SAINT LUCY.
The giving of my eyes
In loving sacrifice
Was my appointed way;
No soft decline from the meridian day
Through dusky twilight slowly into dark,
But blackness, bloody, swift, and stark
From hands unkind.
And I was blind.
Thus reads the story, writ on sacred scroll,
Of Lucy, virgin martyr: that sharp dole
Won heaven's eternal brightness for her soul;—
The blotting out of sunshine, the recoil
From utter blackness, the heart's gasp and spasm
Before the unseen void, the imagined chasm
Of untried darkness, was the martyr toil
Whose moment's agony surpasses years—
The love, long years of patience and of tears
Allotted unto others. "All for all;"
Not doling out with a reluctant hand,
But in one holocaustal offering grand,
Will, senses, mind, responding to heaven's call.
[{173}]
"Bought at whatever price, heaven is not dear,"
Sounds like an echoed chorus full of cheer
From crypts of mangled martyrs, and charred bones,
And blood-stained phials of the catacombs:
And that young Roman girl's adoring eyes,
One moment darkened, opened in surprise
Upon the face of God. The cruel, taunt
Of judges obdurate, the accuser's vaunt,
The mob's wild shout of triumph deep and hoarse,
Might still be heard around the bloody corse
When her sweet soul, in peace, at God's own word
Had tasted its exceeding great reward;
To "see as she was seen," to know as known;
The beatific vision all her own.
Upon the sacred canon's sacred page.
Invoked by vested priest from age to age,
Stand five fair names of virgins, martyrs all,
As if with some peculiar glory crowned
That thus their names should crystallize; "their sound
Is gone through all the earth," and great and small
Upon those five wise virgins sweetly call
With reverent wish: Saint Lucy! Agatha!
Agnes! Cecilia! Anastasia!
And chanted litany chose names enfold
In reliquary more precious than mute gold.
With what a tender awe I heard that name—
A household name, familiar, dear, and kind.
Of gentlest euphony—such honor claim!
Thenceforth that name I speak with lifted mind,
More loved in friend, because revered in saint;
And daily as to heaven I make complaint
Of mortal ills, and sickness, sorrows, woes,
This one petition doth all others close:
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, by thine eyes
Which thou didst give to God in sacrifice,
His mercy and his solace now implore
For darkened eyes and sightless, never more
To gaze on aught created: by that meed
Of choicest graces in that hour of need,
Sweetness of patience and a joyful mind,
And faithful, gentle hands to guide the blind!
But more than this, Saint Lucy; thou didst gain,
By loss of thy young eyes with loving pain.
The vision given to angels; then obtain
The lifting up of blinded orbs to where
God sitteth in his beauty, the All-fair;
Saint Lucy, virgin martyr, aid our prayer!
THE GODFREY FAMILY;
OR, QUESTIONS OF THE DAY.
CHAPTER V.
IS MERE MATERIAL PROGRESS A REAL BENEFIT, OR A PROGRESS IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION?
I have already stated that Eugene Godfrey was well introduced on his entrance at Cambridge. Scientific professors found pleasure in bringing forward the son of so eminent a patron of literature and science. But they were disappointed at finding little response in Eugene's mind to the boastful glory of scientific improvement. "Cui Bono?" was ever in his heart, and sometimes on his lips, when any new inventions were proposed to him.
"Supposing we should be able to light our streets and our houses with this wonderful combination of gases," he would say, "will the light within be the greater? Supposing we travel without horses at the speed of thirty miles an hour, can we travel nearer to truth? Improvement! Is it an improvement to multiply bodily wants, or (beyond supplying means of actual existence) is it rational to spend so much time in rendering the body comfortable? Is multiplying luxury a good?"
"It employs hands," would be the reply, "and thus diffuses wealth."
"If that is the only object, riches could be easily scattered without compelling those who own them to become effeminate triflers."
"But simply to give away wealth without exacting an equivalent, would encourage idleness," argued the professor.
"And so to benefit our neighbor's morals we yield our own," said Eugene. "Well, that is new philanthropy, and I am less inclined to assent to it than ever I was. To keep untrammelled, we must, methinks, reduce the number of our physical wants instead of increasing them. Surely there are other modes of benefiting mankind than those which enervate. The education of the hero is frugal, hardy, temperate almost to scantiness. Fancy Sesostris or Cyrus lolling at ease in a spring-patented carriage, propped up luxuriously with velvet cushions! or think of a hero dressed out in gewgaws! Our minds lose the heroic element altogether in the picture."
"A good loss," replied the professor! "methinks these warriors make a great show, but what good do they effect: They destroy the arts of peace and live on the excitement of vain glory. That excitement over, they are as weak as other mortals. Hercules playing the distaff at Queen Omphale's court is a fitting type of a so-called hero's rest."
"Not of all," replied Eugene; "conquerors have been lawgivers, and good ones too. The passion of glory may not be a good in itself, but it is better than sensuality. You would not compare Cyrus with Heliogabalus."
"Not for himself, perhaps, not for his own private dignity; but for the good he did in the world at large. I think the preference questionable. Even allowing that the cruelty of Heliogabalus destroyed whole multitudes, it had not the devastating effect on whole districts which war ever produces; conquest lays waste large fields, destroys produce, and brings famine and played in its wake."
"I am not arguing in favor of war for its own sake, I am only saying that constant attention to mere bodily comfort must cause the race to degenerate. He who would rise individually in the scale of existence must repress bodily appetites, not encourage them; and this, if true of the individual, must be true of society also: consequently the introduction of luxury on a system, most eventually prove itself to be an evil.
