, and compelled them to resort to the most absurd fictions to uphold the existence of a creative power? You say, in fact, that they have no other resource but to admit “the singular notion that the creative power had suddenly and without any occasion arisen out of nothing, had created the world (out of what?), and had again, in the moment of completion, collapsed within itself, and, so to say, dissolved itself in the universe” (p. 7). Indeed, were we as stupid as any creature can be, we would still find it impossible to dream of such a foolish assumption. You add that “philosophers and others have ever cherished this latter notion, believing that they could, by this mode of reasoning, reconcile the indisputable fact of a fixed and unchangeable law in the economy of the universe with the belief in an individual creative power” (ibid.) I do not hesitate to tell you, doctor, that nothing but hatred of truth could prompt you to utter such a gross lie.
Büchner. Yet “all religious conceptions lean more or less towards this idea” (p. 7).
Reader. This I deny.
Büchner. Let me explain. Philosophers admit the idea, “with this difference: that they conceive the spirit of the world reposing after the creation, but yet, as an individual, capable of again suspending his own laws” (p. 7).
Reader. This explanation is not to the point. Your assertion implied that philosophers and others ever cherished the notion that the creative power had suddenly arisen out of nothing, and that all religious conceptions lean more or less towards this idea. This is what I challenged you to show. Does your explanation show it? On the contrary, it shows that the idea towards which religious conceptions lean is quite different.
Büchner. Be this as it may, “conceptions of this kind cannot concern us, not being the result of philosophical reasoning. Individual human qualities and imperfections are transferred to philosophical notions, and belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge” (p. 7).
Reader. I perceive, doctor, that you are persistently wrong. It seems as though you could not open your mouth without uttering some false or incongruent assertion. What are those conceptions which “cannot concern us”? Are they not the dreams you have just imagined? How, then, do you insinuate that the existence of a creative power does not concern us, because your dreams are not the result of philosophical reasoning? And pray, who ever “transferred individual human qualities and imperfections to philosophical notions”? Has this phrase any intelligible meaning? Lastly, it is evidently false that, in order to admit a creative power, “belief is made to occupy the place of actual knowledge.” The existence of God is a philosophical truth; now, philosophy is a method of knowledge, not of belief.
I trust I have sufficiently exposed your “intellectual jugglery” to let you see that you are at best a charlatan, not a philosopher.
To Be Continued.
Dante’s Purgatorio. Canto Fourteenth
NOTE.—This canto, like the preceding (XIII.), illustrates the sin of envy, which Dante deems a special vice of the Florentines, against whom and the other inhabitants of Valdarno he inveighs with a bitterness that savors more of the style of the Inferno than of “the milder shade of Purgatory.”
In the Thirteenth Canto, Envy has been rebuked by voices of love and gentleness; as, for instance, the kindly comment of the Virgin at the marriage feast of Cana, “They have no wine.” These and similar words are the scourge which the envious have to endure. But the bridle, Dante says, are tones of a contrary import, such as the terrific voice of Cain, who passes by in a peal of thunder, but invisible, followed by the dreadful cry of Aglauros, described in the concluding paragraph of this canto.
“What man is this who round our mountain goes, Before that death has let his pinions free, Who doth at will his eyelids ope and close?” “I know not; but am sure not sole is he: Demand thou of him who the nearest art, And gently ask, that he may deign reply.” Thus to the right two spirits there, apart, Bent each toward each, conferred as I came nigh; Then turning up their faces as to speak, One said: “O soul! that still in mortal hold Art on the way thy home in heaven to seek, For charity console us, and unfold Whence comest, and who art thou? for the grace Accorded thee in us the wonder wakes Due unto things which ne’er before had place.” And I: “Through middle Tuscany there flows A brook whose founts in Falterona spring, Nor do an hundred miles its current close: From that stream’s banks this body of mine I bring: ’Twere vain to tell you how my title goes; For yet my name hath not much heralding.” “If well I probe the sense thou hast conveyed With intellect,” the first who spake replied: “Thou meanest Arno!”—and the other shade Said to the former: “Wherefore did he hide That river’s name as men are wont to do Of things most horrible?”—and then the one Whom that inquiry was directed to, Discharged him thus:
Guido Del Duca.
“Why he that name doth shun I cannot tell: but meet it is the name Of such a valley perish from the earth! Since from its head (where so abounds the same Great alpine chain which cast Pelorus forth, With springs that few spots are impregnate more) To where it seeks, arriving at the main, What the sky sucks from ocean to restore (Whence rivers have what waters they contain), Virtue by all is hunted for a foe As ’twere a snake;—whether from fault of place Or evil custom goading nature so: Wherefore that miserable valley’s race Have changed their kind to that degree ’twould seem Circe had pastured them. Among brute swine, More fit for mast than human food, the stream Winds its poor way; then, lower down its line, Finds curs that snarl beyond their power to bite, And turns from them his nostril as in scorn. Falling it goes, and more it grows in might, The curst ditch finds that of those dogs are born A pack of wolves. Through many a whirlpool then He comes to foxes in deceit so deep They fear no catching by more crafty men. What though o’erheard, no silence will I keep! And well for this man, if in mind he bear What my true spirit unfolds. One of thy blood Shall hunt those wolves. I see thy grandson there Harrowing the borders of that savage flood; All fly before him, all are in despair: He makes a market of their living flesh, Then, like old beasts for slaughter, lays them low: Staining his fame with many a murder fresh; He comes all bloody from that wood of woe, Leaving such wreck that in a thousand years To its primeval state it shall not grow.”
Like one whose visage alters when he hears Ill hap foretold, as ’twere in dread which way The blow may strike, I saw that other soul Stand turned to hear, disturbed and in dismay, Soon of those words as he had grasped the whole. His troubled air, and what the other said, To know their names wrought in me such a thirst That I with prayers direct inquiry made. Wherefore the shade who had addrest me first Began again: “Thou wouldest that I deign Do thee a grace I did in vain beseech; But since the will of God in thee so plain Doth favor show, I will not stint my speech; Therefore know this: Guido del Duca am I. My blood with envy was so burnt, so bad, Thou mightst have seen me livid grow and dry Had I but seen another’s face look glad. Such of my sowing is the straw I reap! O human race! why bring your wishes down To pleasures that exclude all partnership? This is Rinieri; this the prize and crown Of Casa Calboli, whereof no child Hath made himself an heir of his renown. Nor yet alone hath his blood been despoiled, ’Twixt Po, the Pennine, Reno and the shore, Of what best needs for truth and happiness; For through those borders there be plenty more Of stock so bad, to make their venom less By cultivation ’twere but vain to try. Where is good Lizio? and Mainardi? Where Pier Traversaro and Carpigna’s Guy? O Romagnuoles! what bastard shoots ye bear, When sprouts a Fabbro in Bologna, when Bernardin Fosco makes Faenza heir From coarse grass to a growth of gentlemen! No wonder, Tuscan, at my weeping thus While I recall, remembering them so well, Guido of Prata when himself with us, And Ugolin of Azzo, used to dwell: Frederic Tignoso and his goodly troop; The Traversara, Anastagi race; Now disinherited both houses droop! Ladies and knights, the toils repose and grace They wrapt us in of courtesy and love There where the best blood such bad hearts debase! “O Brettinoro! why dost thou not move From thy proud seat, thy family wholly gone, And many more, to shun corruption’s course? Bagnacaval does well to have no son, And Castrocaro ill, and Conio worse To breed such Counties taking further pains: And well enough too, when their devil is dead, May the Pagani do, though some remains Bear witness ’gainst them of impureness fled. O Ugolin de’ Fantoli! most sure Is thy good name, since no degenerate head Is looked for now its brightness to obscure. But go thy ways now, Tuscan! more delight I find in weeping than in words—too stirred By this talk of our country.” We were quite Sure those dear souls our way’s direction heard, And from their silence knew that we went right.
Soon as proceeding we became alone, A voice, like lightning when it strikes, did say, Rushing on tow’rds us with its thunderous tone, “Whoever findeth me the same shall slay!”(97) Then fled as thunder, when the bolt is thrown From the torn cloud, in rumbling dies away. When on our ears a moment’s truce there fell, Another crash came of like rattling shock As of a rapid thunder, peal on peal: “I am Aglauros, who became a rock!” On this, I drew back from my forward pace To cling for shelter close behind the bard, And when the air was hushed in all its space, He said to me: “That was the bit(98) full hard Which should each man within his limit stay. You take the bait so fondly that the small Hook of th’ old enemy makes you his prey, And bridle boots you naught, nor warning call. Heaven calleth to you, and the eternal round Shows you of beauties that about you roll, And still your eye is grovelling on the ground; Wherefore He smites you who discerns the whole.”
The Veil Withdrawn.
Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.
VII.
Lorenzo, Duca di Valenzano, belonged to one of the noblest families of upper Italy; but his mother was a native of Sicily, and it was from her he inherited his title as well as the fortune already in his possession, which would be considerably increased if an important lawsuit (the usual accompaniment of a Sicilian inheritance), which brought a great part of it into litigation, should terminate successfully. His object in coming to see my father was to place this business in his hands; and, after his first visit, he usually came once or twice a week. At first he merely bowed to me as he passed, or, at most, addressed me a few words on leaving the room. The remainder of the time was spent in looking over voluminous documents with my father. Nevertheless, these visits soon became a little incident in my monotonous life, and I began to look forward to them with a certain impatience.
