PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.
V.
THE REVELATION OF THE SUPERNATURAL ORDER, AND ITS RELATION TO THE PRIMITIVE IDEA OF REASON.
Our reason in apprehending the intelligible is advertised at the same time of the existence of the super-intelligible. It is necessary to explain here the sense in which this latter term is used. It is evident that it can be used only in a relative and not in an absolute sense. That which is absolutely without the domain of the intelligible is absolutely unintelligible and therefore a non-entity. The super-intelligible must therefore be something which is intelligible to God, but above the range either of all created reason, or of human reason in its present condition. It will suffice for the present to consider it under the latter category.
Our reason undoubtedly apprehends in its intelligible object the existence of something which is above the range of human intelligence in its present state. The intimate nature of material and spiritual substances is incomprehensible. Much more, the intimate nature or essence of the infinite divine being. All science begins from and conducts to the incomprehensible. Any one who wishes to satisfy himself of this may peruse the first few chapters of Mr. Herbert Spencer's "Principles of Philosophy." That portion of the first article of the creed which reason can demonstrate; namely, the being of God, the Creator of the world, in which is included also the immortality of the soul, and the principle of moral obligation; advertises therefore, of an infinite sphere of truth which is above our comprehension. The natural suggests the supernatural, in which it has its first and final cause, its origin and ultimate end. The knowledge of the natural, therefore, gives us a kind of negative knowledge of the super-natural, by advertising us of its own incompleteness, and of the want of any principle of self-origination or metaphysical finality in itself. A system of pure naturalism which represents the idea of reason under a form which satisfies completely the intelligence without introducing the supernatural, is impossible. What is nature, and what do we mean by the natural? Nature is simply the aggregate of finite entities, and the natural is [{578}] what may be predicated of these entities. A system of pure naturalism would therefore give a complete account of this aggregate of finite entities, without going beyond the entities themselves, that is, without transcending the limits of space, time, the finite and the contingent. Such a system is not only incapable of rational demonstration, but utterly unthinkable. For, when the mind has gone to its utmost length in denying or excluding every positive affirmation of anything except nature, there remains always the abyss of the unknown from which nature came and to which it tends, even though the unknown may be declared to be unknowable. Those who deny the super-intelligible and the supernatural, therefore, are mere sceptics, and cannot construct a philosophy. Those who affirm a First Cause, in which second causes and their effects are intelligible, affirm the supernatural. For the first and absolute Cause cannot be included under the same generic term with the second causes and finite forces of nature. The more perfectly and clearly they evolve the full theistic conception of pure reason, the more distinctly do they affirm the supernatural, because the idea of God as the infinite, intelligible object of his own infinite intelligence is proportionately explicated and apprehended. It is explicated and apprehended by means of analogies derived from finite objects, but these analogies suggest that there is an infinite something behind them which they represent. By these analogies we learn in a measure the meaning of the affirmation Ut Deus sit. We do not learn Quid sit Deus, but still we cannot help asking the question, What is God, what is his essence? We know that he is the adequate object of his own intelligence and will, and therefore we cannot help asking the question what is that object, what does God see and love in himself, in what does his most pure and infinite act consist, what is his beatitude? Our reason is advertised of an infinite truth, reality, or being, which it cannot comprehend, that is, of the super-intelligible. Those who base their philosophy on pure theism, or a modified rationalistic Christianity, are therefore entirely mistaken when they profess to be anti-supernaturalists, and to draw a distinctly marked line between themselves and the supernaturalists. The distinction is only between more or less consistent supernaturalists. Those who are at the remotest point from the Catholic idea, see that those who are a little nearer have no tenable standing-point, and these see it of those who are nearer than they are, and so on, until we come to the Anglicans and the Orientals. But the extremists themselves have no better standing-point than the intermediaries, and in their theistic conception have admitted a principle from which they can be driven by irresistible and invincible logic to the Catholic Church. For the present, we merely aim to show that they are compelled to admit the supernatural when they affirm God as the first and final cause of the world. In affirming this, they affirm that nature has its origin and final reason in the supernatural, or in an infinite object above itself, which human reason cannot comprehend. That is, they affirm super-intelligible and super-natural relations, of man and the universe. These relations must be regulated and adjusted by some law. This law is either the simple continuity of the original creative act which explicates itself through con-creative second causes in time and space, or it is this, and in addition to this, an immediate act of the Creator completing his original, creative act by subsequent acts of an equal or superior order, which concur with the first towards the final cause of the creation. Whoever takes the first horn of this dilemma is a pure naturalist in the only sense of the word which is intelligible. That is, while he is a supernaturalist, in maintaining that nature has its first and final cause in the supernatural, or in [{579}] God; he is a naturalist in maintaining that man has no other tendency to his final cause except that given in the creative act that is essential to nature, and no other mode prescribed for returning to his final cause than the explication of this natural tendency, according to natural law. Consequently, reason is sufficient, without revelation; the will, without grace; humanity, without the incarnation; society, or the race organized under law, without the church. It is precisely in the method of treating this thesis of naturalism that the divarication takes place between the great schools of Catholic theology and between the various systems of philosophy, whether orthodox or heterodox, which profess to base themselves on the Christian idea, or to ally themselves with it. It is not easy to find the clue which will lead us safely through this labyrinth and preserve us from deviating either to the right hand or to the left, by denying too much on the one hand to the naturalists, or conceding too much to them on the other. Nevertheless it is necessary to search for it, or to give up all effort to discuss the question before us, and to prove from principles furnished by nature and reason the necessity of accepting a supernatural revelation.
The true thesis of pure naturalism or rationalism is, that God in educating the human race for the destiny in view of which he created it, merely explicates that which is contained in nature by virtue of the original creative act, without any subsequent interference of the divine, creative power. He develops nature by natural laws alone, in one invariable mode. The physical universe evolves by a rigid sequence the force of all the second causes which it contains. The rational world is governed by the same law, and so also is the moral and spiritual world. The intellectual and spiritual education of the human race develops nothing except natural reason, and the natural, spiritual capacity of the soul. Reason extends its conquests by a continual progress in the super-intelligible realm, reducing it to the intelligible, and eternally approaching to the comprehension of the infinite and absolute truth. The spiritual capacity advances constantly in the supernatural realm, reducing it to the natural, and eternally approaching the infinite and absolute good or being. All nature, all creation, is on the march, and its momentum is the impulsive force given it by the creative impact that launched it into existence and activity.
Planting themselves on this thesis, its advocates profess to have à priori principle by which they prove the all-sufficiency of nature for the fulfilment of its own destiny, and reject as an unnecessary or even inconceivable intrusion, the affirmation of another divine creative act, giving a new impact to nature, superadding a new force to natural law, subordinating the physical universe to a higher end, implanting a superior principle of intelligence and will in the human soul, and giving to the race a destination above that to which it tends by its own proper momentum. They refuse to entertain the question of a supernatural order, or an order which educates the race according to a law superior to that of the evolution of the mere forces of nature; and in consequence of this refusal, they logically refuse to entertain the question of a supernatural revelation disclosing this order, and of a supernatural religion in which the doctrines, laws, institutions, forces and instruments of this order are organized, for the purpose of drawing the human race into itself. This is the last fortress into which heterodox philosophy has fled. The open plains are no longer tenable. The only conflict of magnitude now raging in Christendom is between the champions of the Catholic faith and the tenants of this stronghold. It is a great advantage for the cause of truth that it is so. The controversy is simplified, the issues are clearly marked, the opportunity is favorable for an [{580}] unimpeded and decisive collision between the forces of faith and unbelief, and the triumph of faith will open the way for Christianity to gain a new and mighty sway over the mind, the heart, and the life of the civilized world. This stronghold is no more tenable than any of the others which have been successively occupied and abandoned. Its tenants have gained only a momentary advantage by retreating to it. They escape certain of the inconsistencies of other parties and evade the Catholic arguments levelled against these inconsistencies. But they can be driven by the irresistible force of reason from their position, and made to draw the Catholic conclusion from their own premises.
We do not say this in a boastful spirit, or as vaunting our own ability to effect a logical demolition of rationalism. Rather, we desire to express our confidence that the reason of its advocates themselves will drive them out of it, and that the common judgment of an age more enlightened than the present will demolish it. It is our opinion, formed after hearing the language used by a great number of men of all parties, and reading a still greater number of their published utterances, that the most enlightened intelligence of this age in Protestant Christendom has reached two conclusions; the first is, that the Catholic Church is the true and genuine church of Christianity; and the second, that it is necessary to have a positive religion which will embody the same idea that produced Christianity. The combination and evolution of these two intellectual convictions promise to result in a return to Catholicism. And there are to be seen even already in the writings of those who have given up the positive Christianity of orthodox Protestantism, indications of the workings of a philosophy which tends to bring them round to the positive supernatural faith of the Catholic church. It is by these grand, intellectual currents moving the general mind of an age, that individual minds are chiefly influenced, more than by the thoughts of other individual minds. Individual thinkers can scarcely do more than to detect the subtle element which the common intellectual atmosphere holds in solution, to interpret to other thinkers their own thoughts, or give them a direction which will help them to discover for themselves some truth more integral and universal than they now possess. Therefore, while confiding in the power of the integral and universal truth embodied in the Catholic creed to bear down all opposition and vanquish every philosophy which rises up agamst it, we do not arrogate the ability to grasp and wield this power, and to exhibit the Catholic idea in its full evidence as the integrating, all-embracing form of universal truth. It is proposed in an honorable and conciliatory spirit to those who love truth and are able to investigate it for themselves. Many things must necessarily be affirmed or suggested in a brief, unpretending series of essays, which admit of and require minute and elaborate proof, such as can only be given in an extensive work, but merely sketched here after the manner of an outline engraving which leaves out the filling up belonging to a finished picture.
To return from this digression. We have begun the task of indicating how that naturalism or pure rationalism which affirms the theistic conception logically demonstrable by pure reason, can only integrate itself and expand itself to a universal Theodicy or doctrine of God, in a supernatural revelation.
If the opposite theory of pure naturalism were true, it ought to verify itself in the actual history of the human race, and in the actual process of its education. The idea of the supernatural ought to be entirely absent from the consciousness of the race. For, on the supposition of that theory, it has no place in the human mind--and no business in the world. If unassisted nature and reason suffice for [{581}] themselves they ought to do their work alone, and do it so thoroughly that there would be no room for any pretended supernatural revelation to creep in. The history of mankind ought to be a continuous, regular evolution of reason and nature, like the movements of the planets; the human race ought to have been conscious of this law from the beginning, and never to have dreamed of the supernatural, never to have desired it.
Philosophy ought to have been, from the first, master of the situation, and to have domineered over the whole domain of thought.
The reverse of this is the fact. The history of the human race, and the whole world of human thought, is filled with the idea of the supernatural. The philosophy of naturalism is either a modification and re-combination of principles learned from revelation, or a protest against revelation and an attempt to dethrone it from its sway. It has no pretence of being original and universal, but always pre-supposes revelation as having prior possession, and dating from time immemorial. Now human nature and human reason are certainly competent to fulfil whatever task God has assigned them. They act according to fixed laws, and tend infallibly to the end for which they were created. The judgments of human reason and of the human race are valid in their proper sphere. And therefore the judgment of mankind that its law of evolution is in the line of the supernatural is a valid judgment. Revelation has the claim of prescription and of universal tradition. Naturalism must set aside this claim and establish a positive claim for itself based on demonstration, before it has any right even to a hearing. It can do neither. It cannot bring any conclusive argument against revelation, nor can it establish itself on any basis of demonstration which does not pre-suppose the instruction of reason by revelation.
It cannot conclusively object to revelation. The very principle of law, that is, of the invariable nexus between cause and effect, which is the ultimate axiom of naturalism, is based on the perpetual concurrence of the first cause with all secondary causes, that is, the perpetuity of the creative act by which God perpetually creates the creature. There is no reason why this creative act should explicate all its effects at once or merely conserve the existences it has produced, and not explicate successively in space and time the effects of its creative energy. The hypothesis that the creative power can never act directly in nature except at its origin, and must afterwards merely act through the medium of previously created causes in a direct line, is the sheerest assumption. Some of the most eminent men in modern physical science maintain the theory of successive creations. There may be the same direct intervention of creative power in the moral and spiritual world. Miracles, revelations, supernatural interventions for the regeneration and elevation of the human race, are not improbable on any à priori principle. The artifice by which the entire tradition of the human race is set aside, and a demand made to prove the supernatural de novo, is unwarrantable and unfair. The supernatural has the title of prescription, and the burden of proof lies only upon the particular systems, to show that they are genuine manifestations of it, and not its counterfeits. The existence of a reality which may be counterfeited is a fair postulate of reason, until the contrary is demonstrated, and something positive of a prior and more universal order is logically established from the first principles of reason. We are not to be put off with assurances like a fraudulent debtor's promises of payment, that our doubts and uncertainties, will be satisfied after two thousand or two hundred thousand years. Exclude the supernatural, and natural reason will have, and can have nothing in the future, beyond the universal data and principles which we have now and have had from the beginning, with which to solve its problems. The [{582}] connection between mind and matter, the origin and destination of the soul, the future life, the state of other orders of intelligent beings, the condition of other worlds, will be as abstruse and incapable of satisfactory settlement then as now. If we are to gain any certain knowledge concerning them, it must be in a supernatural way. And what conclusive reason is there for deciding that we may not? Who can prove that some of that infinite truth which surrounds us may not break through the veil, that some of the intelligent spirits of other spheres may not be sent to enlighten and instruct us? [Footnote 125]
[Footnote 125: That is, who can prove it from reason alone, without the evidence of Revelation itself that it is already completed?]