"Pshaw!" said the professor, "these theories are well enough in the closet, but in action they are good for nothing. Why, you destroy incentive to mental activity, when you debar man from applying it to useful purposes."
"Useful, meaning increase of luxury?" asked Eugene.
"Well," somewhat petulantly rejoined the professor, "is not the definition of luxury a good? The rich may please themselves, but the poor need more comfort than they enjoy; among them diffusion of luxury must be a good."
"Does that diffusion take place among the poor, as a matter of fact— at least among the masses? Is not the contrary rather the case? Are they not rather the ones to suffer from the first fruits of improvement. Look at the Manchester riots for the good you do;—awhile ago there was in that town a contented population, sufficiently provided with food, clothing, shelter, fire, and other real necessaries; suddenly one of your clever men invents a machine which makes the rich people's dresses at half the cost, and throws one-third of the hands out of employ. What good have you done? There is in that community as much food as before, as much clothing, as much of every necessary of life! Yet two or three thousand families are suddenly deprived of the means of subsistence, and driven by despair to break the peace and disturb the public security, while you are boasting of the good of physical science. Methinks moral science wants studying too."
"Oh, these things will right themselves, will find their own level; other employment will soon absorb the now displaced hands, and all will be peace again."
"I doubt it: the selfish principle engenders the selfish practice. Teach the laboring class by example to cater only for their private gratification, whether that gratification be in vanity, self-aggrandizement, or luxury; teach them to place all their happiness in physical good, and then show yourself reckless of their requirements by an indiscreet introduction of machinery, and an English edition of the Reign of Terror may ensue."
"But what can be done? You would not stop these new inventions, nor set a limit to improvement?"
"I would seek a higher principle of action altogether; and before setting up new insentient machinery, would provide that the highest sentient machinery, Man, should receive due consideration. It is a manifest injustice, when the interests of the producers of wealth are rashly sacrificed to increase the luxury of the consumers."
"And what is this new principle, most compassionate sir?'* asked the professor.
"I do not know, it is precisely that which troubles me. Men are not the mere money-machines you would turn them to—of that I am well assured; but what they are and what their destiny is, I have yet to learn."
The professor laughed, rose and took his leave.
Eugene remained plunged in a profound reverie, from which he was aroused by the visit of a stranger, who announced himself as the M. Bertolot introduced to our readers in a previous chapter.
He said that although personally a stranger, yet hearing of Eugene's residence at Cambridge, he had taken the liberty of calling to inquire after the welfare of his former friends.
Eugene welcomed him, and assured him that the countess was in good health and spirits.
"And her amiable daughter?" inquired the old man.
"Is also well, I hope and believe," said Eugene; "but she leads so secluded a life, even in our large family, that it is difficult for those about her to speak with any degree of certainty concerning her."
"Indeed! She is probably scarcely recovered from the shock of her father's terrible death."
"Perhaps not; but I do not think that is the sole cause of her seclusion: she is essentially contemplative, and the things of this world interest her but little. What her ideas are, I do not know, for she seldom speaks of them, but I think they would be worth the knowing."
"Probably so," replied M. Bertolot "She is a pure soul, beautiful and good; of whom we may almost affirm that she scarcely knows what sin is."'
Eugene looked at the speaker in surprise. "What sin is! What is sin!" thought he. "Is it aught beside the consequence of error? and how can we escape error if we cannot light on truth?" His puzzled look was perhaps his best reply.
"You do not credit me," said M. Bertolot; "you think, and justly, that all men are sinners; yes, indeed, all, all are so, I spoke but by comparison: it is rare to find so pure, so simple a soul as is that of Mademosielle de Meglior; though not sinless, as none can be, she is a consistent aspirant alter heavenly lore, ever keeping her heart fixed on the only true source of light and life: at least she was so when I knew her."'
"She is tranquil and contemplative," said Eugene, "and when she does speak, often startles us with the originality of her sentiments; but when you spoke of her as not knowing sin, it was the expression that astonished me. People in polite life do not often speak of themselves, or of their friends, as sinners."
"No!" said M. Bertolot; "excuse me then, the expression came as naturally to my lips as to my thoughts. I intended no offense."
"Nor did you give any: on the contrary, I should be glad to know from you the principle of Euphrasie's mode of action, if without violating confidence, you can tell me what it is. She is actuated by motives not comprehended by those with whom she lives."
"I can give you no other explanation than that I suppose her actuated by the purest principles of religion. As a child she gave promise of this: all her thoughts and ideas tended upward. Does she continue so?"
"I never heard her speak of religion," replied Eugene; "she sometimes speaks very sublimely, though very laconically, of truth being the one thing to be cared for."
"Ah!" said M. Bertolot, "is it thus she veils herself? But with her truth, and the worship of the author of truth, must go together. I know Euphrasie from childhood. I know how she struggled with her naturally vehement spirit, until, even as a child, she obtained the mastery. I remember, too, the explanations she sought for most earnestly, of why our evil tendencies remain to molest us when we become members of Christ. All that the child learned once she pondered over, and oftentimes surprised her teachers with her comments."
"I doubt it not: her remarks are ever original. I have often felt quite anxious to know the basis of her actions."
"Nay, have you not said already, that it was the love of truth? Her every thought tends that way, and she early discovered how liable the practical recognition of metaphysical truth is to be impeded by human passion. Hence, from childhood upwards, she has been accustomed to watch over herself, and to check the indulgence of any emotion that would form a 'blind' between herself, and the object of her adoration. She is young yet, but I venture to say she will pass by the age of passion unscathed.*
"Do you mean that she will love?" asked Eugene.