The duke, at this time, was scarcely more than thirty years of age; but he by no means seemed young in my eyes. A few premature wrinkles and an observant, thoughtful look imparted a gravity to his face which was not, however, its prevailing expression; for it was frequently ironical and sarcastic to the last degree, and so mobile that it was not always easy to decide on the impression it left. His general appearance, however, was noble and striking, as well as the tone of his voice, which involuntarily commanded attention to all he said.
Several weeks elapsed without any other variety than the few moments, more or less prolonged, which he passed at my table at the end of each visit. He generally made some unimportant remarks respecting my lessons, my bird, or my flowers, which he noticed I cultivated with a care somewhat unusual in our clime. In fact, he only spoke to me as he would to a child. I replied in a corresponding tone, and, very soon, not only without embarrassment, but with a pleasure I made no attempt to conceal. I had begun to be devoured by ennui in so inactive and solitary a life, and I eagerly welcomed any diversion that came in my way. My father, at such times, remained silent and grave, and seemed somewhat impatient when these brief conversations were prolonged a little more than usual.
One day, when the duke approached my table as usual, I had a large atlas open before me, and he noticed that I was examining the map of Asia. I was studying without any effort, and yet with a certain interest resulting from curiosity which, added to an excellent memory, made me an unusually good scholar. The duke looked at the map a moment, and, after some observations that excited my interest, he pointed to a place near the Himalaya mountains, and remarked: “One year ago to‐day I was there.” I knew his extensive travels had rendered him celebrated, as well as his success as a sculptor, doubly surprising in a man of his rank and so enterprising an explorer. I had acquired this information from conversations respecting the duke since his arrival at Messina, where his presence had caused a sensation.
On this occasion, seeing my interest strongly excited, he seemed to take pleasure in giving an account of that remote region, which I sometimes interrupted by questions that appeared to surprise him. The facility with which I was endowed made me really superior in many respects to most girls of my age; and as for information, I might have been considered a phenomenon in my own country.
The conversation that day might have been indefinitely prolonged had not my father found a pretext for abridging it by suddenly proposing to take the duke to the further end of the garden, in order to examine some ruins and a Greek portico on a height from which there was an admirable view. The duke looked at me, as if he wished I could join in the walk; but my father not seconding this mute suggestion, he was forced to accompany him, not, however, without giving me, as he left the room, a look that seemed to express compassion, interest, and respect.
As soon as I was alone, I abruptly closed my atlas, rose from my seat, and abandoned myself to a violent fit of irritation and grief, as I hurried with long steps through the extensive gallery, exclaiming aloud against the undue sternness and severity of my father.... He did not see that he was thus rendering the seclusion he had imposed upon me beyond my strength to bear—a seclusion that would have been transformed by one word of affection, sympathy, or even kindness. Instead of this, did he not even appear to be annoyed that I should receive any from this stranger?
It was impossible for me to resume my studies. I had an hour to wait before Ottavia would come, as she did every day, to accompany me to the garden—as if I were a mere child, instead of being allowed to wander at my own pleasure till sunset. Hitherto I had endured everything humbly; but my patience was now exhausted, and I felt a disposition to revolt which I only repressed with difficulty. Was this merely against a régime of such excessive severity, or was it the result of a slight return of confidence in myself inspired by the interest, and almost deference, which this stranger had just manifested? It was doubtless both; and the consequence was, I felt an agitation I could not subdue, and an irrepressible longing for any change whatever in a mode of life that had become insupportable. Tired of walking up and down, I at last took a seat by the window, where I could, at a distance, see my father and his client. I watched them with an attention that soon diverted my thoughts and ended by wholly absorbing me.
I at once noticed that, instead of proceeding to the end of the garden to see the ruin my father had spoken of, they had stopped in a broad alley leading from the house to a white marble basin, in the form of a vase, which stood in the centre. This alley, bordered with a clipped hedge of box, extended beyond the basin to a small grove of olive‐trees leading to the hill it was necessary to ascend in order to see the ruin. They seemed to have wholly lost sight of the proposed object of their walk; for when I first saw them, they had scarcely reached the basin, and were now slowly returning towards the house. The duke appeared to be listening to my father, every now and then striking the hedge they were passing with a stick he held in his hand. All at once he stopped, and, passing his arm through my father’s, he led him to a bench, on which they both sat down. I could see them distinctly, and, without hearing what they said, could distinguish the sound of their voices. It was the duke’s I now heard. At first he spoke with his head bent down, as if with some hesitation, but by degrees with more animation and fire, and finally with clasped hands, as if pleading some cause or asking some favor.... Once he raised his eyes towards the window where I was, though he could not see me. Was he speaking of me?... Had he ventured to intercede in my behalf?... I looked at my father anxiously. His face expressed the greatest surprise as well as extreme dissatisfaction, but it gradually changed. He became very attentive; and when at last the duke extended his hand, he took it in his, and seemed to be making some promise. Then they rose and resumed the way to the house, but by a shady path where my eyes could no longer follow them.
That day our dinner was less gloomy than usual. My father conversed with Mario as he had not done for a long time, and the latter, with satisfaction, attributed to himself this change (which, to do him justice, had been the object of persevering effort). But Livia, who had more penetration, saw there was some other reason; for she speedily observed that this change was especially evident towards me. In fact, for the first time since the fatal day that seemed like a dividing line in my young life, I once more saw in my father’s eyes the fond look I was formerly accustomed to; and this paternal and almost forgotten expression gave me new life and a sensation of joy and happiness that made me raise my head as a flower beaten down by the storm looks up at the first return of the sun.
The explanation was not long delayed. The next day my father sent for me at an earlier hour than I generally went to him, and after a preamble which I scarcely comprehended, and which by no means served to prepare me for what I was about to hear, he informed me that the Duca di Valenzano had asked for my hand. I remained stupefied with astonishment, and my father continued: “It was impossible to expect a proposal like this for one of my daughters; but however brilliant it may be, I should unhesitatingly decline it were not the duke personally worthy of love and esteem. As to this I am satisfied from all I hear respecting him. But it is for you to decide about accepting his hand. I will not impose my will on you. Consider the subject, Ginevra. The Duca di Valenzano will come this evening to receive your reply.”
My father might have said much more without my thinking of interrupting him. I was in such a state of utter amazement that I could hardly realize what he said, and the perspective thus suddenly opened before me conveyed no definite idea to my mind. It was easier to believe he was jesting with me than to suppose such a man as the duke would propose for me to become his wife!...
I returned to my chamber extremely agitated, and this feeling was not diminished by witnessing my sister’s emotion and Ottavia’s noisy demonstrations of joy when I told them of the proposal that had just been communicated to me. The Duca di Valenzano was not only a person of high rank, but he was thought to possess every accomplishment, and it was evident that every one looked upon my consent as a matter of course.
Un homme accompli! Before going any further, I cannot help stopping to remark here to what a degree the world, generally so severe, shows itself indulgent in certain cases; and how often this indulgence is shared even by those who try to think they are not influenced by external circumstances! Assuredly neither my father, nor my sister, nor the simple Ottavia attributed the favorable impression produced on their minds to the brilliant position of this unexpected suitor, or the special merit he had acquired in their eyes, to the mere fact of his having thought of sharing his lot with me.
It would have been difficult for me to express my own feelings, for I hardly understood their nature. I was flattered; I was touched; I was even very grateful, for it was evident that the duke had begun by pleading my cause with my father, and hitherto he had been by no means unpleasing to me. Why, then, could I not think of him now without a kind of repugnance, fear, and aversion? And why did I feel as if I should prefer never to see him again? I asked myself these questions, at first silently, and then aloud, as was often my habit when with Livia and Ottavia, who, though so different from each other, were nevertheless so alike in their affection for me.
“That is quite natural, carina,” replied Livia. “You scarcely know the Duca di Valenzano, and the very word marriage is one of serious import, and even fearful, when it falls for the first time on the ears of a young girl. But this will pass away.”
“Do you think so?”
“Oh! yes. I am sure of it. When you know him better, and especially when he, in his turn, comprehends the qualities of your mind, and heart, and soul, he will conceive such an affection for my dear Ginevra that she will soon love him in return, and not a little, I imagine.”
“I think so, too,” said Ottavia, laughing. “They say he is very captivating, to say nothing of his being one of the greatest and wealthiest noblemen of Italy. Ah! ah! what a different tone those wicked people will assume who say....”
Livia looked at Ottavia, who stopped short.
“Livia! do not stop her,” I exclaimed. “Go on, Ottavia; I insist upon it. I wish to know what wicked people you refer to, and what they say.”
Ottavia once more regretted her precipitation, and would rather have remained silent; but I continued to question her till she acknowledged some people had taken the liberty of saying I should never marry on account of “what had taken place.”
“What a vague, cruel way of speaking!” exclaimed Livia indignantly. “Everybody knows now there was nothing, absolutely nothing at all, in that gossip; that it was all a mere falsehood.”
“Everybody?” ... I said with sudden emotion. “But has not my father continued to treat me as if I were culpable?” Then after a moment’s silence, I added: “Do you think these falsehoods have come to the ears of the Duca di Valenzano?”
“How can I tell?” replied Livia. “And of what consequence is it? His proposal shows that he is sure, as well as we, that you have nothing at all to reproach yourself for.”
I made no reply. A new thought struck me, and I felt the necessity of being alone, in order to reflect on what had been suggested by her words. I therefore left my two companions abruptly, and took a seat at the end of the terrace on a little parapet that looked on the sea, and there I remained nearly an hour.