One of the ablest advocates of naturalism, Mr. William R. Alger, has admitted that it is possible, and oven maintains that it has already taken place. In his erudite work on the "History of the Doctrine of a Future Life," he maintains the opinion that Jesus Christ is a most perfect and exalted being, who was sent into this world by God to teach mankind, who wrought miracles and really raised his body to life in attestation of his doctrine, although he supposes that he laid it aside again when he left the earth. He distinctly asserts the infallibility of Christ as a teacher, and of the doctrine which he actually taught with his own lips. Here is a most distinct and explicit concession of the principle of supernatural revelation. To those who heard him he was a supernatural and infallible teacher. In so far as his doctrine is really apprehended it is for all generations a supernatural and infallible truth. It has regenerated mankind, and Mr. Alger believes it is destined, when better understood, to carry the work of regeneration to a higher point in the future. It is true, he does not acknowledge that the apostles were infallible in apprehending and teaching the doctrine of Christ. But he must admit, that in so far as they have apprehended and perpetuated it, and in so far as he himself and others of his school now apprehend it more perfectly than they did, they apprehend supernatural truth and appropriate a supernatural power. Besides, once admitting that Christ was an infallible teacher, it is impossible to show why he could not do what so many philosophers have done, communicate his doctrine in clear and intelligible terms, so that the substance of it would be correctly understood and perpetuated. Miss Frances Cobbe, admitted to be the best expositor of the doctrine of the celebrated Theodore Parker, in her "Broken Lights," and other similar writers, give to the doctrine and institutions of Christ a power that is superhuman and that denotes the action of a superhuman intelligence. Those who prognosticate a new church, a new religion, a realization of ideal humanity on earth, cannot integrate their hypothesis in anything except the supernatural, and must suppose either a new outburst of supernatural life from the germ which Christ planted on the earth, or the advent of another superhuman Redeemer.
Dr. Brownson while yet only a transcendental philosopher on his road to the Church, exhibited this thought with great power and beauty, in a little book entitled "New Views." The dream of a new redemption of mankind in the order of temporal perfection and felicity was never presented with greater argumentative ability or portrayed in more charming colors, at least in the English language; and never was any thing made more clear than the necessity of superhuman powers for the actual fulfilment of this bewitching dream. [Footnote 126]
[Footnote 126: That is, bewitching to those who do not believe in something for more sublime, the restoration of all things in Christ, foretold in the Scriptures.]
Whether we look backward or forward, we confront the idea of the supernatural. This is enough to prove its reality. There are no universal pseudo-ideas, deceits, or illusions. That which is universal is true. We have [{583}] therefore only to inspect the idea of the supernatural, to examine and explicate its contents, to interrogate the universal belief and tradition of mankind, to study the history of the race, and unfold the wisdom of the ancients, and the result will be truth. We shall obtain true and just conceptions of the original, universal, eternal idea, in which all particular forms of science, belief, law, and human evolution in all directions, coalesce and integrate themselves as in a complete whole including all the relations of the universe to God, as First and Final Cause.
We must now go back to the point where we left off, after establishing as the first principle of all science and faith the pure theistic doctrine respecting the first and final cause, or the origin and end of all things in necessary being, that is, God. We have to show the position of this doctrine in the conception of supernatural revelation, and its connection with the other doctrines which express the supernatural relation of the human race and the universe to God.
The conception of the supernatural in its most simple and universal form, is the conception of somewhat distinct from and superior to the complete aggregate of created forces or second causes. In this sense, it is identical with the conception of first and final cause. It may be proper here to explain the term Final Cause, which is not in common use among English writers. It expresses the ultimate motive or reason for which the universe was created, the end to which all things are tending. When we say that God is necessarily the final cause, as well as the first cause, of all existing things, we mean that he could have had no motive or end in creating, extrinsic to his own being. All that proceeds from him as first cause must return to him as final cause. From this it appears that the conception of nature in any theistic system implies the supernatural; because it implies a cause and end for nature above itself. The supernatural can only be denied by the atheist, who maintains that there is nothing superior to what the Theist calls second causes, or by the Pantheist, who either identifies God with nature, or nature with God. A Theist cannot form any conception of pure nature or a purely natural order, except as included in a supernatural plan; because his natural order originates in a cause and tends toward an end above and beyond itself, and is not therefore its own adequate reason. As we have already seen, reason, by virtue of its original intuition of the infinite, is advertised of something infinitely beyond all finite comprehension. By apprehending its own limitation, and the finite, relative, contingent existence of all things which are, it is advertised of an infinite unknown, and thus has a negative knowledge of the supernatural. By the light of the creative act in itself and in the universe, it apprehends the being of God as reflected in his works and made intelligible by the similitude of created existences to the Creator. It apprehends that there is an infinite being, whose created similitude is in itself and all things; a primal uncreated light, the cause of the reflected light in which nature is intelligible. Therefore it apprehends the supernatural. But it does not directly and immediately perceive what this infinite being or uncreated light is, and cannot do so. That is, by explicating its own primitive idea, and bringing it more and clearly into the reflective consciousness, and by learning more and more of the universe of created existences, it may go on indefinitely, apprehending God by the reflected light of similitudes, "per speculum, in aenigmate;" but it must progress always in the same line: it has no tendency toward an immediate vision of God as he is intelligible in his own essence and by uncreated light. Therefore, it has only a negative and not a positive apprehension of the supernatural. God dwells in a light inaccessible to created [{584}] intelligence, as such. There is an infinite abyss between him and all finite reason, which cannot be crossed by any movement of reason, however accelerated or prolonged. Therefore, although there is no science or philosophy possible which does not proceed from the affirmation of the supernatural, that is, of the infinite first and final cause of nature, yet it is not properly called supernatural science so long as it is confined to the limits of that knowledge of causes above nature which is gained only through nature. Its domain is restricted to that intelligibility which God has given to second causes and created existences, and which only reflects himself indirectly. Therefore, theologians usually call it natural knowledge, and in its highest form natural theology, as being limited within the bounds above described. They call that the natural order in which the mind is limited to the explication of that capacity of apprehending God, or of that intuitive idea of God, which constitutes it rational, and is therefore limited to a relation to God corresponding to the mode of apprehending him. The term supernatural is restricted to an order in which God reveals to the human mind the possibility of apprehending him by the uncreated light in which he is intelligible to himself, and coming into a relation to him corresponding therewith; giving at the same time an elevation to the power of intelligence and volition which enables it to realize that possibility. This elevation includes the disclosure of truths not discoverable otherwise, as well as the faculty of apprehending them in such a vivid manner that they can have an efficacious action on the will, and give it a supernatural direction.
In this sense, rationalists have no conception of the supernatural. None have it, except Catholics, or those who have retained it from Catholic tradition. When we ascribe to rationalists a recognition of the supernatural, we merely intend to say that they recognize in part that immediate interference of God to instruct mankind and lead it to its destiny which is really and ultimately, although not in their apprehension, directed to the elevation of man to a sphere above that which is naturally possible. Therefore they cannot object to revelation on the ground of its being an interference with the course of nature or not in harmony with it, and cannot make an à priori principle by virtue of which they can prejudge and condemn the contents of revelation. But we do not mean to say that they possess the conception of that which constitutes the supernaturalness of the revelation, in the scientific sense of the term as used by Catholic theologians. Even orthodox Protestants possess it very confusedly. And here lies the source of most of the misconceptions of several abstruse Catholic dogmas.
It is in the restricted sense that we shall use the term supernatural hereafter, unless we make it plain that we use it in the general signification.
We are now prepared to state in a few words the relation of the conception of God which is intelligible to reason, to the revealed truths concerning his interior relations which are received by faith on the authority of his divine veracity. How does the mind pass through the knowledge of God to belief in God; through "Cognosco Deum" to "Credo in Deum"? [Footnote 127]
[Footnote 127: "I know God." "I believe in God.">[
We have already said that "Cognosco" is included in "Credo. " The creed begins by setting before the mind that which is self-evident and demonstrable concerning God, in which is included his veracity. It then discloses certain truths concerning God which are not self-evident or demonstrable from their own intrinsic reason, but which are proposed as credible, on the authority of God. The word "Credo" expresses this. "I believe in God," means not merely, "I affirm the being of God," but also, "I believe certain truths regarding God (whose being is made known to me by the light of reason) on the authority of his Word." [{585}] These truths must have in them a certain obscurity impervious to the intellectual vision; otherwise, they would take their place among evident and known truths, and would no longer be believed on the simple motive of the veracity of God revealing them. That is, they are mysteries, intelligible so far as to enable the mind to apprehend what are the propositions to which it is required to assent, but super-intelligible as to their intrinsic reason and ground in the necessary and eternal truth, or the being of God.
In the Creed these mysteries, foreshadowed by the word "Credo," and by the word "Deum," considered in its relation to "Credo," which indicates a revelation of mysterious truths concerning the Divine Being to follow in order after the affirmation of the being and unity of God; begin to be formally expressed by the word "Patrem." In this word there is implicitly contained the interior, personal relation of the Father to the Son and Holy Ghost in the blessed Trinity, and his exterior relation to man as the author of the supernatural order of grace, or the order in which man is affiliated to him in the Son, through the operation of the Holy Spirit. These relations of the three persons of the blessed Trinity to each other, and to man, include the entire substance of that which is strictly and properly the supernatural revelation of the Creed, and the direct object of faith. Before proceeding, however, to the consideration of the mysteries of faith in their order, it is necessary to inquire more closely into the process by which the intellect is brought to face its supernatural object, and made capable of eliciting an act of faith.
The chief difficulty in the case is to find the connection between the last act of reason and the first act of faith, the medium of transit from the natural to the supernatural. The Catholic doctrine teaches that the act of faith is above the natural power of the human mind. It is strictly supernatural, and possible only by the aid of supernatural grace. Yet it is a rational act, for the virtue of faith is seated in the intellect as its subject, according to the teaching of St. Thomas. It is justifiable and explicable on rational grounds, and even required by right reason. The truths of revelation are not only objectively certain, but the intellect has a subjective certitude of them which is absolute, and excludes all suspicion or fear of the contrary. Now, then, unless we adopt the hypothesis that we have lost our natural capacity for discerning divine truth, by the fall, and are merely restored by divine grace to the natural use of reason, there are several very perplexing questions on this point which press for an answer. Rejecting this hypothesis of the total corruption of reason, which will hereafter be proved to be false and absurd, how can faith give the mind absolute certitude of the truth of its object, when that truth is neither self-evident nor demonstrable to reason from its own self-evident principles? Given, that the intellect has this certitude, how is it that we cannot attain to it by the natural operation of reason? Once more, what is the evidence of the fact of revelation to ordinary minds? Is it a demonstration founded on the arguments for credibility? If so, how are they capable of comprehending them, and what are they to do before they have gone through with the process of examination? If not, how have they a rational and certain ground for the judgment that God has really revealed the truths of Christianity? Suppose now the fact of revelation established, and that the mind apprehends that God requires its assent to certain truths on the virtue of his own veracity. The veracity of God being apprehended as one logical premiss, and the revelation of certain truths as another, can reason draw the certain conclusion that the truth of these propositions is necessarily contained in the veracity of God or not? If it can, why is not the mind capable of giving them the firm, unwavering [{586}] assent of faith by its own natural power, without the aid of grace? If not, how is it that the assent of the intellect to the truth of revealed propositions does not always necessarily contain in it a metaphysical doubt or a judgment that the contrary is more or less probable, or at least possible? If it is said that the will, inclined by the grace of God, determines to adhere positively to the proposed revelation as true, what is meant by this? Does the will merely determine to act practically as if these proposed truths were evident, in spite of the lesser probability of the contrary? Then the assent of the intellect is merely a judgment that revelation is probably true, and that it is safest to follow it, which does not satisfy the demand of faith. For faith excludes all fear or suspicion that the articles of faith may possibly be false. Does the will force the intellect to judge that those propositions are certain which it apprehends only as probable? How is this possible? The will is a blind faculty, which is directed by the intellect, "Nil volitum nisi prius cognitum." [Footnote 128] There is no act of will without a previous act of knowledge. The will can not lawfully determine the intellect to give any stronger assent to a proposition than the evidence warrants. [Footnote 129] In a word, it is difficult to show how the intellect has an absolute certitude of the object of faith, without representing the object of faith as coincident with the object of knowledge, or the intuitive idea of reason, and thus naturally apprehensible. It is also difficult to show that faith is not coincident with knowledge, and thus to bring out the conception of its supernaturalness, without destroying the connection between faith and reason, subverting its rational basis, and representing the grace of faith as either restoring a destroyed faculty or adding a new one to the soul, whose object is completely invisible and unintelligible to the human understanding before it is elevated to the supernatural state. The difficulty lies, however, merely in a defective statement, or a defective apprehension of the statement of the Catholic doctrine, and not in the doctrine itself. In order to make this plain, it will be necessary to make one or two preliminary remarks concerning certitude and probability.
[Footnote 128: Nothing is willed unless previously known.]
[Footnote 129: This is the statement of an objection, not a proposition affirmed by the author.]
There is first, a metaphysical certitude excluding all possibility to the contrary. Such is the certitude of mathematical truths. Such also is the certitude of self-evident and demonstrable truths of every kind. The sphere of this kind of certitude is diminished or extended accordingly as the mind has before it a greater or lesser number of truths of this order. Some of these truths present themselves to every mind so immediately and irresistibly that it cannot help regarding them just as they are, and thus seeing their truth. For instance, that two and two make four. Others require the mind to be in a certain state of aptitude for seeing them as they are, and to make an effort to bring them before it. There are some truths self-evident or demonstrably certain to some minds which are not so to others; yet these truths have all an intrinsic, metaphysical certitude which reason as such is capable of apprehending, and the failure of reason to apprehend them is due in individual cases merely to the defective operation of reason in the particular subject. The operation of reason can never be altogether deficient while it acts at all, for it acts only while contemplating its object or primitive idea. But its operation can be partially defective, inasmuch as the primitive idea or objective truth may be imperfectly brought into the reflective consciousness. And thus the intellect in individuals may fail to apprehend truths which can be demonstrated with metaphysical certitude, and which the intellect infallibly judges to be absolutely certain in [{587}] those individuals who are capable of making a right judgment. In this operation of apprehending metaphysical truths there is no criterion taken from experience, or from the concurrent assent of all men, but the truth shines with its own intrinsic light, and reason judges by its inherent infallibility.
Next to metaphysical certitude comes moral demonstration, resulting from an accumulation of probabilities so great that no probability which can prudently be allowed any weight is left to the other side, but merely a metaphysical possibility. For instance, the Copernican theory.