"Nay, that I cannot exactly affirm," replied M. Bertolot; "but I think she will never be governed by any passion—be it love, pride, fame, or ambition. I think she has laid the true foundation in obtaining the mastery over her feelings; and though she is naturally affectionate, I am not sure that she would be happy now, if bound by human ties. She has accustomed herself to live an abstracted life; she would scarcely be at home in domestic duties."
"Nay, I hope such is not the case!" exclaimed Eugene, more warmly than he intended, for his latent feelings toward Euphrasie ever and anon betrayed themselves; and while he scarcely confessed it to himself, interest in her style of thought colored the course of his own ideas.
M. Bertolot dexterously turned the conversation by reverting to a former subject. "It were well for mankind," said he, "did they consider how much passion and prejudice warp the mind, even in the consideration of abstract truths. Few, very few, keep their own intellects open for the reception of any such foreign ideas as would contravene their previous conceptions. Fewer still, give their neighbors credit for such power to look at facts impartially. This is an attestation that passion reigns rather than justice. Methinks the old system of Pythagoras, subjecting youth to moral training as a necessary preliminary for bringing the intellectual faculties into harmonious play, were not a bad precedent for this unruly age."
"It would scarcely go down now," urged Eugene.
"Indeed no!"' said M. Bertolot. "The master says it would seem but a ridiculous phrase in this all-disputing age. All faculties, whether of mind or body or soul, seem now confounded. Positiveness usurps the place of reason, and the mere child is allowed to question, instead of being compelled at once to obey. If the world goes on with this principle in action twenty years longer, we shall have little men and women in plenty, but no children left, and then woe to the generation that succeeds: a generation untrained and undisciplined by wholesome restraint, with intellects prematurely developed without the adjunct of self-government, which only moral training can impart. What a world it will make! Methinks its inevitable tendency is to undue animal preponderance. It is frightful to think of!"
"I was just making the same remark to Professor K——," said Eugene; "but though I see the evil, I cannot discern the remedy."
"It is indeed difficult to compass the remedy," said M. Bertolot, "the departure has been so wide. Men have ceased to distinguish between the result of mere human intelligence and that of a loftier lore, and they now use the intellect as the slave of the only good recognizable in their system, i. e. of bodily ease or pleasure. Practically men ignore the soul and its high destiny. Hence the disorder of the times. Animalism is essentially selfish, and animalism is the tendency of modern times—refined, veiled, adorned, with much of intellectual allurement I admit, but nevertheless animalism thorough and entire."
"I have thought of this before," said Eugene, "but my ideas are as yet vague and undefined. I want data to go upon some firm ground on which to plant my feet. The guesses of philosophers content me not."
"Nor should they, my young friend, since, as you say, they are but guesses, without a sure foundation. But have you heard of nothing beyond philosophy? Has it never occurred to you that the creative intelligence has revealed himself to the creature of his formation, and that through that revelation we are informed of that which it interests us to know—of our own soul, of the object of our creation, and of the final destiny of man?"
"I have heard of religion certainly," said Eugene, "but I cannot say I ever studied it or practised it."
"No? Then no wonder you are dissatisfied. Your mind is evidently seeking for truth. Nothing but the great truth can satisfy it. Study dispassionately the evidences of the truth of the great Mosaic history. Contemplate the grand position of our first father, Adam, receiving instruction from God himself concerning the mighty mysteries of creation, not only of matter and of material forms, but of bright intelligences created to glorify and adorn the court of heaven, and who fell from their sublime position. Study man first, fresh in perfection from the hand of God, living as the friend of God, communing with his Maker in the garden of Eden. Appointed by him to rule o'er all inferior nature, the entitled Lord of the Creation, the master of animal existences, and superior in his own person to much of material influence. Think what it must have been to walk with God, and have divine knowledge infused into his soul, as also all such material science as would befit the founder of a mighty race to transmit to his offspring, over whom he was to reign as prince, father, priest, and teacher; and then consider what it must have been to find suddenly that source of knowledge dried up, the door of communication closed, power weakened, intuitions dimmed, and labor imposed as the price alike of happiness, knowledge, and of that supernatural communication which had been man's best and highest privilege: the solution of these problems will give you the key to many difficulties which perplex you."
"There are modern theories which agree not with these premises," said Eugene. "These trace man from the savage upward."
"Yes,' said M. Bertolot, "the mutum et turpe pecus [Footnote 36] of Horace has found, if not admirers, yet professed believers in this age.
[Footnote 36: Dumb and filthy herd.]
A theory contrary to analogy, to evidence alike of history and tradition, has been assumed, and wondrously has found asserters too. All mere animals are observed to be born complete—their instincts, their organization serve but the individual; and though accident may train an individual to feats beyond his fellows, yet there is no appearance of new organs being formed to be transmitted to its race. Now, these modern progressionists, who go back to the time
'When wild in woods the Noble Savage ran,'
deprive man of his soul, assimilate him to the brutes to make him perform what brute nature never did perform, namely, create faculty. Men have lives to laugh at the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, but methinks the doctrine of the progression to bodily beauty from monkeys without tails; of barbarians to civilized man without aid, is to the full as absurd; to say nothing of that comprehensive power of contemplation which enabled Newton to demonstrate the order of the universe, it would be very difficult to understand how abstract ideas could be latent in the soul of a monkey waiting development. Besides, by the theory of progression, during the time of which we have record, say six thousand years, men should be steadily on the improve—both as to arts, science, moral government, legal government, self-government, and bodily development; but we do not find it so. The ruins of Babylon, of Thebes, and of other great cities built soon after the flood, attest architectural skill among the ancients such as is hardly aimed at no. Callisthenes found astronomical tables reaching as far back as within a few years of the deluge, in the Temple of Belus, when he accompanied Alexander the Great on his expedition to the East. And many arts have been lost altogether that were well known to the ancients. The half-barbarian Copt erecting his hut amid the fallen pillars and statuary of ancient Thebes, the Mameluke riding recklessly and savagely amid the pyramids, that still remain to puzzle the assertor of progression even with the mere mechanical difficulties of the machinery used for [{179}] raising such immense stones to such a height and in such a plain, so distant from any known quarries. These are hut poor indications of the race advancing, though individual nations, worked on by a regenerative influence, may appear to make, nay do make, great improvements in all respects."