That night, when the Duca di Valenzano returned, my father, at my solicitation, told him that, before coming to any decision, I wished to have some private conversation with him. It was not without difficulty I induced my father to convey this message; but the duke immediately assented, and with so much eagerness that it might have been supposed my request had only anticipated a wish of his own.
VIII.
I was in my usual place in the gallery, and alone, when the duke entered at the appointed hour. I rose, and extended my hand. He was astonished, I think, to find me so calm, and perhaps so grave, and looked at me a moment in silence, as if he would divine what I was going to say to him. Seeing that I remained silent, he at length said:
“Donna Ginevra, I thought myself skilled in reading the expression of your eyes; but in looking at you now, I cannot tell whether the word that is about to fall from your lips is yes or no.”
I found it difficult to reply; but overcoming my embarrassment at last, I succeeded in saying:
“Yes or no?.... If I only had that to say, M. le Duc, I could have charged my father with it.... But before speaking of the reply I am to make, I must make one request. You must tell me sincerely what you think of me, and I will afterwards tell you with the utmost frankness wherein you are mistaken.”
He looked at me with an attentive air, and then smiled, as he said:
“Tell you what I think of you?... That might lead me to say more than I have yet the right to say. But I will tell you, Donna Ginevra, what I do not think, and, in so doing, I shall, I imagine, comply with your request. Let me fully assure you I attach no importance whatever to the words of a coxcomb; and I would call any one a liar, and treat him as such, who would dare to repeat them!...”
He saw, by the expression of joy that flashed from my eyes, that he had guessed aright.
“Poor child! ... poor angel!” he continued, “it would be strange indeed if I took any other attitude than this before you.” And he was about to kneel at my feet, when I eagerly prevented him.
“Do not do that, I beg of you!” I exclaimed. “And say, if you like, that I am a child, but do not call me an angel.... Oh! no, never say anything so far from the truth! Listen to me, for I requested this interview only that you might know all—what is true as well as what is false.”
“What is true?” he said in a slight tone of surprise.
“Yes. Listen to me. I thank you for not having believed what ... what was said concerning me, for that, indeed, was false. I am, however, culpable, and it is right you should know it. Perhaps you will then change your mind, and think no more about me.”
He looked at me again, as if he would read the depths of my soul.
“Is it with this design,” he said, “that you speak so frankly?”
I knew not what reply to make, for I no longer knew what I wished. I found a charm in the mingled tenderness and respect of which I so suddenly felt myself the object. Besides, I had suffered greatly from my long seclusion, and my heart involuntarily turned towards him who was trying to deliver me from it.... My fear and repugnance vanished beneath his sympathetic look.
“No,” I said at last, “it is not for that reason.”
“Then speak frankly,” he said, “and let me hear this important revelation, whatever it may be.”
“And will you promise solemnly never to reveal my secret?”
“Yes, I solemnly promise.”
In spite of the solemnity of his words, I saw it was with difficulty he repressed a smile. But when he saw the agitation produced by the recollections thus awakened, his expression became serious. For a moment a cloud came over his face; but in proportion as I entered into the details of that last night of my mother’s life—my thoughtlessness, my shock, and, finally, my despair and repentance—he became affected, and listened with so much emotion that his look inspired me with confidence, and I finished without fear the account I had begun with a trembling voice.
As has been seen, I thought myself more guilty than I should have been had there been any truth in the vague, unmerited reproaches I had endured; for the slight fault I had really committed seemed indissolubly connected with the fearful calamity that followed!... That was why I thought myself unpardonable, and why I preferred to endure the most unfounded suspicions concerning me rather than reveal the truth to any one in the world—above all, to my father. But it seemed to me I ought not, for the same reason, to conceal it from him who had so generously offered me his hand, whatever might be the result. I therefore continued, and he listened without interrupting me. When I had ended, he spoke in his turn, and what he said decided the fate of my life.
I already felt relieved by the complete revelation of a secret I had hitherto kept with an obstinacy that was perhaps a little childish. And in listening to the soft accents of his sonorous, penetrating voice, my heart was more and more comforted, and soon allowed itself to be persuaded into what it was sweet and consoling to believe—that, as he said, I exaggerated the consequence of my thoughtlessness; that if I had afflicted my mother, I had time to ask and obtain her forgiveness; that I was ignorant of her dangerous condition, and, when I became aware of it, I supposed I had been the cause; ... but all this was unreasonable.... And as to the flower.... Here he stopped, and his brow darkened for a moment. “Answer me frankly,” he said slowly; “if Flavio Aldini were still alive, if he were here under this window to‐day, and implored you to give him that little sprig of jasmine I see in your belt....”
He had not time to finish.
“Is it possible,” I exclaimed, “you, who say you understand me, who pretend to have read my heart, can mention a name that has become so odious to me?...”
Then I continued, I imagine to his great surprise:
“You are the first to whom I have acknowledged the fault he made me commit, for I do not consider the ear of the priest to whom I confessed it as that of man. There I experienced the indulgence of heaven, and was forgiven by God as well as my mother.... But would you know what cost me the most that day? Not, certainly, my sorrow for the past; not my firm resolutions as to the future; nor even the humble acceptation of all the humiliations that have been inflicted on me.... No, what cost me the most was to promise to overcome my resentment, to subdue the bitterness awakened by the very name of Flavio, and to utter it every day in prayer for the repose of his soul!...”
I was, in speaking thus, very remote from the regions familiar to Lorenzo. While I was uttering these words, my face was lit up with an expression very different from any he had ever seen there. He gazed at me without seeming to hear what I said, and at length replied with evident emotion:
“I thank you for telling me this, though one look at you is sufficient to efface all doubt, as darkness vanishes before the approach of day.”
After a moment’s silence, he resumed: “And now, Ginevra, I implore you to delay no longer the reply I have come to receive.”
The recollections of the past had made me forget for a few moments the present; but these words recalled it, and I looked at him as if confounded. There was a moment’s silence. My heart beat loudly. At length I silently took from my belt the little sprig of jasmine he had just spoken of, and gave it to him.
He understood the reply, and his eyes lit up with gratitude and joy. I felt happier than I had anticipated. Was not this, in fact, what I had dreamed of, what I had longed for—to be loved? And would it not be easy to love in return such a man as this?
As these thoughts were crossing my mind, and I lowered my eyes before his, he suddenly said:
“Do you know how beautiful you are, Ginevra?”
At these words I frowned, and a blush rose to my forehead which once might have been caused by gratified vanity, but now was only occasioned by sincere, heart‐felt displeasure. “Never speak to me of my face, I beg of you,” I said to him, “unless you wish to annoy or displease me.”
He looked at me with the greatest astonishment, though he felt no doubt as to my perfect sincerity, and, taking my hand in his, said:
“You are a being apart, Ginevra, and resemble no one else in any respect. It will be difficult sometimes to obey your request, but I will do so.”
Had I been able to read Lorenzo’s heart, I should, in my turn, have been astonished, and perhaps frightened, at the motives that had induced him to link so suddenly his life with mine.
The beauty of which I was no longer vain; the talents I possessed without being aware of it; the strangeness of finding me in a kind of captivity, and the somewhat romantic satisfaction of delivering me from it and changing my condition by a stroke of a wand—such were the elements of the attraction to which he yielded; and if it had occurred to any one to remind him that the girl who was about to become his wife had a soul, he would very probably have replied by a glance of surprise, a sarcastic smile, or a slight shrug of his shoulders, as if to say: “Perhaps so, but it does not concern me.”
It happened in this case, as often happens in many other circumstances, that a word, a look, or the tone of a voice impresses, persuades, and influences, and yet (perhaps for the happiness of the human race) does not reveal the inner secrets of the soul.
My engagement was announced the next day, and the last of May appointed for the marriage. There was a month before the time—a month the remembrance of which still stands out in my life like a season of enchantment. The restored confidence of my father, joined to the thought of our approaching separation, had revived all the fondness of his former affection. Lorenzo had succeeded in making him regret the excess of his severity towards me. Indebted to him, therefore, for the return of my father’s love as well as the gift of his own, he seemed like some beneficent genie who had dispersed every cloud, and restored to my youth the warm, golden light of the sun. I thanked him for this without any circumlocution, and sometimes in so warm a manner that he must have been the most unpresuming of men to suppose me indifferent to the sentiments he so often expressed, though not so ardently as to disturb me. He respected the request I made the first day. He suffered me to remain the child I still was, in spite of having experienced such varied emotions. Perhaps the strong contrast he thus found in me formed a study not devoid of interest to a man blasé by all he had seen and encountered in the world.
The preparations for so brilliant a marriage completely filled up the time of the busy Ottavia, who was charged by my father to omit nothing in the way of dress requisite for the fiancée of the Duca di Valenzano. Mario, prouder than he was willing to acknowledge of an alliance that reflected lustre on the whole family, showed himself friendly and satisfied. Besides, the transformation that had taken place in my whole appearance within a few months, as well as in my way of life, had softened his manner towards me; and the more because he attributed the merit of it to himself, and often repeated that, had it not been for him, my father would not have had the courage to persevere in a severity that had had so salutary a result. He loved me, however, as I have had occasion in the course of my life to know; but as there are people in the world who are kind, and yet are not sympathetic, so there are also many who on certain occasions manifest some feeling, and yet are not kind. Mario was of the latter class. At certain times, on great occasions, he seemed to have a heart capable of affection and devotedness; but, as a general thing, it was rather evil than good he discovered in everything and everybody, without excepting even those with whom he was most intimately connected, and perhaps in them above all.