Then comes moral certainty in a wider sense; where there is probable evidence on one side without any prudent reason to the contrary, but not such a complete knowledge of all the facts as to warrant the positive judgment that there is really no probability on the other side. This kind of certainty warrants a prudent, positive judgment, and furnishes a safe practical motive for action; but it varies indefinitely according as the data on which the judgment is based are more or less complete, and the importance of the case is greater or less.
Then come the grades of probability, where there are reasons balancing each other on both sides, which the mind must weigh and estimate.
To apply these principles to the question in hand.
First, we affirm that the being and attributes of God are apprehended with a metaphysical certitude. Second, that the motives of credibility proving the Christian revelation are apprehended, when that Revelation is sufficiently proposed, with a varying degree of probability, according to varying circumstances in which the mind may be placed, but capable of being increased to the highest kind of moral demonstration. Third, that the logical conclusion which reason can draw from these two premises, although hypothetically necessary and a perfect demonstration--that is, a necessary deduction from the veracity of God, on the supposition that he has really made the revelation--is really not above the order of probability, on account of the second premiss. It is not above the order of probability, although, as we have already argued, it is capable of being brought to a moral demonstration by such an accumulation of proofs within that order, that reason is bound to judge that the opposite is altogether destitute of probability.
From this it appears, both how far reason with its own principles can go in denying, and how far it can go in assenting to revealed truth. We see, first, how it is, that the truth of revelation does not compel the assent of all minds by an overwhelming and irresistible evidence. The first premiss, which affirms the being of God, although undeniable and indubitable in its ultimate idea, may be in its distinct conception, so far denied or doubted by those whose reason is perverted by their own fault, or their misfortune, as to destroy all basis for a revelation. The second premiss, much more, may be partially or completely swept away, by plausible explanations of its component probabilities in detail. And thus, revelation may be denied. The influence of the will on the judgment which is made by the mind on the revealed truth is explicable in this relation, and must be taken into the account. It is certain that the moral dispositions by which voluntary acts are biased, bias also the judgment. The self-determining power of the will which decides positively which of its different inclinations to follow, controls the judgment as well as the volition. This is an indirect control, which is exerted, not by imperiously commanding the judgment in a capricious manner to make a blind, irrational decision, but by turning it toward the consideration of that side toward which the volition or choice is inclined. This influence and control of volition over judgment increases as we descend in the order of truth from primary and self-evident principles, and diminishes as we [{588}] approach to them. In the case of truth which is morally or metaphysically demonstrable, its control is exerted by turning the intellect partially away from the consideration of the truth and hindering it from giving it that attention which is necessary, in order to its apprehension. In the case of divine revelation, various passions, prejudices, interests, or at least intellectual impediments to a right operation of reason, act powerfully upon a multitude of minds in such a way, that the mirror of the soul is too much obscured to receive the image of truth.
But, supposing that reason and will both operate with all the rectitude possible to them, without supernatural grace; how far can the mind proceed in assenting to divine revelation? As far as a moral demonstration can take it. It can assent to divine truth, and act upon it, so far as this truth is adapted to the perfecting of the intellect and will in the natural order. But it lacks capacity to apprehend the supernatural verities proposed to it, as these are related to its supernatural destiny.
The revelation contains an unknown quantity. The will cannot be moved toward an object which the intellect does not apprehend. Therefore, a supernatural grace must enlighten the intellect and elevate the will, in order that the revealed truth may come in contact with the soul. This supernatural grace gives a certain con-naturality to the soul with the revealed object of faith, by virtue of which it apprehends that God speaks to it in a whisper, distinct from his whisper to reason, and catches the meaning of what he says in this whisper. It is this supernatural light, illuminating the probable evidence apprehended by the natural understanding, which makes the assent in the act of faith absolute, and gives the mind absolute certitude. It is, however, the certitude of God revealing, and not the certitude of science concerning the intrinsic reason of that which he reveals. This remains always inevident and obscure in itself, and the decisive motive of assent is always the veracity of God. It is not, however, altogether inevident and obscure, for if it were, the terms in which it is conveyed would be unintelligible. It is so far inevident, that the intellect cannot apprehend its certainty, aside from the declaration of God. But it is partially and obscurely evident, by its analogy with the known truth of the rational order. It is so far evident that it can be demonstrated from rational principles that it does not contradict the truths of reason. Further, that no other hypothesis can explain and account for that which is known concerning the universe. And, finally, that so far as the analogy between the natural and the supernatural is apprehensible, there is a positive harmony and agreement between them. This is all that we intend to affirm, when we speak of demonstrating Christianity from the same principles from which scientific truths are demonstrated.
Let us now revert once more to Jesus Christ and the pagan philosopher. The pagan first perceives strong, probable reasons, which increase by degrees to a moral demonstration, for believing that Christ is the Son of God, and his doctrine the revelation of God. The supernatural grace which Christ imparts to him, enables him to apprehend this with a permanent and infallible certitude as a fixed principle both of judgment and volition. He accepts as absolutely true all the mysteries which Christ teaches him, on the faith of his divine mission and the divine veracity. We may now suppose that Christ goes on to instruct him in the harmony of these divine verities with all scientific truths, so far, that he apprehends all the analogies which human reason is capable of discerning between the two. He will then have attained the ultimatum possible for human reason elevated and enlightened by faith, in this present state. Science and faith will be coincident in his mind, as far as they can be. That is, faith will be coincident [{589}] with science until it rises above its sphere of vision, and will then lose itself in an indirect and obscure apprehension of the mysteries, in the veracity of God.
In the case of the child brought up in the Catholic Church, the Church, which is the medium of Christ, instructs the child through its various agents. The child's reason apprehends, through the same probable evidence by which it learns other facts and truths, that the truth presented to him comes through the church, and through Christ, from God, who is immediately apprehended in his primitive idea. The light of faith which precedes in him the development of reason, illuminates his mind from the beginning to apprehend with infallible certitude that divine truth which is proposed to him through the medium of probable evidence. This faith is a fixed principle of conscience, proceeding from an illuminated intellect, inclining him to submit his mind unreservedly to the instruction of the Catholic Church on the faith of the divine veracity. It rests there unwaveringly, without ever admitting a doubt to the contrary or postponing a certain judgment until the evidence of revelation and the proofs of the divine commission of the church have been critically examined. It may rest there during life, and does so, with the greater number, to a greater or lesser degree; or, it may afterward proceed to investigate to the utmost limits the rationale of the divine revelation, not in order to establish faith on a surer basis, but in order to apprehend more distinctly what it believes, and to advance in theological science.
Some one may say: "You admit that it is impossible to attain to a perfect certitude of supernatural truth without supernatural light; why, then, do you attempt to convince unbelievers that the Catholic doctrine is the absolute truth by rational arguments?" To this we reply, that we do not endeavor to lead them to faith, by mere argument; but to the "preamble of faith." We aim at removing difficulties and impediments which hinder those from attending to the rational evidence of the faith; at removing its apparent incredibility. We rely on the grace of the Holy Spirit alone to make the effort successful, and to lead those who are worthy of grace beyond the preamble of faith to faith itself. This grace is in every human mind to which faith is proposed, in its initial stage; it is increased in proportion to the sincerity with which truth is sought for; and is given in fulness to all who do not voluntarily turn their minds away from it. If we did not believe this, we would lay down our pen at once. [Footnote 130]
[Footnote 130: The doctrine taught by Cardinal de Lugo and Dr. Newman, in regard to which some dissent was expressed in a former number, seems to the author, on mature reflection, to be, after all, identical with the one here maintained.]
From Once A Week.
A DAY AT ABBEVILLE.
BY BESSIE RAYNOR PARKES.
Twenty years ago, we posted into Abbeville by night, and were deposited in an old-fashioned inn, with a large walled garden. In the morning we posted further on across country to Rouen. Since then, many a lime has the Chemin de Fer du Nord borne us flying past the ancient city oft visited by English kings and English men-at-arms; not, perhaps, deigning to stop to take in water; for Abbeville, once upon the highway of nations, now lies just, as it were, a shade to one side; just a shade--the distance between the station and the ramparts. Yet this is enough to cause the maître d'hôtel to shake his head and say in a melancholy accent, "Abbeville est presque détruite."
On asking for the Hôtel de l'Europe, I was told that the Hôtel Tête de Boeuf was "all the same." Which, however, was far from being the case, as neither the building nor the master was what we had known twenty years ago. Query as to the degree of affinity required by the French intellect to produce the degree of identity? In fact, the Hôtel de l'Europe no longer existed. The house was possessed by a body of religious, the sisters of St. Joseph, and their large school for young ladies. The Tête de Boeuf had been a small château; two still picturesque brick turrets bearing witness of its ancient state.
In the morning I walked over almost the length and breadth of Abbeville, surprised to find it so large and, apparently, flourishing; and yet, in spite of tall chimneys upon the circumference, full of the quaintest old houses in the centre. Some of them have richly carved beams running along the edge of the overhanging stories. Such may still be seen in a few English towns; I remember them at Booking, in Essex. The glory of the place is its great church, or rather the nave, for this is all that ever got completed of the original design of the time of Louis XII., the king who married our Princess Mary, sister of Henry VIII. The choir has been patched on, and is about half the height of the nave. The latter is a glorious upshoot of traceried stone, with two towers; perhaps all the more impressive from having been thus arrested in the very act of creation. It is like a forest tree which has only attained half its development; and one feels as if it ought to go on growing, pushing out fresh buttresses and arches, till its fair proportions stood complete. There is an excellent stone staircase up one of the towers, and from the top a wide view of the town and the fields of Picardy, even to the sharp cliff marking where the sea-line must be. The windings of the Somme may be traced for many miles. I was told that the tide used to swell almost up to the town, and that several little streams, once falling into the river, were dried up. Even now, as there are several branches, one is here and there reminded of Bruges, by the little old-fashioned bridges, crossing a canal in the middle of a street. A broad girdle of water seemed to me to surround great part of the town; but I could obtain no map and no guide-book, though I anxiously inquired at the best shop. Only a history of Abbeville was dug out of the museum at the Hôtel de Ville, which building had a strong but plain tower reported of the eleventh century. [{591}] The Abbevillois care little apparently for their antiquities, though they are many and curious.
This ground, though somewhat bare and barren in appearance, has been thickly occupied by humanity from the earliest ages of history. Keltic barrows have been found here in abundance, and though many of them have been destroyed in the interests of agriculture, enough remain to delight the antiquary by their flint hatchets and arrows, their urns, and their burnt bones. One such barrow, near Noyelles-sur-Mer, when opened, was found to contain a large number of human heads, disposed in a sort of cone. In 1787, one was opened at Crécy, and in it were found two sarcophagi of burnt clay, in each of which was an entire skeleton. Each had been buried in its clothes, and one bore on its finger a copper ring; its dress being fastened likewise by a brooch or hook of the same metal. Endless indeed is the list of primitive instruments in flint, in copper, in iron, in bronze, found hereabouts; likewise vases full of burnt bones, not only of our own race, but of various animals--mice, water-rats, and "such small deer;" and in the near neighborhood, of boars, oxen, and sheep. Succeeding to these wild people and wild animals came the Romans. Before they pounced down upon us, before they crossed over to Porta Lymanis, and drew those straight lines of causeway over England which make the Roman Itinerary look something like Bradshaw's railway map, (only straighter,) they settled themselves firmly in the north of France; notably, they staid so long near St. Valery, (at the mouth of the river which runs through Abbeville,) that they buried there their dead in great numbers, whereof the place of sepulchre is at this day yet to be seen. Their own nice neat road also had they, cutting clean through the Graulic forests. It came from Lyons to Boulogne, passing through Amiens and Abbeville, and was in continuation of one which led from Rome into Gaul! And wherever this people of conquerors travelled, thither they carried their religious ceremonies and their domestic arts, so that we find still all sorts of medals, vases of red, grey, or black clay, little statuettes, ex votos, and sometimes larger groups of sculpture, such as one in bronze representing the combat of Hercules and Antaeus. Carthaginian medals have also been turned up here, brought from the far shores of the Mediterranean; and those of Claudius, Trajan, Caracalla, and Constantine. This long catalogue is useless, save to mark the rich floods of human life which have successively visited the banks of the Somme.
In the first year of the fifth century the barbarians made their way up to the Somme, fighting the Romans inch by inch. Attila burst upon this neighborhood, and fixed his claws therein; the tide of Rome rolls back upon the south, and new dynasties begin, and with them comes in Christianity; not, however, without much difficulty. The faith appears to have gradually spread from Amiens, where St. Finius preached as early as 301; but even 179 years later, St. Germain, the Scotchman, was martyred, and St. Honoré, the eighth bishop of Amiens, labored daily, for thirty-six years, in conjunction with Irish missionaries, to infuse Christianity into the minds of people equally indisposed, whether by Frankish paganism or Roman culture, to accept the doctrines of the Cross. Indeed, the learned historian of this part of the country, M. Louandre, believes that even Rome itself had never been able to destroy the old Keltic religion. He says that, as late as the seventh century, the antique trees, woods, and fountains were still honored by public adoration in this part of France; and St. Rignier hung up relics to the trees to purify them, just as in Rome itself the old pagan temples were exorcised. And after a time the old gods of all sorts were known either as idols or demons; no particular distinctions being drawn among them; they lie as débris beneath the religious soil of this part of Picardy, just as the bones of those who adored them are confounded in one common dust.
Late in the seventh century appears St. Rignier, a great saint in these parts. He was converted and baptized by the Irish missionaries, and thereupon became a most austere Christian indeed; only, says his legend, eating twice a week--Sundays and Thursdays. King Dagobert invited the saint to a repast, which the holy man accepted, and preached the Gospel the whole time they sat at table--a day and a night!
We must now take a great leap to the days of Charlemagne, because in his days the Abbey of St. Rignier, near to Abbeville, was very famous indeed, both as monastery and school, and contained a noble library of 256 volumes; the greater part whereof were Christian, but certain others were pagan classics; let us, for instance, be grateful for the Eclogues of Virgil and the Rhetoric of Cicero. Of this library but one volume remains; I have seen it, and with astonishment. It is a copy of the Gospels, written in letters of gold upon purple parchment. It was given by Charlemagne to the Count-Abbot, Saint Augilbert. This one precious fragment of the great library is in the museum of Abbeville. The school was, indeed, an ecclesiastical Eton and Oxford. The sons of kings, dukes, and counts came here to learn the "letters," of which Charlemagne made such great account.