"Do you, then, think that man's tendency is to degenerate?" asked Eugene.
"Not necessarily, by any means," replied M. Bertolot; "but in proportion as he departs from the centre of unity, from the truths once imprinted on the soul of Adam, thence to be transmitted for human guidance, it will, I think, be found so."
"But," said Eugene, "is Adam's religion yours? Surely he was not a Christian."
"If not in name and with the same outward rites, yet in reality he must have been," replied the mentor. "There is but one truth, and the difference between his creed and ours was that he looked for a Redeemer to come. We believe in him as having come."
"But was Adam's religion that of the Jews, then?" asked Eugene.
"In creed and in spirit, yes. In form and observance it differed, because the Jews had typical forms specially given to them, alike to commemorate their deliverance from Egypt, and to typify their delivery through Christ from sin. They were living amid idolatrous nations, and the safeguard of a special ceremonial was needful to them."
"And save in the fulfilment of their expectation, is the Jewish creed Christian?" asked Eugene.
"As far as it goes it is; the Christian revelation is a fuller development of the old tradition, a clearer exposition of God; it destroys nothing of the past revelation, it fulfils and expands. The Jews were the preservers of the great tradition, transmitted through the patriarchs to Noah, and by him, through his sons, to the race it large. The tradition became corrupted by the majority; yet it is found in some form or other mixed up in all mythologies; and what deserves remark is, that the further back we trace mythology the purer it becomes. The early records of all nations tell us of purity, discipline, and sacrifice to secure purity of morals, and teach of justice after death, of good and evil spirits, and of the interference of the deity to check man in his career of evil. Men seem at first not so much to have denied the true God, as to have associated other gods with him, and to have changed their worship from seeking such spiritual union as would render them 'sons of God,' to adoration of the creator and upholder of physical power, physical grandeur, and physical beauty. Atheism, and the lowering of man's nature to that of a mere mortal animal, is an invention of modern times, and has for the most part only been held by men satiated, as it were, by a spurious civilization."
"I am but little versed in the Bible," said Eugene, "but I have heard learned men assert that all the education, so to speak, of the Jewish nation was of a worldly character; and that though there are passages of Scripture containing allusions to the immortality of the soul, yet that doctrine was nowhere definitely asserted, but that, on the contrary, all the rewards and punishments promised, or threatened, were of a temporal nature."
"And yet no one disputes that the Jews did, and do believe the soul to be immortal, as also that they believed, and still believe, in the traditions concerning the fallen angels, the fall of man, the promised redemption, and many others. These doctrines, promulgated to all the world, were kept intact by Abraham and his descendants; and it is a very general belief that they were renewed in their purity in the soul of Moses, during that long communion vouchsafed him on Mount Sinai. The material law for exterior conduct he wrote down; but the spiritual themes which formed the staple of the expositions given by the rulers and doctors of the synagogue [{180}] and which were only figured by the material types, were probably deemed by the holy lawgiver too sacred to dilate upon in writing. If, after that forty days' sublimation, his spirit was so triumphant that he was fain to veil the glory of his face, we must needs suppose that not the mere written law, or setting forth the ritual of their worship, occupied his whole attention, but that his spirit expanded beneath the graces vouchsafed to him, and that he was, in a sense, made partaker of those spiritual truths which lie concealed from more materialized minds."
"These facts deserve attention, at any rate," said Eugene; "can you refer me to authorities within my reach?"
"Indeed, I know not what your resources are, and my own books I have lost. My memory, too, serves me but treacherously on controversial subjects; but I think if you will turn to Grotius de Verit. Christ, you will find him quoting Philo Judaeus in proof of the similarity of the Christian doctrine with the Jewish."
Eugene handed the book to his friend, who read the passage, of which the following is the translation:
"We have still to answer two accusations with which the doctrines and worship of Christians are attacked by the Jews. The first is, that they say we worship many gods. But this is nothing more than a declaration thrown in hatred at a foreign faith. For what more is asserted by the Christians, than by Philo Judaeus, who frequently represents three in God, and who calls the reason, or word of God, the name of God, the framer of the world, neither uncreate, as is the Father of all, nor so born as are men (whom both Philo and Moses, the son of Nehemanni, calls the angel, the deputy for ruling this world); or what more than the cabalists assert, who distinguished in God three lights, and indeed by somewhat the same names as the Christians do, namely, of the Father, of the Son or Word, and of the Holy Spirit. And I may also assume that which is confessed by all the Jews, that that spirit which moved the prophets, is not created, and yet is distinct from him who sent," etc., etc.
"But," said the old man, starting up and closing the book, "I am forgetting myself; I came not here to deliver a lecture on theology, but to inquire after my former friends. Excuse an old man's garrulity. Adieu!"
"Not yet," said Eugene; "your conversation interests me much; do not go yet."