Livia alone, after the first few days, seemed to have a shade of thoughtfulness and anxiety mingled with her joy, and Mario, who observed it, unhesitatingly declared it was caused by the prospect of remaining an old maid, doubly vexatious now her younger sister was about to ascend before her very eyes to the pinnacle of rank and fortune. But I knew Livia better than he, and, though unable to read all that was passing in her soul at that time, I was sure that no comparison of that kind, or any dissatisfied consideration of herself, had ever crossed her mind.
But I did not suspect that her pure, transparent nature, as well as the instinct of clear‐sighted affection, enabled her to see some threatening signs in the heavens above me that seemed to every one else so brilliant with its sun and cloudless azure. But the die was cast, and it would have been useless to warn as well as dangerous to disturb me. She therefore confined herself to reminding me of all my mother’s pious counsels. She made me promise never to forget them, and she, too, promised to pray for me. But when I told her she must continue to aid me with her advice, and remain true to her rôle of my guardian angel, she shook her head, and remained silent.
One day, when I spoke in this way, she replied: “Do not be under any illusion, Ginevra. Marriage is like death. One may prepare for it, one may be aided by the counsels, the prayers, and the encouragement of friends till the last moment; but once the line is crossed, as the soul after death finds itself alone in the presence of its God, its heavenly bridegroom, to be eternally blessed by his love or cursed by its privation, so the wife finds herself alone in the world with her husband. There is no happiness for her but in their mutual affection. If this exists, she possesses the greatest happiness this world can afford. If deprived of it, she lacks everything. The world will be only a void, and she may still consider herself fortunate, if this void is filled by sorrow, and not by sin!...”
“What you say is frightful.”
“Yes, it is frightful; therefore I have never been able to covet so terrible a bondage. O my dear Gina! may God watch over you....”
“You terrify me, Livia. I assure you I should never have regarded marriage under so serious an aspect, from the way in which people around us enter into it.”
Livia blushed, and her eyes, generally so soft, assumed an expression of thoughtfulness and severity.
“I am nearly twenty‐six years old,” she said, “and am therefore no longer a girl, as you still are. But in a few days you will assume the duties of womanhood. You will place your hand in Lorenzo’s, and pronounce the most fearful vow there is in the world. Let me therefore say one thing to you, which I am sure is the faithful echo of your mother’s sentiments, and what she would certainly tell you likewise. Ginevra, rather than imitate any of those to whom you refer, rather than seek away from your own fireside a happiness similar to theirs, it would be better for God to call you to himself this very hour. Yes,” she continued with unwonted energy, “sooner than behold this, I would rather—I who love you so much—I would far rather see those beautiful eyes, now looking at me with so much surprise, close this very instant never to open again!”
I was, indeed, surprised. For were not these words, or at least the idea they conveyed, what I had found written in the little book Livia had never read, and was it not my mother herself who actually spoke to me now through the voice of my sister?...
IX.
This conversation left a profound and painful impression on me, but it was counteracted by the increasing attachment Lorenzo inspired. During this phase of my life I only perceived his charming, noble qualities, the unusual variety of his tastes, his mental endowments, and, above all, his love for me, which it seemed impossible to return too fully. It would have required a degree of penetration not to be expected of one of my age to lift the brilliant veil and look beyond. Therefore the natural liveliness of my disposition, which had been prematurely extinguished by successive trials of too great a severity, gradually revived. It was no unusual thing now to hear me laugh and sing as I used to. The influence of this new cheerful life counteracted the effects of the factitious life I had led the previous year. Under Lorenzo’s protection, and escorted by Mario, I was allowed to take long rides on horseback, which restored freshness to my cheeks, and inspired that youthful feeling which may be called the pleasure of living—a feeling that till now I had been a stranger to. My mind was developed by intercourse with one so superior to myself, and who endeavored to interest and instruct me. In a word, my whole nature developed and expanded in every way, and for awhile I believed in the realization here below of perfectly unclouded happiness.
A sad accident, however, occurred, which cast a shadow over the brief duration of those delightful days. It was now the last day but one before our marriage, and for the last time we were to make an excursion on horseback, which was also to be an adieu to the mountains, the sea, and the beautiful shore that had been familiar to me from my infancy. For, immediately after, we were to leave Messina; and though it was to go to Naples, I thought more of what I was about to leave than what I was to find, and the melancholy of approaching separation seemed diffused over all nature around me. Our horses were waiting at a gate at the end of the garden, which, on that side, opened into the country. Mario and Lorenzo had gone before, and I was walking slowly along to join them, holding my skirt up with one hand, and leaning with the other on Livia, who was going to see our cavalcade set off.
Mario had already mounted his horse, but Lorenzo, on foot beside Prima, my pretty pony, was waiting to help me mount. He held out his hand. I placed my foot on it, and sprang gaily up. As soon as I was seated, he stepped back to mount his own horse, while Livia remained beside me to arrange the folds of my long habit. Just then the wind blew off her light straw hat, to which was attached a long, blue veil, and both passing suddenly across my horse’s eyes before I had fairly gathered up the bridle, he took fright. I was unable to check him. He sprang madly away, bearing me along the narrow alley leading from the garden to the highway. I heard the screams of those who remained motionless behind, but nothing afterwards except a hum in my ears. A flash seemed to pass before my eyes, but I retained my consciousness. I realized that I was lost. The alley, like that in the garden, was bordered with a thick hedge of box extending to the road, which was here at an immense height along a cliff overlooking the sea and protected by a low parapet. My ungovernable horse was evidently about to leap over it and precipitate me below.... I recommended myself to God, dropped the bridle, gathered up the folds of my habit with both hands, and, murmuring the words, Madonna santa, aiutate mi!(99) I allowed myself to fall on the hedge which bordered the alley. I might have been killed in this way no less surely than the other; but I escaped. The thick, elastic box yielded to my weight without breaking, which prevented me from receiving any harm from the fall. I remained stunned and motionless, but did not lose my senses. I know not how many seconds elapsed before I heard Lorenzo’s voice. I opened my eyes, and smiled as I met his gaze. I shall never forget the passionate expression of love and joy that flashed from his pale, terrified face, which was bending over me! He raised me from the verdant couch where I lay, and pressed me in his arms with mute transport. I, too, was happy. I felt an infinite joy that I had been saved and was still alive. I leaned my head against his shoulder, and closed my eyes. My hat had been thrown off, and my hair, completely loosened, fell almost to the ground. In this way he carried me back amid cries of joy from those who had followed us. Nothing was heard but exclamations of thanksgiving to God and the Virgin when, escorted by a crowd swelled by all on the road or in the neighboring fields, who had perceived the accident, we arrived at the principal entrance to the house. There they made me sit down, and in a few moments I was sufficiently restored to realize completely all that had happened.
Lorenzo continued to support me, and poured forth his joy in tender, incoherent words. My father embraced me. Ottavia wept, as she kissed my hands. Mario himself was affected. In the first moment of confusion I did not notice that my sister alone was wanting. But this absence soon struck me, and I eagerly asked for her, calling her by name as I looked around me. There was a moment’s hesitation, and I saw two of the servants near me making the odious sign of which I have already explained the signification. And—must it be said?—Lorenzo’s hand that held mine contracted also, and I saw that he, likewise, was so absurd as to wish to protect me in this way. I rose.... I no longer felt the effects of the fall I had just had. I pushed them all aside, and him the first. The circle around me opened, and I saw my sister, pale and motionless, leaning against one of the pillars of the vestibule! I forgot everything that had occurred. I thought of nothing but her, and threw myself on her neck.
“Do not be alarmed, my dear Livia,” I said loud enough for every one to hear. “I assure you I have received no injury. I thought you were more courageous. It does not seem like you to be so frightened. The Madonna, you see, has protected me. I know you said a fervent Ave Maria for me when you saw me so swiftly carried away, and your prayer was heard....”
Livia pressed me in her arms without speaking, and tears began to flow from her eyes. Leaning on her arm, and refusing assistance from any one else, I started to go to my chamber. But just as I was leaving the porch a thought occurred.
“And my poor Prima,” I said. “What has become of her?”
The reply to this question made me shudder. The poor animal had sprung over the parapet, and fallen down the precipice into the sea!... Our delightful excursions had ended in a sinister manner, and more than one painful feeling mingled with my joy at having escaped so great a peril. My heart felt heavy and oppressed, and my first act on entering my chamber with Livia was to fall on my knees before a statue of the Madonna, which, in honor of the month of May, was brilliant with lights and flowers.... Livia knelt beside me, but her prayer was longer than mine, and I saw that she continued to weep as she prayed.
“Come, Livia,” I said to her at last, not wishing her to suppose I thought her sadness could have any other cause than my accident, “your distress concerning me is unreasonable. You weep as if I had been carried by my poor Prima to the bottom of the sea, instead of being here alive with you.”
Livia rose, wiped her eyes, and smiled.
“You are right, Gina,” she said in a calm tone. “I ought to profit by the few moments we have together, for we shall not be left alone long. I have something to tell you, dear child—something that will surprise you, perhaps—not about you, but myself.”
I looked up in astonishment.
“Let me first put up your long, thick hair, and take off your habit, so soiled and torn. Then you shall sit quietly down there, and I will tell you what I have to say.”
I allowed her to do as she wished, and obeyed her without reply or question. She appeared thoughtful and agitated, and I saw there was something extraordinary on her mind.
When I had, according to her injunction, taken the only arm‐chair there was in my chamber, Livia seated herself on a stool near me.