Now the town of Abbeville first gets historic mention in the century succeeding Charlemagne. It is called Abbatis Villa, and belonged to this great monastery of St. Rignier; wherefore I have introduced both the good saint and his foundation. It grew, as almost all the towns of the middle ages did grow, from a religious root--a tap-root, striking deep in the soil. Of course, having thus begun to grow, its history has made interesting chapters a great deal too long to be copied or even noted here; it will not be amiss, however, to look for its points of occasional contact with England. Firstly, then, it was from St. Valery, the seaport of the Somme, that William the Conqueror set out for England. Then, in 1259, our Henry III. met St. Louis at Abbeville, and Henry did homage for his French possessions. Then, in 1272, our great King Edward I. married Eleanor, heiress of Ponthieu--she who sucked the poison from her husband's wound; and the burgesses of Abbeville, misliking the transfer, quarreled violently with the king's bailiff, and killed some of the underlings. Eleanor's son, Edward II., married Isabel, the
"She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs.
That tearest the bowels of thy mangled mate."
This unamiable specimen of her sex lived at Abbeville in 1312; but during her reign and residence, and that of her son Edward III., the inhabitants of Abbeville ceased not to kick indignantly. The King of France, her brother, struck into the contest "pour comforter la main de Madame d'Angleterre. " The legal documents arising from these quarrels partially remain to us. So they go on, quarreling and sometimes fighting, until the great day of Crécy, when Edward III., the late king's nephew, tried to get the throne. The oft-told tale we need not tell again. In 1393, France being in worse extremities, we find Charles VI. at Abbeville, and Froissart there at the same time. Perhaps, in respect of battles and quarrels, those few notices are sufficient; I only wished to indicate that Abbeville was on the borderland between the English and the French, and came in for an ample share of fighting. Two royal ceremonials enlivened it in the course of centuries, whereof particular mention is made in the history. Louis XII. here met and married Mary of England, in 1514: "La Reine Blanche," as she was afterward called, from her white widow's weeds. In the Hôtel de Cluny at Paris is still shown the apartments she occupied. Louis was old, and Mary young, when they married; but the French historian recounts her exceeding complaisance and politeness to the king, and his great delight therein.
In 1657, young Louis XIV. came here with his mother, and lodged at the Hôtel d'Oignon. Monsieur D'Oignon, the noble owner, had everything in such beautiful and ceremonious order for their reception, that he became a proverb at Abbeville--"As complete and well arranged as M. d'Oignon." A sort of rich Richard.
The antiquarian who goes to Abbeville and dips into the history (by M. Louandre) at the Museum, will find plenty of interesting matter about the manners and customs of the Abbevillois, rendered all the more striking by so many of the old houses being yet just where they were, and as they were. But few impressions of the book seem to have been printed off, for it is no longer sold, though the obliging librarian did say he knew where a few copies remained at a high price. This for the benefit of any long-pursed antiquary, curious in local histories. It is such a book as can only be written by a devoted son of the soil digging away on the spot.
In the Revolution, Abbeville fortunately escaped any great horrors; but the trials of the middle ages afford plenty; especially one of a certain student, condemned for sacrilege. Now, it is a peaceful, well-governed town, busy in making iron pots and cans, and other wrought articles from raw materials brought by the railway. It proves to be only in respect of the hotel interest that Abbeville est presque détruite.
Translated from the French
"GOD BLESS YOU!"
BY JEROME DUMOULIN.
"Thank you, master Jerome!" my reader replies; "yes, to be sure, may God bless me! But I have not sneezed, that I know of, for a quarter of an hour, at least; and apropos de quoi do you say that? or rather, why and wherefore do they always say so to people who sneeze? I suspect that you want to talk about it, and, in fact, I should not be displeased to hear you discuss for a little while this odd custom; so begin, master Jerome."
Very well, dear reader, such is my idea, and I think you will not find uninteresting the little history of it which I intend to give; and I assure you beforehand, that if I fail to convince you, you must be very difficult.
Settle it first in your mind, that in whatever you may have heard heretofore upon this subject, there was not one word of truth. Among the most probable histories of this kind is that of a pestilence, which in the time of Pope Saint Gregory, ravaged Italy, the peculiar characteristic of which was to cause the sick person to die suddenly by sneezing. When the patient sneezed, which was for him, the passage from life to death, the assistants gave him this fraternal benediction, saying to him, "God bless you!" which was the equivalent or translation of Requiescat in pace. This account, I repeat, would be much more acceptable, if it were not contradicted by a positive fact, namely, that the use of the expression is many centuries anterior to Pope Saint Gregory; anterior even to the Christian era, and borrowed, of course, from the pagans, as I am about to prove from authentic testimony.
But in the first place, let us remark that in the highest antiquity sneezing was a circumstance in regard to which they drew auguries, especially if a person sneezed many times consecutively. Xenophon relates that one of his corporals having sneezed, he drew from it a good augury by a process of reasoning which I did not quite understand, but which his troops, apparently, found sufficiently conclusive. Going back again some eight centuries, we find in the "Odyssey" an adventure of the same kind, but more droll. In the eighteenth book of this poem, the divine Homer relates that one day Telemachus began to sneeze in such a manner as to shake the whole house. That put madam Penelope in good humor, who calling her faithful Eumacus the swineherd: "Do you hear, old fellow," she said; "he is well cared for! and what an augury of happiness the gods have given us. Jupiter has spoken by the nose of my dear Telemachus, and he announces to us that we are about to be freed from these scamps of gallants who bore me with their pursuits, and who beside put to sack our poor civil list; for every hour our cattle, goats, and little pigs, which you love like so many children, are sacrificed to the voracity of these rascals. Now, my good fellow, I have an idea: go you to the door of the palace, where for some days I have seen that beggar that you know. Take him from me these pantaloons and this shirt, which I am sure he needs very much; and promise him beside a magnificent frock-coat, which he will have only if he shall answer in a satisfactory manner the questions which I shall propose." In fact the good queen suspected that the ragged peasant might be the wise Ulysses in disguise. But let us proceed with our subject.
In the second chapter of his twenty-eighth book, the elder Pliny expresses himself thus: Cur sternumentis salutamus? Quod etiam Tiberium Caesarem in vehiculo exegisse tradunt, et aliqui nomine quoque consalutare religiosius putant. Thus the custom was already established among the Romans of wishing health and good fortune to persons who sneezed, and the last word but one of the phrase indicates that this wish had a religious character. In many authors health is wished to persons who sneeze; salvere jubentur, is the consecrated expression, which corresponds to "God guard you;" and according to the passage cited above, it appears that when Tiberius, driving in his chariot, sneezed, then, and only then, the populace were obliged to cry. Long live the emperor! a formula which included the impetration of life and health by the protection of the gods. This custom existed then at the time of Pliny, and going back still further among the Romans, let us see what we find. Here then is a story extracted from the "Veterum Auctorum Fragmenta,"' and inserted by Father Strada in his "Prolusiones Academicae." I give a free translation, it is true, but I will guarantee the perfect exactitude of the substance, and of the formulas.
One day when Cicero was present at a performance at the Roman opera, the illustrious orator began to sneeze loudly. Immediately all rose, senators and plebeians, and each one taking off his hat, they cried to him from all parts of the house: "God bless you! Omnes assurrexere--salvere jubentes. " Upon which three young men, named severally Fannius, Fabalus, and Lemniscus, leaning upon their elbows in one of the boxes, began the interchange of a succession of absurd remarks, and finally started the question of the origin of this custom. Each gave his own opinion, and the three agreed at once that the usage dated back as far as Prometheus. It was then, at Rome, a common tradition of very ancient date, as we see, according to some, even as ancient as the epoch of the tower of Babel. [{595}] But if they were agreed as to the groundwork, they embellished their canvas in very different fashions. The stories related by Fannius, and by Fabalus I will spare you for the sake of brevity and for other reasons; contenting myself only with the version of Lemniscus, which will suffice for our object.
Following then, this respectable authority: The son of Japetus moulded, as every one knows, with pipe-clay, a statue which he proposed to animate with celestial fire, and his work finished, he put it into a stove in order that it should dry sufficiently; but the heat was very great, and acted so well, or so ill, that independently of other damages, the nose of the work became cracked and shrunken in a manner very unfortunate for a nose which had the slightest self-consciousness. When the artist returned to the stove and saw this stunted nose, he began to swear like a pagan as he was; but perceiving that the flat-nose gained nothing thereby, he took the wiser part of re-manipulating the organ, adding thereto fresh clay, and in order to facilitate the work of restoration, he conceived the idea of inserting a match in one of the nostrils of his manikin. But the mucous membrane, already provided with sensibility and life, was irritated at the contact of the sulphuric acid, and the consequence was such a tremendous sneezing that all the teeth, not yet quite solid in the jaw, sprang out into the face of the operator. Dismayed by this deluge of meteors, and expecting to see his little man get out of order from top to bottom "Ah!" cried Prometheus, "may Jupiter protect you!"--Tibi Jupiter adsit! "And from this you see two things," continued Lemniscus: "First, why they always say to people who sneeze, 'May Jupiter assist you!' and also, why this morning, in a similar case, I said nothing at all to this old mummy Crispinus, since from time immemorial his last tooth has taken flight. He might sneeze like an old cat without the slightest danger to his jaw."
Here terminates the colloquy of our young men. I am far from intending to guarantee the contents, either as to the conduct and exploits of Prometheus, or the misfortunes of his little man, since I have not under my eye the authentic records; but what follows incontestably from this recital, is, that at the time of Cicero, the usage of which we speak was already very ancient, since they traced it back to one of the most ancient heroes of fable. But moreover, and this it is which renders this passage particularly precious, we find in it the precise form of salutation which other passages contain in the generic phrase--salvere jubent. This formula consists in these three words: Tibi Jupiter adsit! I do not intend to say that this wish and this deprecatory formula were only used in the special case of which we speak. Undoubtedly, in a thousand other circumstances, persons addressed each other as a mark of good will. Deus tibi faveat! Dii adsint! Tibi adsit Jupiter! etc, etc.; but in the special case of sneezing, the phrase was obligatory among persons of gentle breeding.
Now, reader, attention! and will you enter into a Roman school, in the time of Camillus or Coriolanus? There we shall find in the midst of about fifty pupils, an honest preceptor bearing the name of Stolo, or Volumnus, or Pomponius, perhaps. Very well, let it be Pomponius. Now on a certain day the good man began to sneeze, but magisterially, and in double time, following the form still used among the moderns, that is to say, he emitted this nasal interjection----ad----sit! which you have observed and practised a thousand times. Upon which one of the young rogues, remarking the homophony of the thing with one of the three words of the deprecatory formula which he had heard in numberless cases, added, in a mocking tone--tibi Jupiter!and instantly all the crowd repeated in chorus after him, ad--sit--tibi Jupiter.
Here you have, dear reader, the solution of the enigma. But let us observe the sequel. What did master [{596}] Pomponius under the fire of this gay frolic? Somewhat astonished at first, he immediately recovered himself, and took the thing in good part; and being something of a wag himself, that style of benediction suited his humor. I see him now running his glance along the restless troops, raising the right hand, then the fore-finger, which he carries to his nose, then calming their terrors by these soothing words:
Fear not, my little friends:
You often have committed
Offenses much more grave.
Ah well! how often and whenever
I shall happen to make--ad---sit! Cry you all: Jupiter adsit!
You will not suppose that the little boys failed in this duty. From the school of Pomponius it passed through all the line of the university establishments, and improving upon it, the children saluted with--Jupiter ad----sit!----first the heads of their classes, then fathers, mothers, and all respectable persons. The elders failed not to imitate the little ones: it permeated the whole of society. Then came Christianity, which changed Jupiter into God; and the formula, Jupiter protect you! was naturally transformed into God bless you!
Thus it is verified that this formula is of Roman origin; and if anything is simple, natural, and manifest, it is its derivation from the physiological phenomena with which it is connected, and of which it represents phonetically the energetic expression. If any of my readers can find a better explanation of it, I beg him to address me his memorandum by telegraph.
I owe you now the quotation from the "Anthology," which I promised above. Among the Greek epigrams of all epochs, of which this collection is composed, there is one which relates precisely to the custom of which we speak. The Zeu Soson of this epigram is the translation of the Jupiter adsit of the Latins. I say the translation and not the original. For this is not one of those fragments which may be of an epoch anterior to that in which we have placed, and in which we have a right to place master Pomponius and his little adventure. In extending their empire over the countries of the Greek tongue, the Romans imported there a great number of their customs and social habits: the Jupiter adsit must have been of this number, and therefore we find it under Greek pens. I dare not venture here upon the Greek text of the "Anthology," which would perhaps frighten our fair readers, and I give only the Latin translation in two couplets:
Dic cur Sulpicius nequeat sibi mungere nasum?
Causa est quod naso sit minor ipsa manus.
Cur sibi sternutans, non clamat, Jupiter adsit?
Non nasum audit qui distat ab aure nimis.
Very well! I yet have scruples in regard to my Latin, which may not be understood by some of the ladies and especially by the bachelors of the bifurcation. Therefore, to put it into good French verse, I have had recourse to the politeness of our friend Pomponius, and the excellent man has willingly given the following translation of the second distich, which alone relates to the circumstance:
On demande pourquoi notre voisin Sulpice
Eternue, et jamais ne dit: Dien me bénisse!
Serait-ce, par hasard, qu'll n'entend pas tres-blen?
Du tout, l'oreille est bonne et fonctionne à merveille;
Mais son grand nez s'en va--si loin de son oreille,
Que quand il fait--ad--sit! celle-ce n'entend rien.
You demand why our neighbor Sulpice
Sneezes and never says, God bless me!
It is, perhaps, because he does not hear well:
Not at all, his ear is good, and acts to a marvel;
But his great nose goes away--so far from his ear,
That when he makes--ad--sit! this last hears nothing.
This epigram, undoubtedly, is not much more than two thousand years old; and why may it not have been written by Pomponius the ancient? For the Pomponius of our day, to him also, "how often and whenever," he shall sneeze--and without that even, God bless him!