"Yes, for to-night I leave you; if you permit me, however, I will return on another day. Meantime, I would suggest to you one important reflection. When Almighty God had created all things, and pronounced them good; when he had formed man from the slime of the Earth, and rendered him the most perfect of animals, man was not yet quite complete; and the completion, what was it? No angel had command to fulfil that wondrous office, nor was it by word that that mysterious power was called into being: but God breathed, and man became a living soul. The soul of man is, then, the in-breathing of the divinity —immortal in its essence, God-like in its affinities. Quench not its trembling impulses, when it bids you look upward in love and confidence; but pray—ever pray—fervently, confidently, perseveringly." This he added with a half-smile, which revealed to Eugene who had been his former monitor. He then abruptly quitted the room.
CHAPTER VI.
MODERN PAGANISM
The Duke of Durimond and his fair bride prolonged their tour among the lakes and mountains of the "land o' cakes" until autumn begun to show the fallen leaf. Hester was not a little disappointed at this—she was impatiently expecting a summons to [{181}] meet her sister at the dacal mansion, and she thought the period unnecessarily delayed.
At length the wished-for invitation came, and father, mother, sisters, brother, aunt, and Euphrasie were called upon to welcome the young duchess to one of the costliest and most elaborately finished palaces in England. Hester shouted in glee as the carriage entered the mile-long avenue of stately trees that formed the approach to the ducal dwelling. The bevy of liveried servants that awaited their approach at the hall-door, the quiet, respectful bearing of the gentlemen servants out of livery who waited within to escort them to the suite of rooms prepared for their reception—all this was charming! delightful! only a look from her parents presented the merry girl from dancing round the house in ecstasy. The entrance-hall itself was sufficient to send her into raptures. The beautiful marble of the floor, the large fires burning on each side, the triple row of balconies, raised one above another, on the three sides within the hall, betokening the communication of the upper stories with the rest of the house by some unseen means, and displaying the full height of the edifice, crowned as it was by a beautifully carved cupola, into which sufficient skylight was artificially admitted to display to advantage the figures of the rosy Aurora accompanied by her nymphs, scattering flowers on her way as she opened the gates of morning, which subject was skilfully portrayed on the ceiling. They passed through this, the outer hall, to another, which contained the magnificent staircase leading to the apartments opening on the balconies described. To Hester's joy the entrance to their suite of rooms opened on the first of these, and she could look up to the painted ceiling and down to the marble floor, and gaze, unrebuked, on the colossal figures of bronze which appeared to uphold the balconies.
How happy Adelaide must be, mistress of so gorgeous a palace! And Adelaide was there at the door of the apartments to greet her mother and her mother's friends. What was there in her manner to damp at once the ardor of Hester's enthusiasm? Grace, kindness, and dignity were there! and yet Hester was not satisfied; a chill came o'er her unawares as she returned her sister's kiss. She mastered herself, however, sufficiently to express her admiration of the splendid hall.
"Oh, that is nothing," said the young duchess, with a faint smile. "His grace will introduce you to his hall of sculpture and to the picture gallery by and by, and then you will be really pleased. I believe royalty itself cannot boost such master-pieces as Durimond Castle."
"So I have heard," said Mrs. Godfrey; "but where is the duke, my dear?"
"He was unexpectedly occupied when you arrived, mamma, but doubtless he will be here to welcome you immediately."
There was a constraint and melancholy about Adelaide's manner that struck the whole party, and their pleasure was more than a little damped as they entered the magnificent apartments prepared for them.
"Here," said the hostess, "you can be as private as in your own house when you wish it; and when you desire society you will generally find some one either in the library, or in the conservatory or drawing-room."
"Have you many guests?" asked the Countess de Meglior.
"Your friend, the Comte de Villeneuve, came with us from town; he is not here to-day, though I think the duke expects him to-morrow. He is absent on some business; there is a strange gentleman closeted with the duke just now, for whom apartments are ordered; he is a foreigner, I think; the duke seems to have business with him. He will be our only visitor today."
Just then the bell rang to warn the guests it was the dressing hour. Valets and ladies' maids were in attendance, and though only to join a family party, state-dresses were in requisition.
Adelaide retired to make her preparations, and the visitors, amid the luxurious surroundings, felt oppressed with a sadness for which they could scarcely account, and which they cared not to express, even to one another.
The duke met them in the drawing-room before dinner, and his gay manner in some degree dispelled the gloom that had crept over the party. He inquired kindly after Eugene.
"Eugene, from some cause or other," said Mrs. Godfrey, "keeps away from home altogether. He spent his long vacation at the lakes, and has again returned to Cambridge. He has taken a studious fit, I suppose, and must be allowed to gratify if ."
"And does he not, then, intend to honor us with his company?" inquired the duke.
"Oh, he will run down for a day or two ere long, I dare say. He must see Adelaide, of course; but when, he does not exactly say."
Adelaide did not appear displeased to hear this. She turned to her husband and asked what he had done with his visitor.
"He would not stay, he had an appointment to keep, so we must make up for all deficiencies ourselves."
The dinner passed away stiffly enough, and as the season was too late for a walk afterward, the gentlemen, following the then national custom, passed a considerable time over the bottle, discussing the politics of the day. It was late in the evening ere they joined the ladies. They found them in a large conservatory, which was illuminated in honor of Mr. and Mrs. Godfrey's arrival; and in this flowery retreat sundry self-acting musical instruments were hidden, which, from time to time, sent forth, as it were unbidden, melodious sounds and tuneful harmonies, which, vibrating amid the flowering shrubs that formed an artificial spring within the glass enclosure, contrasted pleasingly with the "fall of the leaf" that made all nature desolate without.