“Listen to me, Gina,” she said. “It will not take long for what I have to say. Do not interrupt me. You are really here before me,” continued she, passing her hand over my hair in a caressing manner, and looking at me affectionately. “God has protected you, and I bless him a thousand times for it. But say if, instead of this, the horror of seeing you disappear for ever had been reserved for me an hour ago—me who love you more than my own life—do you know to what the witnesses of this catastrophe would have attributed it? Do you know what, perhaps, they think now?...”
I blushed in spite of myself, but made a negative sign, as if I did not comprehend her.
“You shake your head, but you know very well what Lorenzo and Mario would have thought, and who knows but my father himself, and everybody else?... Was I not beside you this time also? Did I not bring you ill‐luck?... Did not every one around you just now have this idea in their minds, and were they not ready to exclaim, ‘Jettatrice’—‘Jettatrice,’ ” repeated she in a stifled voice—“a name harder to bear than an injury, more difficult to defy than calumny, it is really on her to whom it is applied, and not those she approaches, this fatal influence falls!”
“Livia!” I exclaimed, turning red once more, but trying to laugh, “is it really you, my pious, reasonable sister, who uses such language? The folly to which you allude has more than once vexed me to tears, and I must confess I cannot now bear that you should seriously speak to me in such a way.”
Livia smiled, as she embraced me, and I saw it pleased her to hear me reply in this manner. But she soon resumed more gravely:
“You know very well, Ginevra, what I think of this myself. Therefore for a long time I despised this folly, and endeavored to overcome the cruel impression it left upon me; for,” continued she, her voice trembling with emotion in spite of herself, “it is a peculiarly hard trial, you may suppose, to feel your heart full of tenderness, sympathy, and pity for others, and yet seemingly to bring them danger and misfortune.... For instance, to extend your arms to a child and see its mother hesitate to allow you to take it, or even to look at it. But let us change the subject. I have never alluded to this trial, and, if I speak of it now, it is not to excite your sympathy, but, on the contrary, to tell you I am no longer to be pitied. The hour that has just passed was horrible, it is true, but it put an end to my hesitation and doubt. I see my way clearly now, and peace has returned to my soul.”
Her eyes, though still full of tears, wore an expression of celestial joy. I looked at her with astonishment, but did not try to interrupt her. She continued:
“Gina, my darling sister, you have found your sphere, and I have found mine. May God grant you all the happiness, yes, all the joy, to be found in this world! But it will not equal mine. Pity me no longer, I repeat. It is to me he has given the better part.”
Her voice, her accent, and her looks expressed more than her words. I understood her, and was seized with strange emotion. Yes, very strange! and a feeling very different from what might have been supposed.
I loved Livia, and my approaching separation from her filled me with so much sorrow as to dim my happiness. Now I felt that a barrier even more insurmountable than distance was to come between us. It was not, however, affliction on my part, or pity for her, that I experienced. It was—shall I say it?—an inexplicable feeling of respect and envy—a vague, unreasonable wish to follow her; a mysterious aspiration for something higher, nobler, and more perfect than wealth, position, rank, and the éclat so soon to surround me, and more precious than the love itself that had fallen to my lot!
I remained a long time incapable of making my sister any reply, my eyes, like hers, fastened on the far‐off horizon, now tinged with the softest evening hues.
O my God! a ray of the same light fell on us both at that moment; but for her it was the pure, calm light of the dawn; for me it was like a flash of lightning which gives one glimpse of the shore, but does not diminish the darkness of the coming night or the danger of the threatening storm.
To Be Continued.
Anglican Orders.(100) I.
Canon Estcourt’s book is, in all respects, a most remarkable one, and can hardly fail to make an era in the controversy. It is a monument, not merely of successful research, but of that intimate acquaintance with a very complicated and difficult subject which nothing but the assiduous labor of years can give. It is perfectly calm and judicial both in its tone and in its conclusions; for learning, like charity, is long‐ suffering. It does not contain, we believe all parties will admit, a single instance of overstrained or ad captandum argument, whilst moving with measured pace to its unassailable conclusions. So studiously gentle has Canon Estcourt been throughout in his language, and so scrupulous in his choice of weapons, that we can hardly wonder if some of his Catholic readers are startled as though the trumpet had given an uncertain sound, and if Anglicans, like the executioner’s victim in the story, hardly know at first that the fatal blow has been struck.
The scope which Canon Estcourt proposes to himself (p. 3) is to ascertain the value of Anglican pretensions to orders as judged by the standard of Catholic theology. Anglicans have professed themselves anxious that the Holy See should reconsider their case. They insist that the practice of ordaining converts from the Anglican ministry who aspire to the priesthood is, upon Catholic principles, inconsistent with any real knowledge of the history of Anglican ordinations.
Few things, we suppose, would surprise a Catholic more than to find that the authorities of the church had been pursuing a course in regard to Anglican orders which, though morally justified by a host of suspicious circumstances, yet was not in accordance with the real facts of the case. Still, such a misfortune, however improbable, is not inconceivable. There is nothing incompatible with the principles of the Catholic faith in the supposition that the Holy See may have been practically misled in a matter of historical evidence, where such misleading could involve no misrepresentation of truth and no fatal mischief. It would have been otherwise had a formal decision been given upon any point of doctrine, as, for instance, the validity of this or that form; or, again, if the decision, though merely practical in its form, yet, like the admission of Greek orders at Florence, had held an integral portion of church life dependent upon its correctness.
We think Canon Estcourt has proved that Anglican orders, regarded in the light of the latest research into their documentary history, are thoroughly untrustworthy; and that any reconsideration of their case by the authorities of the church could only result in a confirmation of the ancient practice. He shows, 1st, that the consecration, under any form, of Parker’s consecrator, Barlow, is doubtful, and that it is exceedingly doubtful if the assistance of Bishop Hodgkin at Parker’s consecration would make up for the inefficiency of the consecrator. 2d. That, although certain deficiencies in the Anglican form for the priesthood, upon which various Catholic controversialists have laid stress, are not in se invalidating, yet that, regard being had to the genesis and context of the form, and to the theology of those who framed and first used it, it cannot be regarded as an implicit signification of the Catholic doctrines of the priesthood and the sacrifice—such as a form consisting of the same words might be, amongst Greeks or Abyssinians—but as an implicit denial of the same. Thus the Anglican form is substantially different from any form which the church has accounted as even probable, and is quite inappropriate for conferring the “potentiam ordinis.”
Before proceeding to examine Canon Estcourt’s treatment of the two main points of the question, the status of Parker’s consecrator, and the value of the Edwardine form, it will be well to consider an objection that may be brought against him from the Catholic side. It may be urged that, in his anxiety to do justice to his opponents, he has allowed them to assume a better position than they have any right to occupy. Anglicans owe the assumed assistance of a duly consecrated bishop at Parker’s consecration, and the assumed use of a form as Catholic as the Edwardine, to the assumed correctness of the Lambeth Register. This document records that on the 17th of December, 1559, Parker was consecrated at Lambeth, according to the rite of Edward VI., by Barlow, Coverdale, Scory, and Hodgkin. Of these, Coverdale and Scory had been consecrated by undoubted bishops, using the Edwardine rite; Hodgkin by an undoubted bishop, using the Catholic rite. This Register was first produced by Francis Mason in 1616; and even Canon Estcourt, whilst granting the truth of its main statements, denies that it can be accepted as “an authentic and contemporaneous account of the facts as they occurred.” On the other hand, there is a time‐honored account which has long passed current amongst Catholics, and which still finds able and zealous defenders amongst their number.(101) According to this account, at a meeting held at the Nag’s Head inn in Chepeside, Scory alone performed the ceremony upon Parker and sundry other ordinandi, by laying the Bible upon their head or shoulders, and saying, “Take thou authority to preach the word of God.” Here, whatever may be said of the consecrator, the form is confessedly insufficient.
Canon Estcourt, following Lingard and Tiernay, simply rejects the Nag’s Head account as controversially worthless, and accepts that given by the Lambeth Register as substantially correct. We think that he is amply justified in so doing. Of course, however, each account must stand upon its own basis, and the rejection of the one does not involve the admission of the other.
The Nag’s Head Story
As Canon Estcourt, in his enumeration of sources of evidence (p. 11), remarks, “A story that has passed from person to person merely by verbal tradition, even if names are quoted as authority, but without written testimony, cannot be accepted as evidence, nor allowed to have weight as an argument, even it considered probable as an historical fact.” Now, it is notorious that the Nag’s Head story depends merely upon hearsay testimony, without a particle of documentary evidence. Whatever vague rumors may have been current, there is no proof that the story ever assumed a “questionable shape” until F. Holiwood (Sacrobosco) published it in 1604. Stapleton, one of our most learned and vigorous controversialists, in a work published only five years after the date assigned to the Nag’s Head consecration, does not mention it; and, moreover, says in so many words that the Anglican bishops were consecrated according to the rite of Edward VI. Neither has Saunders a word of it among all his well‐merited vituperation of the “Parliament bishops,” in his Clavis Davidica; nor Rischton, the continuator of his De Schismate. These writers certainly lacked neither information nor courage. It is true that when once the Nag’s Head story was brought out, controversialists on either side were apt to interpret the expressions of the earlier Catholic writers as referring to this particular charge; but when we turn to them, we find nothing more than the general charge of invalidity.(102)
Dr. Champneys, who wrote in 1616, relates the story upon the authority of F. Bluett, a prisoner in Wisbech Castle, who said he had it from Mr. Neale, the eye‐witness. This last‐named person, being at the time Bishop Bonner’s chaplain, was sent by him, so the story runs, to inhibit Kitchen of Llandaff from consecrating, and thus witnessed the whole irregular proceeding. All the threads of tradition—with one exception, which we shall notice further on—appear to centre in F. Bluett. He told Dr. Champneys; he told, so says Dr. Champneys, F. Holiwood, who printed the story, in a condensed form, in 1604. Dr. Kenrick thought he had discovered from Pitts(103) another mouth‐piece of Neale’s in Neale’s friend, Mr. Orton; but it is not so. Pitts, in his biographical notice of Neale, after stating that various particulars, which he gives, are upon the authority of Orton, proceeds to say of Neale: “This was the very same man who was sent by Bonner,” etc., emphatically marking off the Nag’s Head story as not being one of the things he had heard from Orton, though otherwise sufficiently notorious.