[ORIGINAL.]
THEREIN.
A SONG.
I know a valley fair and green,
Wherein, wherein,
A dear and winding brook is seen,
Therein;
The village street stands in its pride
With a row of elms on either side,
Therein;
They shade the village green.
In the village street there is an inn.
Wherein, wherein,
The landlord sits in bottle-green,
Therein.
His face is like a glowing coal,
And his paunch is like a swelling bowl;
Therein
Is a store of good ale, therein.
The inn has a cosy fireside.
Wherein, wherein,
Two huge andirons stand astride,
Therein.
When the air is raw of a winter's night,
The fire on the hearth shines bright
Therein.
'Tis sweet to be therein.
The landlord sits in his old arm-chair
Therein, therein;
And the blaze shines through his yellow hair
Therein.
There cometh lawyer Bickerstith,
And the village doctor, and the smith.
Therein
Full many a tale they spin.
They talk of fiery Sheridan's raid
Therein, therein;
And hapless Baker's ambuscade
Therein;
The grip with which Grant throttled Lee,
And Sherman's famous march to the sea.
Therein
Great fights are fought over therein.
The landlord has a daughter fair
Therein, therein.
In ringlets falls her glossy hair
Therein.
When they speak in her ear she tosses her head;
When they look in her eye she hangs the lid,
Therein.
She does not care a pin.
I know the maiden's heart full well.
Therein, therein,
Pure thoughts and holy wishes dwell
Therein.
I see her at church on bended knee;
And well I know she prays for me
Therein.
Sure, that can be no sin.
Our parish church has a holy priest,
Therein, therein.
When he sings the mass, he faces the east.
Therein.
On Sunday next he will face the west,
When my Nannie and I go up abreast,
Therein,
And carry our wedding-ring.
And when we die, as die we must;
Therein, therein,
The priest will pray o'er the breathless dust,
Therein;
And our graves will be planted side by side.
But the hearts that loved shall not abide
Therein,
But love in Heaven again.
C.W.
From The Lamp.
UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.
CHAPTER V.
THE VERDICT AT THE INQUEST
From the time that suspicions as to the manner of Gilbert Thorneley's death had been communicated to Scotland Yard, the house in Wimpole street was taken possession of by the police, and all egress or ingress not subject to the knowledge and approval of the officer in charge was prohibited. Merrivale had been allowed on the previous day to see the body of poor old Thorneley, but with much difficulty, as the police had strict orders not to allow any strangers access to the chamber of death. He told me this on our way to the inquest.
"By the by," he said, "did you know that Wilmot is acting as sole executor of his uncle, and has taken upon himself the responsibility of ordering everything about the funeral? I asked Atherton about it yesterday evening, and he says Wilmot came to him and asked what was to be done, as Smith and Walker had said that he and Atherton, as only relatives of the deceased, were the proper persons to open the will, and see who were left his executors. Atherton, with his usual thoughtlessness for his own interests, bade him act as he considered right in everything, and was too much overwhelmed with his own sorrow to think of anything else. Wilmot then went to Smith's and opened the will, which was deposited there, and finds he is left sole executor; and, mind you, I fancy he's sole heir likewise, for he's as coxy as ever he can be. Mark my words, Kavanagh, there'll be a hitch about that will as sure as I'm alive."
I felt that Merrivale spoke with a purpose; but I answered him coolly: "I think so too; and Wilmot will find himself in the wrong box."
"If I thought it was any use," continued he, "I would ask you once more to confide to me the nature of the business which took you to Thorneley's on Tuesday evening."
"It will transpire in due time, Merrivale. I pass you my word it is utterly useless knowledge now; nor does it in any way affect Hugh Atherton's present position. God knows that nothing should keep me silent if I thought that silence would injure in the smallest degree one so dear to me--Will he be present to day?" I asked in a little while.
"Yes; he seemed very anxious to watch the proceedings; and on the whole I thought it better he should. I never saw such a man," said Merrivale, with a burst of enthusiasm very unlike his usual dry, cold manner; "he thinks of every one but himself. He is principally anxious to be there that he may detect any flaw in the evidence, or find any clue that may lead to the discovery of the real murderer of his uncle, apparently without any thought of saving himself, as if that were a secondary consideration. He seems to think more of the old man's death and take it to heart than of anything which has happened to himself; except when he speaks of Miss Leslie, and then he breaks down entirely. I have prepared him for having to hear your evidence, and I likewise mentioned that his uncle had sent for you the night of his death; and that you considered yourself bound in honor not to mention yet what transpired at the interview, but you had assured me it would throw no light upon our present darkness."
"Darkness, indeed! O my poor Hugh!"
"He expressed great surprise, and said; 'Well, this will be the first and only secret affecting either of us which John has ever kept from me. Wilmot hinted that some one had been at work who was not friendly to me; but I told him I didn't believe I had an enemy: and I don't and won't believe it now.' Then I asked him if he wouldn't like to see you, and I think in his heart he would; but he seemed to hesitate, and at last said: 'No, it is best not, best for us both--at least until after this,'--meaning the inquest--'is over.'"
The first secret! No, not the first, Hugh, not the first; but the other could never have divided us, could never have raised one shadow between us, I had buried it deep down in its lonely grave, and laid its ghost by the might of my strong love for you, my friend and brother!
The house in Wimpole street looked gloomy enough, with its close-shut blinds and the two policemen keeping guard on either side the door, suggestive of death--of murder! There was a small crowd collected round; not such a crowd as had assembled before the police-station, but something like. Street-children, errand-boys, stray costermongers with their barrows, passing tradesmen with their carts or baskets, and women--slatterns from neighboring alleys and back-streets, Irish women from the Marylebone courts and slums; and each arrival caused fresh agitation and excitement amidst that crowd of upturned eager faces gathered there, waiting for the verdict.
"That's him," cried a voice as our cab drove up to the door--"that's Corrinder Javies!"' "No, it an't, bless yer innercence! the corrinder wears a scarlet gownd and a gold-laced 'at." "Tell ye he don't; he wears a black un, and ers got it in his bag." "Yah!--the lawyer, the nevy's lawyer!" followed by a yell of imprecations. The nearest gamin on the door-step had heard Merrivale give his name to the policemen and demand admission, and had handed it down to his fellows. So, with the sounds of the brutal mob ringing in our ears, we passed the threshold of the murdered man's house. A cold shudder seized me as I stood in the hall, and I seemed to feel as if the spirit of the dead were hovering about in disquiet, and unable to rest. A superintendent of the police received us in the hall, and we asked him if we could go up to see the body. After some demur he went up-stairs with us, and unlocked the chamber of death. There in his shell lay all that remained of Gilbert Thorneley, he whose name and fame had been world-wide. Fame, for what? For amassing wealth; for grinding down the poor; for toiling, slaving, wearing himself out in the busy march of life, with no thought but for that life which perishes heaping up riches which must be relinquished on the grave's brink; which could bring him no comfort nor solace in the valley of the shadow; which perchance, in the inscrutable designs of providence, had been used as an instrument of retribution against him. I looked at his worn face--seamed with the lines of care, furrowed with the struggles that had brought so little reward--and remembered that last evening when I had seen and spoken with him--of the secret he had confided to me, of what he had so darkly hinted at; and I fancied I could read in his unplacid face that death had visited him in all its intensity of bitterness, that the bodily suffering had been nothing compared to the ocean of remorse which had swept over his soul. He rested from his weary labors, and the fruits of them had not followed him. God alone knew the complete history of his life; God only could supply what had been wanting from the treasures of his mercy; God only could tell whether that last flood of remorseful anguish had been the sorrow that could be accepted for the sake of One who had died for him.
Whilst we yet stood gazing on the corpse, word was brought us that the coroner had arrived, and was going to open proceedings. The superintendent once more turned the key upon the dead; and we descended to the first-floor.
"I must divide you, gentlemen, now," said he. "You, sir," to Merrivale, "will please to come with me to the inquest-room; and you, Mr. Kavanagh, must wait in this back drawing-room until we send for you. I thought you'd prefer being alone, to going along with the other witnesses."
"Yes," I said; "I should much prefer it."
I avail myself of the newspaper-reports, together with Mr. Merrivale's notes, for an account of the inquest; and I have also used his observations made on the personal appearance, manner, etc, of the witnesses and others who took part in it. For myself, I remained in that dark dingy back-room until my turn came to give evidence.
I heard the dull tramp of the jury-men as they went up-stairs and entered the room overhead to view the body, and their hushed murmurs as they came down. I heard the hum of voices in the front drawing-room, where the witnesses were assembled, and the distinct orders issued at intervals by the police. I remember standing at the window looking into the dismal back-garden, noting mechanically the various small sights in the back-gardens opposite. I remember staring for a quarter of an hour at two cats fighting on the wall--a black and a tabby; and listening to their dismal squalls. If they had been two tigers tearing each other to pieces on that back garden-wall in the midst of this eminently civilized city, I don't think it would have made more impression on my brain than did those two specimens of the feline race. And last, I remember walking, as in a dream, into the dining-room, where sat the coroner at the head of the long table, and ranged on either side of him the twelve jury-men. I remember seeing a man whom I recognized as one of the deceased's solicitors, Mr. Walker, occupying a chair at a small side-table with his clerk, and on the opposite side of the room at another table sat Merrivale: while just behind him, guarded--ay, guarded--by a policeman, sat Hugh Atherton; and that as I came and took a chair placed for me at the other end of the long table, he raised his eyes and looked full upon me, and that I knew then the deadly influence which had been at work--for it was no longer the friendly, trustful look of old; I knew--yes, I knew that our warm friendship had died the death, that a traitor's hand had helped to slay it. I knew, and knowing it the pain was so intense, so like a knife entering my heart, that unconsciously I raised my hand as though to ward off the agony that had come upon me, and a cry escaped my lips--"Hugh, Hugh!" And then I heard the coroner addressing me in the calm business tones of a man accustomed to do his terrible work.
The first witness called was Mr. Evans, surgeon. He said:
"I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and live at 138 Wimpole street. I was summoned to Mr. Thorneley's house about seven o'clock on the morning of the 24th; and was taken up into deceased's room. He was in bed, lying on his back, the eyes partially open, and the forehead and mouth contracted, as though great pain had preceded death. He had apparently been dead some hours. There was a stiffness, however, about the body, and an unusual rigidity of the limbs, which excited my suspicion. The feet were likewise arched. The housekeeper and the man-servant were in the room with the deceased at the time I arrived. I asked what he had taken last before going to bed. The housekeeper replied he had taken his bitter [{602}] ale as usual about nine o'clock. I asked to see the bottle out of which he had taken the ale. The housekeeper bade the man go down to his master's study and fetch up the tray. On it were a pint-bottle of Bass's bitter ale, a tumbler, and a plate of hard biscuit. There were a few drops at the bottom of the glass. I smelt and tasted them; there was no peculiar smell, but the taste was unusually bitter. It suggested to me that strychnine might have been introduced. In the bottle about half a tumblerful of ale was left. I took possession of it for the purpose of analysis, with the tumbler still containing a few drops. I said to the housekeeper: 'Information must be sent at once to the police.' This was done. I remained until the superintendent arrived, and then proceeded to my house with the ale-bottle and glass. I immediately subjected the contents of both to the usual process. In the few drops contained in the glass I discovered the appearance of strychnine. The contents of the bottle were perfectly free." (Sensation.) "I then went back to Mr. Thorneley's house, and reported the results to the police-officer, who communicated with Scotland Yard, the deceased's relative Mr. Wilmot, and his lawyers. I demanded that the family medical man should be summoned. On his arrival we made a post-mortem examination, and removed the stomach with its contents, sealed and despatched them to Professor T---- for analysis. We both refused a death-certificate until the results of that analysis had been ascertained. We agreed ourselves in suspecting death had originated through poison, and that the poison had been strychnine. There was no appearance of any disease in either heart, lungs, or brain, which should cause sudden death. All three organs were in a perfectly healthy state."
Dr. Robinson, physician, and the usual medical attendant of deceased, corroborated the above evidence in every particular.
Professor T---- next deposed that he received the stomach of deceased with its contents from Dr. Robinson and Mr. Evans. That he had analyzed the latter, and had detected and separated strychnine in very minute quantities; on further test, positive proof of the existence of the poison was afforded by the colors produced. Upon introducing some of the suspected matter into the body of a frog, death had been produced from tetanic convulsions; thus demonstrating the existence of strychnine. His opinion was that deceased had died from the effects of strychnine administered in bitter ale; that the quantity administered had been about one grain, not more--it might be less.
Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, was then examined. She was a woman past fifty in appearance; her face was remarkable; so perfectly immobile and passionless in its expression. Her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes were of a pale sandy color; and her drooping eyelids had that peculiar motion in them which novelists call "shivering." She gave her answers in clear low tones; but seldom raising her eyes to the interrogator; they were of a cold bluish-gray, with a dangerous scintillating light in them. Her manners and appearance were those of a woman above her station in life; her language quite grammatical, though tinctured by a slightly foreign idiom and accent; her deportment perfectly self-possessed. She deposed that the deceased had appeared in the same health as usual up to the evening previous to his death, when on taking in his bitter ale and biscuits she observed that he looked very much flushed and agitated, and his voice had sounded loud and angry as she came up the stairs. He and Mr. Atherton seemed to be having a dispute; and as she came into the room she distinctly heard Mr. Atherton say to her master, "You will bitterly repent to-morrow what you have said to-night." She could swear to the words, for they made an [{603}] impression upon her. Had not heard Mr. Wilmot speak whilst in the study. The ale had been brought up from the cellar by Barker, who uncorked it down-stairs, as usual, in presence of the other servants. Barker had accompanied her to the study-door, and opened it for her. Always took in the ale when her master was alone, or when only the young gentlemen (Wilmot and Atherton) were there; and waited to receive his orders for the next day. Deceased always took bitter ale at nine o'clock, with hard biscuits.
Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not pour some ale out into the tumbler before taking it up-stairs?"
"I did not."
"Would you swear you did not?"
"Certainly I would swear it."