"Art conquers nature here," said Mr. Godfrey, as he entered the enchanted scene. "We might fancy ourselves in a fairy palace now. What says my Hester to this?"
"Oh! this is beautiful, indeed! Music, moonlight, love, and flowers are it 'A glorious combination,'" said Hester, pointing to the moon, which shone brightly through the windows; but her voice had lost its usual animation as she made the quotation, for a feeling passed over her heart, as if one ingredient, and that precisely the most important one, was wanting; she could not be satisfied that "love" presided in this abode of beauty and of grace.
The next morning the state rooms of the house were inspected. The duke was the great patron of the fine arts, and taste shone forth in every part of the stately edifice that was exposed to view.
The picture gallery and the hall of sculpture were celebrated far and wide, particularly the latter. Nor were the figures promiscuously arranged that decorated this scene of art; on the contrary, much care had been expended to form one harmonious whole. On the dome which formed the ceiling was painted ancient Saturn devouring his offspring as they rose into being, and beneath this centre-piece were painted the war of the Titans against Satan on the one side, and the war of the giants against Jupiter on the other. Thus far the ceiling. In the midst of the marble floor stood the mighty Jupiter, armed with his thunderbolts, majestic in strength and grand in intellectual sensualism. Beside him, grouped symmetrically and appropriately, were the legion of subordinate divinities—Venus, attended by the graces; Apollo, radiant in beauty; Hercules strangling the serpents while he was yet in the cradle; the Muses in various attitudes, with appropriate symbols of office. Scarcely a god, goddess, or demigod [{183}] could be named who was not here represented. Types of beauty—sensual, intellectual, and physical; types of grandeur and of tenor; types of mystery, beneath the veiled figure of the Egyptian deity, Isis; types of knowledge and of artistic skill were there. All that man bows before and worships when the sense of the supernatural is shut, and he learns of self to deify his own passions, was here, other delineated on the walls or chiselled out in the sculptural forms. It was ft Pantheon dedicated to all the gods of human sense, refined by beauty and grace, and polished by artistic merit of the highest order. Unbounded and unfeigned was the applause elicited from the party: hardly could they satisfied themselves with gazing on these perfect forms: even the lack of drapery seemed scarcely a drawback. Euphrasie, indeed, retired, but she was so strange habitually that her absence was hardly commented upon; and but for the smile that went round the circle as she left the hall, might have been deemed unobserved.
"The true gods of the earth are these yet." said Mr. Godfrey, when the door had closed behind the young French girl, "and the race has sadly degenerated since their worship was abandoned."
The young duchess and her sisters looked up in mute wonder at the speaker, but the duke cried, "Hear, hear!" and the elder ladies tried to look wise and responsive.
Mr. Godfrey continued: "That is god to a man which his mind worships and reveres, and which to the extent of his power he strives to imitate. Julian, the Roman emperor, understood this well. He felt (what time has proved true) that the human frame must degenerate when its proportionate and due development ceases to be the primary object of the legislator. He saw that when, instead of these glorious physical powers, there is substituted a pale, emaciated figure nailed to a cross for the glorification of an ideal good, that all nature's teachings must become confused, and a fake romance lead to decay the powers that heretofore were so beautiful in their proportions."
"Surely, papa, you do not believe in paganism," said Hester, wonderingly.
"Yes and no, Hester. In the fables of the personal divinity of Jupiter, Venus, and Minerva—No! In paganism as the expression of a grand idea, well suited to man's capabilities, and to his nature—Yes! You must not confound the hidden meaning of the myth with the outward expression. The uninstructed multitude will always look to the outward, and believe the fables as facts, whatever religion they profess, and often times they penetrate no further; but the learned look through the myth to the meaning, and the meaning of the pagan myth is,—Cultivate physical strength, in union with intellectual power, worship beauty, study and contrast nature. Destroy infirmity: it is the most humane way, and the most just way. Do not perpetuate disease. Let all ill-constituted children die. Let the conquered—i.e., the weaker—serve; it belongs to the strong to rule. To develop the physical frame duly, Lycurgus caused even the young women to wrestle publicly, without drapery of any kind. Our more fastidious tastes cramp the form of our women, and distort the figure; and, worse than this, our perverted theology distorts their intellect, and makes it afraid even to look at the human form. Again, I say, Julian was right. The Christianity he forsook has caused not only the degeneration of human power, but has substituted false ideas of good. The real has given place to the ideal, and a sickly, romantic, sentimentalized race has taken the place of the hardy heroes of antiquity."
And Mr. Godfrey bowed profoundly to the deities before him.
The duke laughed and clapped his hands. "Well said, Mr. Godfrey, well said. I hardly knew till now, how great a benefactor I was to the human race when I collected these statues. Hitherto I have thrown open my house but once a week for the public benefit. Henceforth I will direct my steward to allow instructions oftener in this temple of the true gods of the earth. By the by, I believe there is a very good chance of restoring this gone-by worship, if, as you say, it consists in the exaltation of physical power. Science, in its diffusion, is fixing men's minds on material agencies, very much to the exclusion of superstitious ideality. We have only to throw in a vein of the love of beauty, and much will be effected toward bringing back men's minds to the natural worship, here so beautifully symbolized."
"I believe so," said Mr. Godfrey; "but, meantime, how much evil has been effected by letting in upon the race so many delicate constitutions! How shall we restore the hardy races that peopled the earth, when these mighty types of glory ruled the populations?"
"Indeed, it is difficult to say. Men have accustomed themselves to a false estimate of mere vitality, as if life without enjoyment were worth the having. We shall, I fear, find it difficult to persuade English mothers to destroy their diseased and crippled children for the good of the public, or to train their daughters in the gymnasium."