Of Bluett nothing is known, except that he was for a long while prisoner for the faith, which of course speaks volumes for his honesty. But a lengthened imprisonment is not unfavorable for delusions, especially of a religious character. When we come to consider the character of the reputed first‐hand in the line of tradition, Mr. Thomas Neale, we find ourselves upon very different ground. If F. Bluett’s lengthy imprisonment is deservedly reckoned in his favor, what shall we say of a man who was able, on the accession of Elizabeth, after having been Bishop Bonner’s chaplain, to take a public professorship in Oxford, and who, on his giving this up, was in a position to build himself a house opposite Hertford College, long known by the name of Neale’s Buildings? These facts, admitted on all hands, sufficiently bear out Anthony à Wood’s account of him: that his religion “was more Catholic than Protestant,” that he dreaded being called in question “for his seldom frequenting the church and receiving the sacrament.” À Wood is certainly not writing with a controversial purpose, and this is hardly the line that a Protestant depreciation of a hostile witness would take. The defenders of the Nag’s Head story have had to meet the objection that Bonner dared not, whilst a prisoner, have taken the bold step ascribed to him, by an appeal to his notorious fearlessness. On the other hand, every one admits that Neale was an arrant coward; “of a timorous nature,” says à Wood; “of a nature marvellously fearful,” says Pitts. Now, if Bonner showed his courage by inhibiting, what must have been the courage of the man who ventured into the lion’s den to execute the inhibition, and stood doggedly by to see how far it was obeyed? Surely we should have reason to be surprised if, after such an exhibition of courage, Neale had been afraid to put the matter on paper, or to breathe a word of it except to F. Bluett.
It has been attempted to establish the Nag’s Head story upon another line of tradition, independent, not only of Bluett, but of Neale. Mr. Ward, in his Nullity of the Protestant Clergy, when mentioning the well‐known examination of the Lambeth Register, in 1614, by certain Catholic priests then in confinement, at the request of Archbishop Abbot, continues: “But Mr. Plowden, yet living, does depose that he had it from F. Faircloth’s own mouth, with whom he lived many years an intimate friend, this ensuing answer of F. Faircloth’s to Abbot: My lord, said he, my father was a Protestant, and kept a shop in Chepeside, and assured me that himself was present at Parker’s and the four Protestant bishops’ consecration at the Nag’s Head in Chepeside,” etc. This is mere hearsay, but we confess that we see no grounds for doubting that F. Faircloth made just the answer attributed to him. He was doubtless a firm believer in the Nag’s Head story as related by Bluett, and his father, who had been a shopkeeper in Chepeside, was able to tell him that the Nag’s Head Inn was no myth; nay, that there had been a meeting of bishops there; that he, Faircloth senior, had seen them. Who does not know how often and how honestly ocular evidence for an unimportant item is accepted as evidence of the whole? If old Faircloth had been able to give any real confirmation of the story, surely more would have been made of him.
Even if it be admitted that a consecration of some sort did take place at the Nag’s Head, there is an important discrepancy in the versions given by Holiwood and Champneys of the Neale and Bluett story, which is fatal to it as an accurate account of what took place. Holiwood says that Scory “caused John Jewell to rise up Bishop of Salisbury, and him that was Robert Horn before to rise up Bishop of Winchester, and so forth with all the rest.” If this is to be taken as an exact account of what took place, no specific form at all was used; and F. Fitzsimon follows to precisely the same effect: “Scory orders them all to kneel down; then, taking the hand of Parker, says, ‘Rise, Lord Bishop of Canterbury’; in like manner to Grindal, ‘Rise, Lord Bishop of London,’ ” etc. But, according to Dr. Champneys, “Having the Bible in his hand, they all kneeling before him, he laid it upon every one of their heads or shoulders, saying, ‘Take thou authority to preach the word of God sincerely’ ”—a very distinct form indeed, however invalid.
We reject, then, the Nag’s Head story, 1st, as lacking all but hearsay evidence, and hearsay evidence is at the command of any cause; 2d, as exhibiting various notes of intrinsic improbability; 3d, as wholly irrelevant, in the present aspect of the controversy, to the question of Anglican orders. It is irrelevant, because, whatever was or was not done at the Nag’s Head, it is quite clear that the parties concerned, the government, and the bishops were no more satisfied with it than Catholics would have been, but continued to move for Parker’s consecration precisely as if nothing had been done. At the same time, we protest against the notion that the Nag’s Head story was a gratuitous lie. For, first, it is admitted that the bishops did meet at this identical inn for purposes convivial or otherwise, and to such meeting—viz., the confirmation dinner—both Fuller and Heylin, Strype and Collier, trace the story.(104) Secondly, the well‐known disbelief in orders prevailing amongst the Protestant party; their repeatedly shrinking from the Catholic challenge to produce their proofs; their insistence, when speaking of their episcopacy, that ordination by a priest was valid, when taken together, justified Catholics in the growing suspicion that there was a terrible flaw somewhere, an irregularity which even an Elizabethan conscience stickled at. No one who reflects upon the genuine horror and contempt which the sight of the hen‐pecked bishops of England, with their woman‐ pope, excited throughout Christendom, can regard the Nag’s Head story as an extravagant or gratuitous outcome of Catholic imagination.
The principal interest of the fable lies in the fact that it fairly got through the Anglican skin, and forced the production of the Lambeth Register. All the denials of their orders by controversialists like the Jesuit Harding, all Saunders’s taunts about petticoat government, affected them no whit. Orthodoxy and honesty might go to the winds, but one virtue they did set store by, and that was Christian gravity; and this tavern‐ story so stung them that they could keep their counsel no longer.
The Lambeth Register
We shall now proceed, taking Canon Estcourt as our guide, to examine, in chronological order, the various documents connected with Parker’s consecration.
On the 19th of July, 1559, Elizabeth issued the congé d’elire to the Chapter of Canterbury, that see having been just seven months vacant after the death of Cardinal Pole. On the 9th of August the election took place. September 9, a royal commission was issued for the confirmation and consecration of Parker, to whom letters‐patent of the same date were addressed. The commission was addressed to Tonstall of Durham, Bourne of Bath and Wells, Pole of Peterborough, and Kitchen of Llandaff, being four out of the five remaining Catholic bishops, Turberville of Exeter being the only one omitted. But joined with the above four were the returned refugees, Barlow and Scory. Of the four Catholic bishops, the first three positively refused to consecrate, and were shortly after deprived. Kitchen of Llandaff, unfaithful though he was, somehow managed to get out of it; perhaps on the score of his weak sight—the excuse attributed to him in the Nag’s Head story.
Next in order comes a paper yet remaining in the State Paper Office, which may be called the programme of the consecration. Canon Estcourt gives a fac‐simile. It details the various steps to be taken for the consecration of Parker, and contains marginal notes in the handwritings of Cecil and Parker. Cecil’s notes are significant. Upon the direction in the text, in accordance with a statute of Henry VIII., that application should be made for consecration to some other archbishop within the king’s dominions, or, in default of him, to four other bishops, he remarks: “There is no archb. nor iiij bishopps to be had; wherefore quærendum, etc.” Upon the direction that King Edward’s ordinal be used, he remarks: “This booke is not established by parlement.”
The second commission, December 6, 1559, was addressed to Kitchen, Barlow, Scory, Coverdale; Hodgkin, the Suffragan of Bedford; Salisbury, Suffragan of Thetford; and Bale, who had been Bishop of Ossory. It concludes with the following dispensing clause: “Natheless supplying by our supreme royal authority of our proper motion and assured knowledge, if there be or shall be aught wanting (in those things which, according to our aforegiven mandate, shall be done by you, or any of you, for performing the aforesaid) of what is requisite or necessary, whether according to the statutes of this our realm or the laws of the church, the quality of the times and the pressure of circumstances demanding it.” Canon Estcourt produces a fac‐simile, “taken from the original draft extant in the Public Record Office, with the autograph signatures of the civilians giving their opinion that the commission ‘in the form pennyd’ may be lawfully acted on.”
The Lambeth Register testifies that, in accordance with the commission, “four of those named—viz., Barlow, Scory, Coverdale, and Hodgkin—did, on the 9th of December, confirm Parker in Bow Church, the elect appearing by his proxy, Nicholas Bullingham; and that, on the 17th, the same four bishops performed the ceremony of consecration in accordance, save in one particular, with the ritual of Edward VI. We thus summarize Canon Estcourt’s summary of the reasons for giving credence to the above facts recorded by the Register: 1. The official minute with Cecil’s and Parker’s notes. It was never used in the controversy until referred to by Lingard. It can be no forgery, for the forger would not have been such a fool as to forge Cecil’s remarks as to the illegality of the proceeding. This document shows the intention of the parties concerned to proceed as the Register says they did proceed. 2. The letters‐patent issuing the commission of December 6, 1559, are enrolled in Chancery on the patent‐ rolls, the highest official test of genuineness. The original draft of the commission is still preserved in the State Paper Office, with Cecil’s writing on it, and the autograph signatures of the civilians. This paper has never been produced in the controversy, and no forger would have taken such useless trouble. 3. In the recently discovered diary of Henry Machyn, a merchant tailor in London, we find the following entries: The xxiii day of June [1559] were elected vi new Byshopes com from beyond the sea, master Parker Bysshope of Canturbere, master Gryndalle Bysshope of London, docthur Score Bysshope of Harfford, Barlow [of] Chechastur, doctur Bylle of Salysbere, doctor Cokes of Norwyche.”