Evidence continued: To her knowledge he had taken nothing since the ale. The young gentlemen never took bitter ale: Mr. Atherton didn't like it, and Mr. Wilmot could not drink it. Only one tumbler had been brought up. The tray had remained in the study just as Mr. Thorneley had left it, and had not been touched until the following morning, when the doctor asked to have the bottle and glass brought to him. Barker, the man-servant, had fetched the tray from the study. No one had entered the study from the time Mr. Thorneley had gone to bed, until Barker had gone there for the tray the next morning. She had locked the door on the outside as she went up to bed, but had not gone into the room. On the morning of the 24th she was roused by a violent knocking at her door, and by Barker saying, in a very agitated manner, "For God's sake get up directly, Mrs. Haag, and come to master; for I fear he's dead!" Had hurried on a few clothes, and gone instantly to Mr. Thorneley's room. The deceased was in bed, the eyes partially open, and the mouth contracted, as if in an agony of pain. She had touched his hand and found it quite cold. Then they both had stooped to listen if he breathed; but he did not. Barker said: "I fear it's all up with him; he must have had a fit and died in the night. What's to be done, Mrs. Haag?" Replied, "Send at once for a doctor." The other servants now came crowding in, and one of them ran off immediately for the nearest surgeon. He arrived in less than half an hour. No one had touched the body until the arrival of the doctor; they had all feared lest they might do harm by touching it. Had lived in the service of deceased nearly thirty years; he had been a severe but just master to her. Was a Belgian by birth; but had lived nearly all her life in England. Was a widow; had no children living, nor any relations alive that she knew of. Examined as to what had transpired before taking the ale to the study, Mrs. Haag deposed that Mr. John Kavanagh had called on Mr. Thorneley at seven o'clock, and been closeted with him for an hour; that a short time before he went away the study-bell rang, which was answered by Barker, who came down into the servants'-hall and told Thomas the coachman to go up with him to his master's room. When they came down, they said they had been signing their names as witnesses to some paper, which both of them had supposed was a will; but that neither their master nor Mr. Kavanagh had told them so. She had put on her things whilst they were upstairs, and just after they returned she went out--Questioned as to her errand, said she went to buy some ribbon she wanted at a shop in Oxford street; that returning home by Vere street she saw Mr. Atherton coming out of the chemist's shop at the corner of Oxford street, and heard him speak to Mr. Kavanagh. Heard the words "Kavanagh," "Atherton," and saw them shake hands. Could swear to their identity.--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale, solicitor for the prisoner, as to how it had come about that she had been witness to the meeting between the two gentlemen at [{604}] the corner of Vere street and Oxford street, and yet was met only in the middle of Vere street--a very short street--at least five minutes afterwards by Mr. Kavanagh, denied meeting Mr. Kavanagh at all in Vere street; had passed the two gentlemen at the corner, and gone straight home. Had worn no veil that evening.--Examination resumed by the coroner: Had not seen her master since taking the ale into the study; had gone to the door after the gentlemen had left, but found it locked, and received for answer, he was busy, and did not require anything. Mr. Wilmot had left some time previous to Mr. Atherton; she had seen neither to speak to them that evening. This was the pith of the housekeeper's evidence.
John Barker was the next witness called, who corroborated everything deposed by Mrs. Haag. Asked by a juryman if it was he who signed the paper on the evening before Mr. Thorneley's death, replied it was. Was he aware of the nature of the document? No; but both he and Thomas the coachman, who had likewise signed, fancied it must be a will. Had lived nearly twenty years with his master, and often witnessed business papers, but never asked what they were.--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale as to whether he had noticed any conversation which passed between Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Atherton in the hall the night before the deceased died, replied he had caught one or two words.--Told by the coroner to repeat them. After seeming to recollect himself for a moment or two, said he had heard Mr. Wilmot say he must get some money out of the governor; to which Mr. Atherton had replied in rather a low voice; but he had heard the words, "won't live long," and "to be worried," and "our affairs."--Asked by the prisoner if the sentence had not been, "He is getting very old, and won't live long; he ought not to be worried with our affairs"? Replied he could not say; it might have been so; but what he had repeated was the whole of what he had distinctly heard. He wished to say that he believed Mr. Atherton to be innocent; for he was very fond of poor master, and his uncle always seemed more partial to him than to any one else--much more than to Mr. Wilmot.
Thomas Spriggs the coachman, the cook, and the housemaid, were then examined respectively, and their evidence corroborated every statement made before; only one fresh feature presented itself. The cook volunteered to state that she had been awoke, in the middle of the night on which her master died, by some noise, and had fancied she heard stealthy footsteps on the stairs.--Questioned upon this, said that she meant the stairs leading from the third story where the women-servants slept, to the second story..
Were they front or back-stairs?
Front-stairs; the back-stairs only reached the second floor. That the housekeeper occupied one room to herself, she and the housemaid another, and the third was empty. She had not dared to get out of bed, believing it was the ghost.
What ghost?
Oh! the house was haunted; all the servants know it and believed it, except the housekeeper, who had laughed at her shameful, and called her a superstitious woman. But then they had never been what she might call comfortable nor friendly together; for Mrs. 'Aag 'eld herself 'igh and 'orty with all the company in the 'all. Couldn't say at what hour she had been awoke; had drawed the clothes over her 'ed, and said her prayers, and supposed she had fell asleep again, being that way inclined by natur'.
Mr. Merrivale: "Have you and the housekeeper ever fallen out, cook?"
Witness: "Well, no, sir. I can't say as we ever 'ave; and I've nothing to bring against her except as she was 'igh and close, which isn't agreeable, sir, when the position of parties is [{605}] ekally respectable, which mine is, sir, 'aving come of a greengrocer's family as kep' their own wehicle and drove theirselves; and whose mother could afford to be washed out, and never sat down to tea on Sunday without s'rimps or 'winkles or something to give a relish."
Coroner: "That is enough, cook.--Bring in the next witness."
Mr. Lister Wilmot, who appeared much agitated, next deposed: "I went to visit my deceased uncle on the evening of Tuesday last, and whilst taking off my outer coat in the hall, my cousin, Mr. Atherton, arrived. We went into my uncle's study together. Very little conversation passed between us. I mentioned my intention of asking my uncle for some money that evening, which I needed, having some pressing bills to pay. My cousin replied something to the effect that he, my uncle, would probably not live long, and we ought not to worry him with our affairs. I think he simply said it with a view to stopping me from making the application: he thinks I am extravagant. He asked me how much I wanted. I said, £500. He said: 'That is a large sum, Lister; we shall never get the governor to come down as handsome as that.'"
Mr. Merrivale: "Did Mr. Atherton say, 'we shall,' or 'you will'?"
Witness (hesitating:) "I am not quite clear, but I think he said 'we shall.' It was simply a kindly way of speaking. We found my uncle more than usually taciturn and abstracted; but I was so hard pressed I was obliged to brave him, and ask him for money. To my astonishment, instead of venting his anger on me, he turned it all upon my cousin Hugh, and accused him of leading me into extravagance."
Coroner: "Was this so?"
"It was not. Hugh and I are the best of friends; but our pursuits and tastes are totally opposite. I said so to my uncle, and tried to appease him in vain. At last he worked himself into such a rage that he seemed quite reckless of what he said; and hinted that Hugh might pay my debts for me, and if he couldn't do so out of his own pocket, he might get Kavanagh to advance me some out of his future wife's dividends; that I might have got the girl for myself if I had chosen; but as it was, he dared say Kavanagh would marry her in the long-run, for it was easy to see how the wind lay in that quarter."
Mr. Merrivale: "Can you swear to those words?"
"I can. My cousin got very angry at this, and said: 'You have no right to make such remarks or draw any such conclusions; they are false. You will repent of this to-morrow.' I can swear to those words. Just then Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, brought in my uncle's ale and biscuits, as usual. Barker opened the door for her: I remember that fact. There was only one tumbler with the bottle brought up. Neither myself nor my cousin ever touch that beverage. When Mrs. Haag had left the room, Hugh got up and went to the table where the tray had been placed, and brought a glass of ale to my uncle with a plate of hard biscuits."
Coroner: "Did you see the prisoner pour out the ale? Where was he standing with regard to yourself?"
"He had his back toward us; I was sitting by the fire opposite my uncle; the table was in the middle of the room. To get the ale Hugh must turn his back to us."
"How long was he at the table?"
Witness, (after a moment's thought:) "A minute or more; but I could not speak positively."
"Sufficient time to have put anything in the ale?"
Witness, (much agitated:) "Am I obliged to answer this?"
"You are not obliged; but an unfavorable interpretation might be put upon your silence."
Witness (in a very low voice:) "There was time."
Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not observe that some ale was poured out in the tumbler when it was brought up?"
"I did not observe it; it might have been so, but I could not say for certain either way."
Mr. Merrivale to the coroner: "My client desires me to state distinctly that a small quantity, about a quarter of a glassful, was already poured out when he went to the tray. He supposes it was done to save the overflow from the bottle."
Coroner: "I will note it."
Evidence continued: "My uncle drank half the ale at a draught, shook his bead, and said: 'It is very bitter, to-night.' We neither made any remark upon it. He likewise took a biscuit and ate it. Soon afterward I rose to go. He would not say good-night to me. Hugh came to the door with me--the study-door--and whispered, 'I'll try to appease him and make it all right for you.' I went straight down-stairs and out of the house. I remember seeing my cousin's coat hanging in the hall; it was a brown-tweed waterproof one; but I did not touch it. The coachman came the following morning with the sad news to my chambers."
Mr. Merrivale: "Are you acting as sole executor, Mr. Wilmot?"
"I am; my cousin is aware of it."
Mr. Walker: "It is illegal to ask for any depositions about the deceased's will here."
Coroner: "I am the best judge of that, Mr. Walker. Anything which throws light upon what we have to find out must be received as evidence."
Mr. Merrivale: "Were you aware what the contents of your late uncle's will were before you opened it at Messrs. Smith and Walker's?"
"I was not; but both Hugh Atherton and myself were led to anticipate what the tenor of it would be."
"Have the results fulfilled your anticipations?"
"I don't consider myself warranted in answering such a question."
Coroner: "Have you any thing else to state, Mr. Wilmot?"
"Nothing, except that I believe in my cousin's innocence."
Mr. John Kavanagh was then called, and, after the usual preliminaries, stated that on his return from a tour in Switzerland on the afternoon of Tuesday, the 23d, he found a note from Mr. Thorneley, which he now produced. (Note read by the coroner and passed on to the jurymen.) That upon receipt of it he had gone to Mr. Thorneley's at the hour appointed, and had been shown at once into that gentleman's study. Had found him very much altered for the worse and aged since last he had seen him, some months since. He looked as if some heavy trouble were upon him, weighing him down. He had transacted the business required, which occupied, he should say, an hour, and had then left him as calm and as well as when he (witness) first entered the room. He had chosen to walk home, and, stopping to light a segar at the corner of Vere street, had met Mr. Atherton coming out of the chemist's shop. Mr. Atherton had offered to accompany him home, but he (Witness) had refused, and they had parted, Mr Atherton stating his intention of coming to see him on the morrow. That the moment after, he had repented his refusal and hurried back to ask him to return; but being near-sighted and the night dark, had not been able to distinguish his figure, and had given up the pursuit. Returning down Vere street, about half-way he had met a female walking very fast, but who in passing had almost stopped, and stared very hard at him. She had on a thick veil, so he could not see her face, nor did he recognize her figure. The circumstance had passed from his mind until detective Jones had told him that Mr. Thorneley's housekeeper had been in Vere street that evening, and seen his meeting with Mr. Atherton, and then it had struck him it might have been she.--(Here Mr. Merrivale was seen to confer very earnestly with the [{607}] prisoner, and afterward to pass a slip of paper to the coroner, who after reading it bowed, as if in assent, and then beckoned to a policeman, who left the room.) He had gone straight home to his chambers, and being tired went early to bed, and did not wake till very late the following morning, when his clerk had told him the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, and detective Jones had called upon him shortly afterward.
By the coroner: "What was the nature of the business which you transacted with deceased?"
"I am bound over very solemnly not to mention it until a certain time."
"Was it a will you called the two servants to witness?"
"I am not at liberty to answer. I pass my word as a gentleman and a man of honor that in no way do I consider this to affect my friend Mr. Atherton's present position; and that when it does I shall consider myself free to speak."
Mr Walker: "We shall compel you, Mr. Kavanagh, to speak in another place than this. The breach of etiquette you have committed will not be passed over by us as the family and confidential legal advisers of the deceased gentleman."
"We shall both act as we think right, Mr. Walker."
The prisoner here in a very hollow voice said "For God's sake, and for the sake of one who is dear to us both, I entreat you, John Kavanagh, to reveal any thing that may help to clear an innocent man from this frightful imputation."
"I will, Hugh, so help me God! But it would avail you nothing to speak now."
Coroner: "Have you anything further to state?"
"Nothing, save my most solemn religious conviction that Mr. Atherton is innocent, and that he is the victim of the foulest plot."
Mr. Walker here appealed to the coroner, and said he objected to such insinuations being made there; that Mr. Kavanagh had done his best to criminate the prisoner, and that he was now trying to cast the blame upon others.
Mr. Kavanagh was about to make some violent answer, when the coroner called to order.
Mr. Merrivale: "Will you have the goodness, Mr. Kavanagh, to look toward the end of the room, and see if you identify any one there?"
Mr. Kavanagh: "My God! It is she!"
Coroner: "Who?"
"The woman I met in Vere street that night."
Standing opposite to the witness, with the light full upon her, was a female figure, closely veiled.
"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" it was the woman who spoke, loudly, vehemently.
Coroner to witness: "I see you are using your eyeglass now; were you using it when you say you met this person in Vere street?"
"I was."
"Could you swear that the figure standing before you now and the woman you met are one and the same?"
"I would swear that the appearance of that woman standing before me now and that of the figure I met is one and the same--the same height, the same carriage, the same veiled face."
"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" repeated the woman, with a passionate gesture.
Coroner: "Mrs. Haag, you can retire." (It was the housekeeper.)
Mr. Walker: "I don't see how this affects the case."
Mr. Merrivale: "Probably not, sir; but you will see by and by. I am much obliged to you, Mr. Coroner."