"Would you seriously wish it, my lord duke?" asked his wife.
"I hardly know. We are all trammelled more or less with the feelings our mothers instilled into us. I think Lycurgus a great man, and perfectly reasonable. Had I been born a Spartan, I think I should have thanked the gods for it, but now—"
"Now," interrupted Mrs. Godfrey, "you are more nearly a Sybarite. I know of no one whom a crumpled rose-leaf disturbs more easily than yourself."
"Nay, Mrs. Godfrey, the argumentum ad hominem is hardly fair; but, after all, I suppose we must admit that character is geographical and chronological, besides being modified by individual circumstance. I think freely, but I am scarcely free to change my character; so in legislating I must legislate on public grounds for others. It does not follow that I can keep the law I deem it fitting to make.
"But if you cannot keep it, how can others?" demanded Annie.
"Well asked, my fair sister—asked not only by you, but by others also, and therefore is it that we must practically legislate not as we think best, abstractedly, but as nearly best as can be carried out. So, as the people are not yet ripe for ancient Spartan laws, we must be content yet a while to diffuse the principle that physical development, physical beauty, and physical power are the legitimate objects of human worship. When we have accustomed the people to adopt these views, the rest may chance to follow. Meantime, I see De Villeneuve coming up the avenue: excuse me for an instant;" and somewhat to the surprise of the party, the duke bolted through the open door that led on to the grounds to meet his friend, who dismounted when he saw him coming. In deep conference they slowly approached the house. There was a cloud on the duke's brow, but he shook it off as he entered and gayly introduced his friend.
"I am afraid De Villeneuve hardly admires these divinities, Mrs. Godfrey; let us adjourn to the drawing-room."
"Nay, defend yourself, M. de Villeneuve; you will not plead guilty to not loving art?" said the lady addressed.
"No, indeed, dear madam, his grace is only avenging himself for my criticisms. I suggested to him the other day that he might get up another temple of modern art as a supplement to this, and he felt piqued, I suppose; yet I have found him many times standing rapt before a Madonna."
"The gentlemen decided this morning that these were the true gods of the earth, and that Madonnas and Crucifixions were false, unreal types, and to be discouraged."
"Not possible!"
"Nay, it is true, they were voting a return to paganism."
"But you, ladies," said M. de Villeneuve, "you, ladies, were not of that mind, surely?"
"I don't know," said Hester, mischievously, "papa was very eloquent In lauding ancient institutions."
"But," said the comte, turning very earnestly to her, "he did not tell you how woman was treated in the olden time, before Mary's fiat repaired the fault of Eve. Women, intelligent, beautiful women, owe everything to that divine Mother; and if they cast off their religion it is because the misery is hid from them which the sex was subject to formerly."
"There is no necessity just now of making it more clear," said Mr. Godfrey drily.
"No," said the comte; "and yet when I see the tendency of the age, I often feel that it would be safer did our ladies know the truth. Eve's fault should at least bring knowledge when knowledge is necessary to truth. Woman could not help but be fervently religious, did she know from what an abyss of degradation Christianity has raised her."
Mr. Godfrey turned impatiently to the window. "It is splendid weather for riding," said he; "suppose we order the horses."
CHAPTER VII.
MARRIAGE OR NO MARRIAGE.
But why was Adelaide so sad? Why was the young duchess apparently most constrained when with her husband? Why, on the contrary, was he, as usual, gay, cheerful, and animated? These were questions for a mother's heart to ask, and yet, uneasy as she was, Mrs. Godfrey asked them not. She dared not seek the confidence of her daughter, lest aught should be betrayed which it were better she should not know. She knew that the confidence of a married woman is sacred even from a mother, in all that appertains to her husband; and what other secrets could Adelaide have?
Several days passed, and no clue to the enigma was discovered. Parties of pleasure were formed, the grounds were traversed, the library ransacked—literary, scientific, nay political excitement created for the amusement and entertainment of the guests; but no familiar, confidential chit-chat gave occasion to the disclosure of the secret which it was evident was weighing on Adelaide's mind.
One morning, however, Mr. Godfrey shut himself up in the library, in order to search through some volumes for a passage he desired, and his daughter entered, turning the key in the door as she did so. Mr. Godfrey looked up. Adelaide was pale and trembling. He took her hand and led her to a sofa. In a few moments she partly recovered; yet it was in a faltering voice that she asked:
"Father, is a marriage with a Roman Catholic valid?"
"Valid? Yes, I suppose so; why not, my dear?"
Adelaide became still more pale, but did not answer.
Mr. Godfrey was alarmed. "How does this concern you, my child?" he asked.
"Why—why—the duke is then married to another lady," faltered she.
"Impossible!" said the father. "Impossible! he would not—dare not do such a deed. You have been imposed upon, Adelaide. Tell me the story, and the authority for it."
"Did you hear of a woman fainting, almost under the carriage-wheels, on the morning of my marriage, father?"
"I did; what of it, my child!"
"That woman believes herself to be his wife! She followed us, and confronted the duke in Scotland in a narrow glen. She watched day and night to speak to him; her watching was noticed, pointed out to me, and one day as he was returning home I saw her start up from under a hedge and stand before him. He evidently sought to avoid her, but she would not be avoided; she held him by the skirts of his coat till he consented to speak with her. Unperceived by both I stole near them; I heard her claim him as her husband; I listened in vain for his denial; I heard him urge her to go home; I heard him say that he would satisfy her another time—that it should be all right if she would only quietly depart; and I heard, too, her indignant refusal to depart until he had told her his true name, and where he was to be found. 'To me,' she said, 'you have called yourself Colonel Ellwood, and my boy has borne that name!'"