... Upper part of page burnt away.
“Parker electyd bishope of Canterbere.”
“The xvii day of Desember was the new byshope of [Canterbury] doctur Parker, was mad ther at Lambeth.”
“The xx day of Desember afornon, was Sant Thomas evyn, my lord of Canturbere whent to Bow Chyrche, and ther wher v nuw byshopes mad.”
The genuineness of these entries is beyond all suspicion. Had they been made for a controversial purpose, they would have been used earlier in the controversy. Although the diary contains various inaccuracies—e.g., the date assigned to Parker’s election, which is before the real date of his congé d’elire, and the loose use of the term “mad,” which, in regard to the bishops at Bow Church, should stand for confirmation, and in Parker’s case for consecration—still, it is evidence that on the date given in the Register something was done to Parker which could be described as “being made bishop.” Bow Church was the regular place for confirmation, Lambeth for consecration. The fact that the five, or rather six, bishops were consecrated on S. Thomas’s day, on the eve of which they had been confirmed, although this last was at Lambeth, and not at Bow Church, makes the confusion in their case not unnatural.
4. There is a detailed memorandum of the consecration, in a contemporary hand, preserved among the MSS. of Foxe, who died in 1587, “probably nearly of the same age as the Register itself, perhaps even older”—i.e., older than the Register in the condition in which we now possess it. This document has been but recently introduced into the controversy, and will be again appealed to when the actual condition of the Register is under consideration.
5. Stapleton’s assertion that “the Bishoppes were ordered, not according to the acte 28 (25) H. VIII., but according to an acte of Edw. VI., repealed by Queen Mary, and not revived in the first year of Q. Eliz.”
6. Act 8 Eliz., cap. 1, not only lays down the law for the future, but enacts that all acts done “about a confirmation or consecration, in virtue of the queen’s letters‐patent, were good and perfect; and that all persons consecrated bishops according to the order of 5 and 6 Edward VI. were rightly made and consecrated.” This is equivalent to an assertion that such consecration had actually taken place.
In addition to these proofs, there are various incidental references to Parker’s consecration on the 17th in contemporary works and letters, which have been carefully collected by Mr. Bailey in his Defensio, p. 19.
Altogether, there is no gainsaying the evidence for the substantial correctness of the Lambeth Register. At the same time, Canon Estcourt shows, we think, conclusively that the existing Lambeth MS., as we have it, is not the original record of what took place, but rather a glossed version thereof, in which certain important and awkward facts are, without being denied, carefully suppressed. Besides the Lambeth MS., there are two others; one in the State Paper Office, the other in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. The former, to judge by its corrections, would seem to have been a rough draft, and was probably submitted to Cecil for approval before the registration. Canon Estcourt thinks that the Cambridge MS. was a transcript from that in the State Paper Office, inasmuch as they agree in giving the form, “Accipe Spiritum Sanctum,” in Latin, whereas that of Lambeth has it in English. Because of this and other variations, neither of these MSS. can be regarded as a transcript from that of Lambeth, or as tending to authenticate its present condition.
Canon Estcourt prints the Foxe MS., of which we have spoken, side by side with the Lambeth Register; and we see that, whilst in the former Barlow is distinctly stated to have been the consecrator, and the rite used that of Edward VI., the latter makes no distinction between Barlow and the other three, and makes no reference whatever to the ordinal of Edward VI.
Whether the Foxe MS. is a commentary upon the Register or upon the rough draft, or, as Canon Estcourt is inclined to think, is taken from the Register as it originally stood, it is, anyhow, the testimony of a contemporary ally of the parties concerned to the existence of important circumstances which the existing Register carefully suppresses.
It is difficult for us—as, indeed, it was for Catholics of the generation immediately succeeding that of Elizabeth’s accession—to understand the nervous anxiety that possessed the Protestant party lest they should give their enemies the slightest legal pretext against them. The completeness of Elizabeth’s triumph naturally tended to obliterate, in the minds of her victims, the precarious condition of parties in the beginning of her reign. There is, however, ample testimony that this nervousness did exist. When Horne, the Elizabethan Bishop of Winchester, tendered Bonner, a prisoner in the Marshalsea, the oath of supremacy, the latter demurred, on the ground that Horne was no bishop in the eye of the law, forasmuch as he had been consecrated according to the ordinal of Edward VI.—which had never been legalized after its proscription, 1 Mary, sess. 2, c. 2—and had also contravened the statute 25 Henry VIII., c. 20, requiring as consecrators either an archbishop and two bishops or four bishops. As it was notorious that Horne was consecrated by Parker and two other bishops, this last count was understood as tantamount to saying that Parker was not legally archbishop, on the ground that, of the bishops concerned in that ceremony, three had been deprived and the fourth deposed. This bold plea that, to use the words of one of Cecil’s correspondents, quoted by Canon Estcourt, p. 119, “there was never a lawful bishop in England, so astonished a great number of the best learned that yet they knew not what to answer him; and when it was determined he should have suffered, he is remitted to the place from whence he came, and no more said unto him.”
After this we can understand the persistency with which controversialists like Jewel, who were in the secret, shirked the challenge, so frequently addressed them by Catholics, to show the steps of their succession.
It is highly probable that the Protestant party, in the anxiety caused by Bonner’s onslaught, so far tampered with the Register as to gloss over the vulnerable points. It is noteworthy that this same paper of Foxe’s contains a summary upon Bonner’s case, showing the connection in the author’s mind. It would be unreasonable to admit the mere implication of the Register, that there was no distinction of consecrator and assistants, against the explicit statement of the Foxe MS.
The one point in which Parker’s consecration, according both to the Lambeth Register and to the Foxe MS., deflected from the Edwardine ordinal was this: that whilst the latter prescribes that the consecrator alone should hold his hands upon the elect’s head during the prayer of consecration, all four bishops are said to have held their hands upon Parker’s head.
But, as Canon Estcourt observes, we are not to suppose that, in acting as they did, Barlow and the others had devised something new and unknown before, and which therefore requires exceptional treatment. On the contrary, they were following the rubric of the Exeter Pontifical, which in this point agrees with the Roman rite.
Supposing, then, Barlow and his companions to stand in the relation of consecrator and assistants, would the incapacity, from want of consecration, of the consecrator be supplied by the capacity of an assistant? Mr. Haddan appeals triumphantly to Martène’s dictum that “the bishops who assist are for certain not merely witnesses but co‐ operators.”(105) But this goes but a little way. It is admitted on all hands that the assistants are something more than mere witnesses, although they emphatically fulfil that office. They are at least co‐operators by the official signification of their approval and support. Those who held up the arms of Moses did something more than witness to the marvels wrought by those up‐lifted hands. The comparatively small number of theologians who maintain the necessity of three bishops for a valid consecration are the only ones who maintain that the assistants are, properly speaking, consecrators. Anyhow, the action must be regarded as taking place per modum unius, for the opus is one, not manifold; but once annihilate the principal consecrator, and the ratio by which the assistants coalesce in unum opus is gone. If we may be forgiven a homely phrase in connection with a solemn subject, Tom is doing nothing; therefore those who are merely operative in virtue of their assistance of him are merely helping him to do nothing. We do not know any theologian who has said in so many words, or whose theory requires, that the assistant should be held as compensating for the inefficiency of the consecrator. Canon Estcourt, with characteristic moderation, urges that it is at least probable that no such compensation could take place, and therefore, according to Catholic principles, the safer side would have to be taken, and the ceremony repeated.
It is, then, of vital importance to the Anglican cause that there should be no doubt whatever about Barlow’s consecration. Canon Estcourt does not deny that it is probable he may have been consecrated. He does not pretend to do more than show that there are the gravest reasons for doubting the fact of his consecration. We wish to examine fairly the momenta on both sides.