Mr. Kavanagh is replaced by Inspector Jackson, detective officer, who deposed that from information received at Scotland Yard on the morning of the 24th instant, he had been desired by his superintendent to proceed to 100 Wimpole street, the residence [{608}] of the deceased gentleman, and examine into the case, accompanied by detective Jones. From information received from the housekeeper and other servants, and after a conference with the surgeon called in, his suspicions had fallen upon Mr. Atherton. He had left a policeman in charge from the nearest station-house, and gone with Jones direct to Mr. Atherton's chambers in the Temple. On breaking the nature of his visit to that gentleman, together with the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, he had been terribly overcome, and exclaimed that he was an innocent man, God was his witness; that he would not have hurt a hair of the old man's head; but certainly he had been angry with him the night before. Cautioned not to say anything which might criminate himself, Mr. Atherton had again said, in very solemn tones: "My God, thou knowest I am innocent!" Witness had searched Mr. Atherton's room and clothes; in the pocket of his coat had found a small empty paper labelled STRYCHNINE--POISON; with the name of "Davis, chemist, 20 Vere street, corner of Oxford street."--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale as to which coat-pocket the packet was found in, replied the overcoat which Mr. Atherton wore on the previous evening.
By a juryman: "How do you know it was the identical coat worn that evening?"
"The man-servant, John Barker, swears to it; he took it from Mr. Atherton when he came to Mr. Thorneley's house, and hung it up in the hall to dry."
The prisoner: "Yes, I did wear that coat; but I know nothing of the paper found in it."
By the coroner: "Have you been in communication with the chemist in Vere street?"
Witness: "I have, sir; he remembers--"
Mr. Merrivale: "I object to this evidence coming from the mouth of Mr. Inspector. The chemist is here and should be examined himself."
Mr. Walker, one of the solicitors of deceased "I think that the evidence should be received from both the inspector and the chemist."
Mr. Merrivale: "I still object."
The coroner: "On what ground, Mr. Merrivale?"
Mr. Merrivale: "On the ground that the inspector having a preconceived notion when he communicated with the chemist, the latter may have been misled by his questions. I should at least wish that Davis should be examined first, and his evidence received direct."
The coroner: "Very well. Is there anything else, Mr. Inspector?"
"Nothing else, except that Mr. Atherton denied all knowledge at once of the paper found."
By Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not find also a bottle of camphorated spirits?"
"I did; but on the table. It was a fresh bottle, unopened, and bore the same label, from Mr. Davis's." (Witness dismissed.)
Mr. Merrivale here demanded to have the man Barker recalled, which was done.
Mr. Merrivale: "Can you swear to the overcoat which Mr. Atherton wore the last evening he came to Wimpole street?"
"Certainly, sir. It was a brown tweed waterproof, with deep pockets. I know it well."
"Is that the coat?" (Coat produced.)
"It is, sir."
"Can you swear to it?"
"I can, sir."
"How long was it between the time Mr. Wilmot went away and the time Mr. Atherton left the house?"
"About half an hour or three quarters, I should say."
"Did you let him out?"
"No, sir."
"Nor Mr. Atherton?'
"No, sir."
"Did you hear or know of any one being in the hall for any length of time whilst Mr. Atherton was with his uncle?"
"No one could have been in the hall, sir, we servants were all at supper."
"Was the housekeeper with you?"
"No, sir; she has her supper in her own sitting-room always."
"Then how are you sure that she did not go into the hall?"
"I should have heard her door open and her footsteps pass along the passage. The servants' hall door was open that I might hear master's bell."
"You feel certain of this?"
"I do, sir."
"I have no more to ask this witness, Mr. Coroner."
Thomas Davis, chemist, was then called. He deposed that on the evening of the 23d he perfectly well remembered a gentleman coming into his shop and buying a small bottle of spirits of camphor. Could not swear to him, but thinks it may have been the prisoner. It was a tall gentleman. (Upon being shown the bottle of camphor, immediately identified it as the one sold. The paper found in Mr. Atherton's pocket was now produced, and he likewise identified it as coming from his shop.) The paper and label were the same as he used.--Questioned as to whether he recollected selling any strychnine either on or before the 23d, replied he could not remember selling any; but that he had found a memorandum in his day-book of one grain sold on the 23d. (Sensation.) Was quite sure it had been sold, or the entry would not have been made; always made those entries himself. His assistant reported to him of anything sold during his absence from the shop, and he then entered it in his day-book as a ready-money transaction. His assistant might have sold the strychnine on that day; but he had questioned him and found he did not remember any particulars. Could swear that he himself remembered nothing about it.--by Mr. Merrivale: Was generally absent from the shop an hour at dinner-time--from one to two--and from five to half-past for tea; again at night from nine to half-past. Closed at ten.
Mr. Merrivale here asked that Mr. Wilmot and Mrs. Haag might severally be brought in; to which Mr. Walker objected. The objection was overruled by the coroner, and Mr. Wilmot was summoned.
Mr. Merrivale: "Do you remember having seen this gentleman before, Mr. Davis?"
"I do not, sir."
"Nor remember his coming into your shop?"
"No, sir."
The housekeeper was then called, with the same results.
Examination of witness continued: His assistant was a remarkably steady and able young man, intrusted with making up very important prescriptions; his word could be relied on; had been with him for five years. He himself was a licensed member of Apothecaries' Hall.
The last witness summoned was James Ball, assistant to Mr. Davis, the chemist. In reply to the coroner, he never remembered having sold any strychnine on the 23d, though he might have done so; in which case he would report it to Mr. Davis, who would have entered it in the day-book. Was in the habit of mentioning each item as soon after it was sold as opportunity permitted. Could not identify either Mr. Wilmot or Mrs. Haag as having seen them in the shop.--By Mr. Walker: Remembered the prisoner coming into the shop on the evening of the 23d; they did not often see such a tall gentleman. His employer, Mr. Davis, had served him with the camphor.
By Mr. Merrivale: "Do you mean to say that a customer whom you did not serve, buying camphor, made an impression on your mind, and yet you have no recollection of any one coming to your shop and asking for such a remarkable and dangerous thing as strychnine?"
After a moment's consideration:
"I remember that gentleman," (pointing to the prisoner,) "because I wondered what his height might be, and what a jolly thing it must be to be so tall, especially with such a high counter to serve over." (Laughter. James Ball was considerably below the middle height) "I don't recollect anything at all about the strychnine."
By the coroner: "It is a question probably of life or death, James Ball, to that gentleman, Mr. Atherton; and I conjure you to strive to the utmost of your power to call to mind any circumstance concerning the sale of that poison which may throw some light upon the subject Take your time now to consider, for I see you can recollect things."
After some moments of dead silence, James Ball replied, "I remember nothing further than what I have already stated."
This closed the evidence, and coroner, summing up, addressed the jury. He commented upon the awfulness of the crime which had been committed; on the fearful increase of the use of poisons of every kind for the purpose of taking away human life. He said in this case the principal facts they had to deal with were, that it was proved on evidence that poison had been administered to deceased in the bitter ale, which he had taken before going to bed. That the poison was pronounced to be strychnine, which it was well known would probably not take effect until an hour or so after it had been imbibed. That the glass of bitter ale in which the strychnine had been detected was poured out and given to deceased by his nephew, Mr. Hugh Atherton, in presence of his other nephew, Mr. Wilmot. That it had been proved by medical evidence that in the ale remaining in the bottle no strychnine had been detected. All suspicions therefore were confined to the ale which had been poured out. That Mr. Atherton had been heard to use angry, if not threatening, language to the deceased, (he repeated the words,) and had been seen by two witnesses coming out of the chemist's shop kept by the identical man whose name was on the paper labelled Strychnine, and found in the prisoner's pocket. The prisoner's legal adviser had stated that a portion of the ale was already poured out in the tumbler, when he (the prisoner) approached the table for the purpose of helping his uncle; but no evidence had been adduced of the fact. Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, had stated to the contrary. Still the prisoner was entitled to the benefit of the doubt. There had been positive evidence that the deceased had died from the effects of poison; it rested with the jury to decide whether the other evidence was sufficiently conclusive to warrant their finding a verdict against the prisoner as having administered the poison.
After a consultation of some quarter of an hour, the jury returned a verdict of Wilful Murder against Mr. Hugh Atherton.
Merrivale brought me the news in that dull back-room where I waited, heaven only knows with what crushing, heart-sick anxiety, and we left the house--that doomed house of death, of woe and desolation to the living.
The crowd outside had thickened and densified; but their cries and clamors were meaningless sounds for me. As we stood on the pavement whilst Merrivale hailed a cab, I felt something thrust into my hand--a piece of paper. I looked round and saw a man disappearing amongst the throng, who presently turned and held up his hand to me. He was in plain clothes and somewhat disguised; but I recognized Jones the detective. When in the cab I unfolded the paper, and read, hastily scrawled in pencil:
"Meet me, sir, please, on the Surrey end of London Bridge to-night at nine o'clock."
"A. Jones."
CHAPTER VI.
IN BLUE-ANCHOR LANE.
Nine o'clock was striking, as I hurried along the footway of London Bridge, hustled and jostled by the many passengers who seem to be forever treading their weary road of business, care, or pleasure--for even pleasure brings its toil; nine o'clock resounding loud and clear in the night-air from the dome of St. Paul's, and echoed from the neighboring church-steeples. It sounds romantic enough to please the most enthusiastic devourers of pre-Radcliffe novels, or to capture the imagination of the most ardent votaries of fiction. But it was far otherwise to me on the night of that Thursday which had seen Hugh Atherton branded with the name of murderer. It was far otherwise to me--weighed down with the crushing knowledge that the companion of my youth, the friend of my later years, although an innocent man, was being gradually hurried on to a felon's death; and that I--I who loved him so well--had helped to his destruction, though Heaven could witness how unwillingly and unconsciously. No; there was no romance for me that night as I dragged my weary steps over the bridge, with the sight of him before my eyes, and the sound of heart-bursting grief from the lips of that poor stricken girl, his betrothed bride, ringing in my ears; for I had been to tell her the results of this day's work. Oh! why had I not yielded to his wish the evening I met Hugh Atherton in that fatal street, and taken him home with me? Why had I not more earnestly followed up the impulse--nay, dare I not call it inspiration?--to return after him and bid him come back with me? Ah me! my selfishness, my blindness--could any remorse ever atone for them and the terrible evil they had brought about? My God, thou knowest how my heart cried out to thee then in bitterness and sorrow: "Smite me with thy righteous judgments; but spare him--spare her!"
And now what new scene in this drama of life was I going to see unfolded? I could not tell; I knew nothing; I could only pray that if Providence pointed out to me any track by which I might penetrate the awful mystery that hung round us, I might pursue it with all fidelity, with utter forgetfulness of self. I had gone with Merrivale after we left Wimpole street to the House of Detention where Atherton was lodged, and desired him to ask that I should see Hugh; but he had come out looking puzzled and perplexed, and said: "I can't make it out; Atherton refuses to see you, and gives no reason except that it is 'best not.'" No help was there, then, but to trust to time and unwearied exertion to remove the cloud between us.
I found Jones waiting for me at the other end of the bridge, and anxiously on the look-out.
"I am right glad to see you, sir; I was fearful you mightn't come, seeing that I gave you no reason for doing so."
"I trusted you sufficiently, Jones, to belive you wouldn't have brought me on a useless errand at such a time of awful anxiety."
"Bless you, sir, I wouldn't--not for a thousand pounds; and I've had that offered to me in my day by parties as wished to get rid of me or shut me up. No, indeed, sir; I'd not add to your trouble if so be I could not lighten it. But we have no time to lose, and we have a goodish bit before us. You asked me this morning whether I knew any thing of a Mr. de Vos. I did not then, but I do now; and a strange chance threw me across him. If, sir, you will trust yourself entirely to me to-night, I think I can be of use to you. But you must confide in me, and allow me to take the lead in everything. And first, will you let me ask you one or two questions?"
I told him he might ask anything he pleased; if I could not answer, I would tell him so; that I would trust him implicitly.
"Then, sir, will you condescend to honor me by coming home first for a few minutes? My missus expects us. She's in a terrible way about Mr. Atherton: she never forgets past kindness."
We turned off the bridge, straight down Wellington street, High street Borough, and then into King street, where Jones stopped before a respectable-looking private house, and knocked. The door was opened by his wife--with whom, under other circumstances, I had been acquainted before--and we entered their neat little front-parlor. Evidently we were expected, for supper was laid--homely, but substantial, and temptingly clean.
"You must excuse us, sir," said Jones; "but I fancied it was likely you had taken little enough to-day, and I told Jane to have something ready for us. Please to eat, Mr. Kavanagh; we have a short journey before us, and I want you to have all your wits and energies about you."
I was faint and sick, true enough; for I had touched nothing save a biscuit and a glass of wine since the morning; but my stomach seemed to loathe food; and though I drew to the table, not wishing to offend the good people, I felt as if to swallow a morsel would choke me. Jones cut up the cold ham and chicken in approved style, whilst his wife busied herself with slicing off thin rounds of bread and butter; but I toyed with my knife and fork, and could not eat. Not so Jones; he took down incredible quantities of all that was before him with the zest of a man who knows he is going to achieve luck's victory. Presently he threw down his tools, and looked hard at me.
"This'll never do, sir; you must eat."
I shook my head and smiled.
"Jane," said he to his wife, "bring out Black Peter; no one ever needed him more than Mr. Kavanagh."
Mrs. Jones opened a cupboard and brought forth a tapery-necked bottle, out of which her husband very carefully poured some liquid into a wineglass, and then as carefully corked it up again.
"Drink this, sir; I've never known it to fail yet."
I lifted the glass to my lips. "Why, it's the primest Curaçoa!" I cried.
"That it may be, sir, for all I know. A poor German, to whom I once rendered a service, sent me two bottles, and I've found it the best cordial I ever tasted. I call it Black Peter--his name was Peter, and he was uncommonly black, to be sure--but I never heard its right name before. Drink it off, sir, and you'll feel a world better presently."
I did, and the effects were as Jones prognosticated. The cold, sick shivering left me, and I was able in a little while to take some food.
"Now, Jane," said the good man to his wife, when he saw I was getting on all right, "shut up your ears; Mr. Kavanagh and I are going to talk business."