Barlow’s Status
William Barlow had been professed as an Augustinian Canon of S. Osith’s Priory, in Essex. He had been early distinguished as the protégé and obsequious servant of Anne Boleyn. “In October, 1534, he was sent as ambassador into Scotland, in conjunction with Thomas Holcroft, in order to persuade King James to renounce the Pope.”(106) In the early part of the next year, he was again in Scotland, “in company with Lord William Howard, who conveyed the garter to King James”; and January 22, 1536, for the third time went to Scotland, “on a joint embassy, again with Lord William Howard.” He had been elected to the bishopric of S. Asaph on the 16th, six days before. He was confirmed by proxy either on the 22d or the 23d of February. He remained in Scotland during February and March, and seems to have left in the beginning of April. On the 10th of April, Barlow was elected Bishop of S. David’s, and on the 21st was confirmed in person in Bow Church. “The archbishop’s certificate of the confirmation is dated on the same day, but makes no mention of consecration, nor is the fact recited, as usual, in the grant of temporalities which was issued on the 26th.” On the 27th, a summons to Parliament is sent: “Reverendo in Christo Patri W. Menevensi Episcopo.” On the 1st of May, he is installed at S. David’s, and before the 13th is writing a joint letter, with Lord William Howard, from Edinborough, addressed to the king and Cromwell, in which he signs himself Willmŭs Menev, the style of Bishop of S. David’s. He calls himself and is called Bishop of S. David’s on and after April 25, but not before. On this account, several of the defenders of his consecration have plausibly conjectured that he was consecrated on April 25, “which,” Mr. Haddan tells us, “was a Sunday, and when he was certainly in London.” Mr. Haddan himself, however, prefers to follow the order of precedence in the House of Lords and in the Upper House of Convocation, which places Barlow after the Bishops of Chichester and Norwich, who were consecrated, the latter certainly, the former probably, upon June 11, 1536. He assigns June 11 as the date of Barlow’s consecration. Lord William Howard left Edinburgh for England on or before May 23, and Barlow writes to Cromwell on that same day that he “has protracted his taryaunce somewhat after my lord’s departure,” “for a daye or twayne,” at the request of the Queen of Scots. From this Mr. Haddan concludes that on June 11, when a consecration was known to have taken place, he was in London. Canon Estcourt, however, has brought to light a warrant of Cromwell’s to the Garter king‐at‐arms, who had accompanied the embassy, and did not return until June 12, on which day he presented himself to Cromwell. The warrant is dated June 12. The king‐at‐arms would doubtless have returned, when the embassy was at an end, with Lord William Howard, and therefore before Barlow. But we are not left to conjecture; the warrant speaks of Barlow as “the bishopp then elect of S. Asaph, now elect of S. David’s.” Therefore, on the 12th, he was still unconsecrated.
Barlow’s episcopal register is wanting both at S. David’s, and at Bath and Wells (to which last he was translated in 1541); and at S. Asaph’s no register at all exists for the period when he nominally held the see.(107) The next consecration of which we have any record—after the 12th of June, when we know Barlow was unconsecrated—took place on July 2; but on June 30, Barlow took his seat in the House of Lords, and from that time acts and is treated as though he lacked nothing of the episcopal status.
We are now in a position to collect and estimate the momenta for and against Barlow’s consecration. On behalf of his consecration, it is urged, 1st, that it “must be regarded as certain until it can be disproved”;(108) for no adequate motive can be assigned for the omission of a ceremony which could not be omitted without incurring severe penalties, to which the archbishop who neglected to consecrate would be also subject. 2d. That he was acknowledged, both by Parliament and by his brother bishops, to be in all respects a bishop after June 30, 1530, when he took his seat in the House of Lords; and that no syllable was breathed against his consecration, either by friend or foe, from that date until Dr. Champneys first questioned it in 1614, forty‐eight years after his death, and eighty from the commencement of his episcopate. 3d. The fact that his consecration is not recorded in the archiepiscopal register is not much to the purpose, since out of thirty‐six consecrations, in Cranmer’s time eight exclusive of Barlow’s, in his predecessor, Warham’s, time, six out of twenty‐six are not entered.(109) 4th. His episcopal acts respecting the property of his sees would have been legally invalid in default of consecration; but although these acts were legally disputed, no one suggested the flaw of non‐consecration.
On the other hand, it must be remembered that the question is really not whether Barlow’s consecration can be “disproved,” but whether, in spite of what may be legitimately urged in its behalf, there are not sufficient grounds for suspecting that it never took place. 1. Neither Barlow nor Cranmer believed in consecration. In their answers to the “questions on the sacraments” which were submitted to the king, they say that, for making a bishop, “election or appointing thereto is sufficient.” Barlow, in a sermon delivered by him at S. David’s, November 12, 1536, is charged with having said: “If the king’s gr., being supreme head of the Church of England, did chuse, denominate, and elect any layman, being learned, to be a bishop, that he so chosen, without mention being made of any orders, should be as good a bishop as he is or the best in England.” 2. This doctrine was undoubtedly favored by the king; for in another part of this same paper on the sacraments, where the bishops are attempting to take a rather more Catholic line, we have notes in the king’s handwriting to this effect. The bishops having answered, “Making of bishopes hath twoo partes, appointment and ordering,” his remark is, “Where is this distinction fonde?” and they continuing, “Appoyntament, whiche the appostels by necessyte made by common election, and sometimes by their owne several assignment, could not then be doon by Christen princes, bicause at that time they were not; and nowe at these days appertayneth to Christen princes and rulers;” the king’s note is: “Now sins you confesse that the appostylles did occupate the won part, whych now you confesse belongyth to princes, how can you prove that orderyng is wonly committed to you bysshopes?”
3. Canon Estcourt (p. 69) shows that the other side has no right to assume that Barlow and Cranmer would have incurred any penalties by the mere pretermission of consecration; for the act 25 Henry VIII., cap. 20, declares: “If any archbishop shall refuse or do not confirm, invest, and consecrate, he shall incur a præmunire”; and there is no special mention of the bishop elect among the persons liable to penalties, the clause running in general words: if “any person admit or execute any censures, etc., or other process or act to the contrary or let of due execution of the act.”
The notion that the leases and other episcopal acts connected with diocesan property would not be legally valid in default of consecration is a gratuitous assumption. Certainly neither Mr. Haddan nor Mr. Bailey has attempted to produce any evidence. What the law really takes cognizance of in such questions is the possession of the temporalities, an indisputable right to which is given by the writ of restitution.
The recognition of Parliament, upon which so much stress has been laid, cannot be regarded as any proof of consecration, since it naturally and inevitably ensued upon the issue of this same writ. This is sufficiently proved by the fact that Parliament summoned Barlow to take his seat, and gave him his full episcopal title, when, as has been shown above, he certainly was not consecrated. Doubtless some of the more zealous of the Catholic party might have made a disturbance had they realized the omission; but, as Canon Estcourt observes (p. 78), Gardiner was absent as ambassador in Paris during the whole of 1536 and 1537.
As to Cranmer’s register, it is true that it was very carelessly kept; but of the nine unrecorded consecrations, Barlow’s would be the only one for which no collateral evidence whatever can be furnished. No document recites it, and every date that has been as yet conjectured for it has been exploded. Barlow’s contemporary, Foxe, in his record of the Lambeth consecration, whilst specifying accurately the dates of the consecration of the other bishops engaged, is only able to say of Barlow that he was consecrated “tempore Henrici VIII.”
Canon Estcourt points out that although there was no regular register kept at S. David’s—and we know that the breviaries and martyrologies which contained records of episcopal succession were burnt in the next reign as superstitious—yet that it is sufficiently odd that all the chapter books have been lost, and that the Liber Computi, still extant, has a break in it for several years before 1539.
But this is not all. Canon Estcourt has found out, on examining the original document first printed by Mason as the restitution to Barlow of the temporalities of S. David’s “out of the Rolls Chapel in Chancery,” that the enrolment had really been made in the office of the exchequer, as though the matter were purely secular, instead of on the patent rolls in chancery. Then, on examining the original form—which Mason reproduced imperfectly, so as to conceal its real character—and comparing it with the normal writ of restitution, it turns out to be, no writ of restitution, but “a grant of the custody of temporalities on account of the vacancy of the see,” with the extraordinary addition of “to hold to him and his assigns during his life.” These grants of the custody of the temporalities of a diocese which had accrued during a vacancy were common enough. The peculiarity of Barlow’s grant is that it is a grant of custody made to do duty for a writ of restitution. The grant of custody was ordinarily made as a preliminary to the writ of restitution. No limit was assigned to it, but it naturally and necessarily merged in the restitution, of which it was a gracious foretaste. In the case of Cranmer, indeed, as Canon Estcourt points out, the grant of custody was made after he had received the restitution of the temporalities in the usual form; but the grant is carefully limited to the profits accruing from the commencement of the vacancy to the date of restitution. Barlow’s grant is for life, and, by anticipating in its completeness all that the writ of restitution could give, it would preclude the crown from making restitution in the proper form without a surrender of the grant of custody. Before consecration, a bishop cannot sue out a writ of restitution, as the act requires, but the king sometimes ex gratia allowed it; the form, however, of such indulgence is well known, and is very different from that of the document in question.(110)
The form actually chosen “may be supposed to have saved the necessity of obtaining either the archbishop’s mandate or the archdeacon’s commission”; in fact, to have made Barlow free of his see at once without any official formalities, and to “secure him in the enjoyment of the temporalities of the see, whether his character of bishop was perfected spiritually or not.”
“The effect of the grant, both in Barlow’s own mind and in official quarters, may be seen from what followed. The next day a writ of summons to the House of Lords was issued, and Barlow himself immediately assumed the style and title of bishop.” “It seems highly probable that this special and novel form was deliberately adopted as suiting the views of all parties, and being highly favorable to any ulterior designs which the king might have upon the temporalities of the church at large.”
It must be remembered, too, that many of the arguments tending to show the unlikelihood of the omission, such as its unprecedented character, the want of apparent motive, or, again, the exceedingly imperfect character of the registration, tend to diminish the chances of detection. True, Barlow was not a man inclined to sacrifice much to his convictions; but he had a hearty hatred for sacerdotalism, a strong sense of humor, and, if we judge from his sermon quoted above, the impudence, if not the courage, of his opinions. A competitor for a tyrant’s favor must always risk something to keep a front place, and on this point he knew how the king was minded. Altogether, he would seem to be by no means an unlikely man to have played the part assigned to him.
We conceive that these momenta do amply justify grave suspicions of Barlow’s consecration, and consequently the repetition of any rites depending for their validity upon his consecration.