Mrs. Jones laughed, picked up some needle-work, and sat down to a small table by the fire.
"My wife's a true woman, sir, in every thing but her tongue; she don't talk: I'll back her against Sir Richard himself for keeping dark on a secret case. Now, sir, will you please to tell me, if you can, why you are anxious to find out about this Mr. de Vos?"
I related to him about my meeting De Vos at my sister's, what I had heard and witnessed in Swain's Lane, the impressions made upon me then, and how I had caught sight of the man outside the police-court on the preceding day. Jones listened very attentively, and made notes of it all.
"Exactly," said he, when I ended by saying that Mr. Wilmot had denied all knowledge of De Vos and the rendezvous in Swain's Lane. "Just what I expected. Of course he would."
"What! Do you think he did know, and that it was Wilmot's voice I heard?"
"I think nothing, sir" said be, with a curious smile; "but I guess a good deal. We have a terribly-tangled skein to unravel; but I think in following up this man we have got the right end of it. I must now tell you how I stumbled upon him to-day. I heard from inspector Keene that he was engaged by Mr. Merrivale to see into this murder of old Mr. Thorneley; and knowing how partial I was to Mr. Atherton--good reason too--he asked me if I'd like to help him, and if so, he'd speak about me to Sir Richard Mayne. I said I would, above all things, for I'd had a hand in taking him, though I believed he was innocent; and now I'd give much to help him back to his liberty again. To cut short with the story, it was settled I should hang about the house to-day during the inquest in disguise, to pick up any stray information that might be let drop; for there's a deal more known, sir, about rich folks and their households by such people as those who were crowded round the house today than ever you'd think for; and we gather much of our most valuable information by mixing in these crowds unknown, and listening to the casual gossip that goes on in them. So I made myself up into a decent old guy, and took my way to Wimpole street. Whilst waiting to cross Oxford street two men came up behind me, and I heard a few words drop which made me turn round to look at them. Sure enough, one answered most perfectly your description of this Mr. De Vos. I thought to myself, 'Here's game worth following;' and I did follow, and heard them make an appointment for to-night on this side the water. Now, sir, do you see why I asked you to meet me?'
"I do. We must be present at the meeting."
"Just so, sir; and we have no time to lose, for the hour mentioned was soon after ten o'clock. If you'll take nothing else we will go. We must go made up; and you'll trust entirely to me."
"You mean disguised?"
"I do, sir; if you'll come up-stairs, I'll give you what is necessary."
Up-stairs we went, and Jones produced from a chest of drawers a rough common seaman's jacket, a pair of duck trowsers, a woollen comforter, a tarpaulin hat, and a false black beard, in which he rigged me out; and then proceeded to make similar change in his own attire, with the exception of a wig of shaggy red hair and a pair of whiskers to match.
"Leave your watch, sir, and any little articles of jewelry you may have about you, in my wife's charge; keep your hat well slouched over your face and your hands in your pockets, give a swing and swagger to your walk, and you'll do."
"Why, where upon earth are we going, Jones?"
"To Blue-Anchor Lane, sir, if you know where that very fashionable quarter lies."
I did not know exactly where it was, saying from police-reports, which named it as one of the lowest parts of that low district lying between Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I had been somewhere near it once, having occasion to call on one of the clergy belonging to the Catholic Church in Parker's Row; but that was quite an aristocratic part, for a wonder, compared with Blue-Anchor Lane. Yes, Parker's Row I had visited; and, thanks to my having grown and "gentlefolked" to the height of six feet odd, I had managed to pull the bell and get admitted to the convent behind the church, where dwell the good Sisters of Mercy, walled-in all tight and trim. But down Blue-Anchor Lane I had never penetrated; and I asked Jones if it were not considered a favorite haunt for characters of the worst description.
"It is so, sir; and we must be careful and cautious to-night in all we do." I noticed that he put his staff and alarum in his pocket, and furnished me with similar implements. "In case of necessity, sir," he said, [{614}] laughing, "you must act as special constable with me. I wouldn't take you into the smallest danger; but, you see, I don't know but what your presence is of absolute necessity, and that you may be able to gather a clue in this case quicker than I should. Not that I yield in quickness at twigging most things to any man," said Detective Jones, with a bit of professional pride quite pardonable; "but you must identify the man for certain yourself, sir, before I can act in the matter with anything like satisfaction."
It was just upon ten o'clock when we left King street, and proceeded to London Bridge; whence we took the train to Spa Road. It takes, as every one knows, but a few minutes in the transit; and leaving that dark, dismal, break-neck hole of a station, we turned to the left up Spa Road, down Jamaica Row, and so into Blue-Anchor Lane. It is needless to describe what that place is at night; it is needless to picture in words all the degrading vice that walks forth unmasked in some of the streets of this capital, which ranks so high amidst the great cities o the world. Is our exterior morality to be so far behind, so infinitely below, that of tribes and nations on whom we stoop to trample? Can such things be, and we not waken from our lethargic sleep, remembering what our account will one day be? Can our rulers so calmly eat and drink, take their pleasure, hunt their game, pursue their gentlemanlike sports, knowing, as assuredly they do too well, that thousands of their people are living lives more degraded, more brutal, more shamelessly inhuman, more full of sin, ignorance, and every kind of squalor and misery, than the wildest savages we have set our soldiers to hunt out of the lands in which God placed them?
"What can the man be doing in such a place as this?" I whispered to Jones, as he stopped before the door of a small low-looking house of entertainment, half coffee-shop and half public-house, that rejoiced in the name of "Noah's Ark."
"That's just what we've got to find out, sir. Somehow it strikes me he's better acquainted with such haunts as these than you and I are with Regent street or Piccadilly. If I haven't seen his face before, and that not ten yards from the Old Bailey, I'm blest if I was ever more mistaken in my life. But hush! here he is."
And swaggering along, with his hat stuck on one side, and murmuring a verse of "Rory O'Moore," came Mr. de Vos, my sister Elinor's "treasure-trove," evidently somewhat airy in the upper regions, and elated by good cheer. Jones had taken out a short clay pipe, and whilst seemingly intent on filling it I saw he was watching De Vos with a keen observant glance. The latter gentleman was far from being intoxicated; he was merely what is called "elevated," and quite wide awake enough to be wary of anything going on around him. I saw him start perceptibly as his eye fell upon me, though my slouched hat and high collar must have gone a good way toward concealing my features.
"Fine night, mate," said Jones in a bluff, loud voice, lighting and pulling vigorously at his pipe.
"Deed and it is so," answered De Vos, halting just opposite to us, and once more turning his scrutiny upon me. "Are you game for a dhrop of whiskey?" addressing himself especially to me.
I was about to answer in feigned tones, when Jones took the word out of my mouth, and replied: "No use asking him--he's too love-sick just now to care for drink; he's parted with his sweetheart, and is off for the West-Indies by five in the morning from the Docks."
Something now seemed to attract De Vos's attention to Jones, for he became suddenly very grave.
"I've not seen you here before," said he, peering into the detective's face.
"May be you have, may be you haven't. I don't need to ask any man's leave to drink a pint at 'Noah's Ark,' and watch a game of skittles."
This, as Jones told me afterward, was quite a random shot; however, it took effect.
"I believe you," said De Vos with all the boastfulness of his nature. "You'll not see a betther bowler through the country entirely than meself. I'll back the odds against any man this side the Channel, and bedad to it. I dare say now it's here on Monday last you were to see me play?"
"Ay, ay, mate," sang out Jones; "right enough."
"Ah! thin it was small shiners I went in for then; but I'll lay a couple of fivers now against a brad, and play you fair to-morrow against any of them in there," with a back-handed wave to the house, whence unmistakable sounds of noisy mirth were proceeding. "Is it done?"
"I'll consider your offer--shiver my timbers but I will!" said Jones, with a burst of Jack-tar-ism--"and let you know in the morning."
"Just as you please; you pays your money and you takes your choice;" and nodding to Jones, who responded to the salute in approved style, De Vos passed into the tap-room of the "Ark."
"Is it he?" hurriedly whispered Jones when he was out of hearing.
"Yes, without doubt," answered I, in the same tones.
"Then follow me, sir; and keep silent unless I speak to you;" and we likewise entered through the swing-doors of the gayly-lighted bar.
A glance sufficed to show us that the man we sought was not there; but Jones was far from being disconcerted; indeed he seemed most thoroughly up to the mark in the task before him, and threw himself into the part he had assigned himself with all the genius and facility of a Billington or Toole. Three or four men with physiognomies that would not have disgraced the hangman's rope were drinking, smoking, and exchanging low badinage with a flashy-looking young woman, who stood behind the bar-counter. Woman, did I say? Angels pity her! There was little of womanly nature left in the fierce glitter of her eyes, in the hard lines of premature age which dissipation and sin and woe had left carved upon her forehead and around her mouth. Little enough of this though, no doubt, thought Detective Jones, intent upon his own purposes, as he quickly made up to her, and asked with all the swaggering audacity of a "jolly tar," for two stiff glasses of the primest pine-apple rum-and-water.
Jones extracted a long clay pipe from the lot standing before us in a broken glass, and passed it to me, and handed his pouch of tobacco, with an expressive glance that told me I was to smoke. Whilst filling the pipe and lighting it, the woman returned with the rum-and-water, which she placed ungraciously before us with a bang and clatter that caused the liquid to spill out of the glasses.
"Look here, miss," said Jones in his most insinuating tones; "I'll forgive you for upsetting the grog, and give you five bob to buy a blue ribbon for your pretty hair, if you'll manage to get me and my mate a snug comer inside there," pointing to a door on the left, whence issued voices; "for we've a bit of money business to settle to-night, and he's off first thing in the morning for the Indies."
The woman seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then holding out her hand for the promised tip, she beckoned us to pass inside the bar, and led the way to the door. Before she opened it she said in a low voice:
"I am doing as much as my place is worth; but I want the money; take the table in the corner at the top here; keep yourselves quiet, and don't take no notice of nobody, least of all of him who'll be next you."
She now opened the door, and I saw Jones slip some more money into her hand, which she received with a short grunt and a nod, and then closed the door upon us.
The room was divided like that of an ordinary coffee-shop into box compartments; the one in the right-hand corner by the door was empty, and we entered it, carrying our glasses and pipes with us. We seated ourselves at the end of the two benches opposite each other, and then glanced round. In the box vis-à-vis were two rough-looking fellows, whom I took to be real followers of our pretended calling--the sea. They returned our gaze suspiciously enough, and we could hear one whisper to the other, "Who's them coves?" and the answer "Dunno; none of us. " But the next moment my attention was diverted to the voices in the box next to ours.
"Did you see her?" It was De Vos who spoke, I felt sure.
"Not I, my God! not I," answered a deep hoarse voice. "It's ten years since she and I met, and I'd go to my grave sooner than we should meet again. Mind you, the day when her cold cruel eyes rest on me will be a fatal day for me. Faugh! I've passed through as much bloodshed as it's ever given one man to encounter in his life, and never flinched; but I tell you, Sullivan, the thought of meeting her face to face seems to freeze the life-blood of my heart."
"Do you think she had a hand in this, O'Brian?"
"Who can tell? She did not pause once; what should stop her again?"
"The fear of you."
"She sees no reason to fear. She believes I'm still over there, where she sent me."
"And the young fellow, my man, does he know anything?"
"Again how can I tell? But I should say not. How could she enlighten him?"
"Then he is--"
"Their son."
A pause succeeded. Meanwhile Jones had engaged in a sort of dumb-show with me to throw the men opposite off the scent, by passing papers and money backwards and forwards, and apparently making calculations with his pencil; in reality I saw he was taking notes. Presently De Vos spoke again.
"Well, let's drink to the heir, old boy; and so long as I can make him play the piper, why thin it's myself that will, and bedad to him."
His Irishisms, be it observed, were intermittent.
"Long life to the heir!" cried the two voices simultaneously; and there was a clash of glasses.
"What's the time of day by your ticker?" asked De Vos a few moments afterward.
"Just upon eleven. The lad was to be here by then, wasn't he?"
"Yes, by eleven. I'd like to know what he wants with me now."
Jones here took up his cap, buttoned his coat, quietly opened the door, and went out; I following him, of course. He threw a good-humored nod to the woman, who still stood behind the bar, and I did the same; but he never spoke until we were some yards from "Noah's ark."
"You may be thankful, sir," he then said in a low voice, "to have got out safely and unmolested. That's the worst haunt of some of the worst characters in London; and they're banded together so as to shut out every one as don't belong to them. There's been a Providence, sir, in it all," raising his cap, "depend upon it. Now we must see if we can stop this lad whom they are expecting. We'll talk the matter over afterward."
Just then a boy came up running at full speed.
"Halt!" cried Jones, laying his hand on the lad's shoulder. "What makes you so late?"
"What's the odds to you? Let me go," replied the boy, with a mixture of impudence and cunning in his face. "I'm not not bound for you."
"You're bound for 'Noah's Ark,' though."
"Are you Mr. Sullivan?"
"Of course I am."
"Oh! then here's the letter, and you're to see if it's all right."
"All right," said Detective Jones, opening the note and glancing at its contents; "tell the gentleman I'll be there. Here's for you, young Codlings," dropping a half-crown into the boy's hand.
"Five shillings, and not a stiver less, is my fare."
"Here you are then, you small imp of iniquity;" and another coin of similar value found its way into the ragamuffin's pocket.
He cut a caper, turned head over heels, and was gone.
And now Jones tore on breathlessly till we were safe out of Blue-Anchor Lane and had reached Paradise Row, where a policeman was standing at the corner. Jones took him aside for a minute, and then rejoined me.
"We'll hail the first cab, sir, in Spa Road, and drive to your home, if you've no objection."
This we did; and as soon as we had started he took a small candle-lantern from his pocket, lit it, and then handed me the note to read which he had taken from the boy. It contained but few words; no names used, no address, no signature, and simply desired the person addressed to meet the writer the following day at the usual place and hour. What clue was there in that to the dark mystery we were bent on solving? Only this, and I put it into words:
"Great heavens! it is Lister Wilmot's handwriting!"
TO BE CONTINUED.
[ORIGINAL.]