"'Let him bear it still,' replied the duke.
"'But is it the right one? is it yours!' she shrieked.
"'I am the Duke of Durimond,' answered he. She fell fainting at his feet. Unthinkingly, I pressed forward to succor her, thus revealing that I had overheard the conversation. The duke started, and said, 'This is no scene for your grace; if you will send an attendant from the house yonder to wait on this poor stranger, it will be kind of you.' I did as requested, but the agitation of my feelings caused an illness which detained us a long time in Scotland. I did not like to inform you of my illness then. The duke would have been kind, but I liked not to see him near me. Once or twice he tried to explain to me that the whole was a mistake, but I asked him not to mention it. When we came to London he again tried explanation, but I told him all explanation must be to you. He endeavored in vain to shake my resolution, and at length brought me here and sent for you. A lawyer was with him in London several times, and a Catholic priest was closeted with him the day he arrived. I suspect this unhappy business was the cause of their visits, but I have asked nothing. We have held little communication with each other since that unfortunate recognition in Scotland."
"My poor child!" said the father "and was this your honeymoon?"
Adelaide laid her head on her father's shoulder, and wept.
"But why do you think the woman is a Roman Catholic, Adelaid?"
"He told me so one day, and therefore, he says, the marriage is not valid."
"Perhaps it is so, Adelaide."
"But if it is so, she believes herself his wife, and she is pure, good, innocent; it is written in her face."
"My poor child?" again ejaculated the father.
How long they sat sorrowing silence they heeded not. Each felt that whichever hypothesis were true, married or not married, there was bitterness enough. At length the sound of voices in the hall warned Adelaide to seek her own apartment. Mr. Godfrey went immediately to the duke.
"My daughter has been with me this morning, your grace," said he, in solemn, deliberate tones.
"Ah yes! Well—Mr. Godfrey—well—your daughter is not quite well, I fear."
"She is seriously unhappy, I am sorry to inform you, my lord duke."
"Unhappy!—ah!—well, well; she has taken a youthful in discretion of mine somewhat too sorely to heart; but you, Mr. Godfrey, know that those little affairs are common enough to men of the world."
"My daughter speaks of a previous marriage, your grace."
"Pshaw! some few words she heard have been made to signify too much. Adelaide is my wife, my duchess. Let her be satisfied on that point."
"It is just on that point she is not satisfied—it is just on that point that I now require to be satisfied."
"How can I satisfy you save by denying any other marriage?"
"Has no ceremony ever passed between your grace and another woman who claims to be your wife?"
"No legal ceremony, upon my honor as a nobleman."
"No legal ceremony; some kind of ceremony has taken place, then?" said Mr. Godfrey.
"If not a legal one, then none which concerns you. Be content, Mr. Godfrey, daughter is indisputably a duchess."
"I am not content, my lord duke; I must see this other claimant to the ducal coronet," said Mr. Godfrey, rising.
"By heaven, you shall not!" answered the duke, rising as suddenly; "you shall not—indeed you shall not. No, my poor Ellen, no: injured you have been, but at least I will save you from insult."
"Methinks your grace's words are strange ones to the father of your ride," said Mr. Godfrey. "Is the peace of your mistress to be preferred to that of your wife?"
"Let us understand each other, Mr. Godfrey," said the duke; "and to do that, I must caution you not to say one word in disrespect of the person you falsely term my mistress. Listen: Fifteen years ago I met a being, lovely, tender, innocent; before one personating a Romish priest I called her wife; she knew not, until now, the title was not legal; for fifteen years I have, as a simple gentleman, sought her society when weary of ambition and of the selfishness of the world; for fifteen years have I, at such intervals as I could steal away from grandeur and false honors, found repose and happiness in the society of that gentle, that unworldly being. Children have been born to me and died, all save one, a noble boy—one whom I would gladly train to deeds of glory, were it that—O Ellen, Ellen!"
"And with such feelings as these, my lord, you dared to lead my daughter to the altar?" indignantly demanded Mr. Godfrey.
"Yes, and why not?" replied the duke. "Your daughter suffered no injury. You sought for her not love, but a coronet, and that she has now. Let her enjoy it. I acted not the hypocrite. I promised what I gave—power, rank, grandeur, and respect; these she has: what cause is there for complaint?"
"But why, if a peerless beauty were already yours, why seek another bride, my lord? Why not have made the lady of your love your duchess?"
"Because—because—I knew not her value at first. At first it was her beauty that attracted me; then her virtue kept me true to her, and I loved her unworldliness, her want of ambition. To have made her a duchess would have spoiled my dream of being loved for myself alone. Besides, Ellen is a Catholic, a sincere one, and never would she consent that a child of hers should be brought up in the paganism of these times."
"But why, I must yet inquire, why, with these feelings, did your grace marry at all?"
"Why? did I not want a duchess in my halls? a pagan heir to my Pantheon, sir? To whom were these gorgeous collections of heathen idols, these entailed estates, these titles, honors, to descend? Ellen's son could not inherit all, even were he legitimate. His Catholic feeling would turn aside in disgust from much, and English law would exclude him from office or dignity in the nation. Had I lived anywhere but in England, perchance my child had risen to compete with the highest."
"He and his mother still hold, evidently, the highest place in your affections. And is my daughter for ever to play second part in your heart, and this incomparable miracle of goodness the first?"
"Your daughter, sir, is to reign supreme, the imperial queen of the Parnassian deities. Juno-like, she treads her path o'er high Olympus; all bow to her, and Jupiter himself shall treat her with reverence, save when she [{188}] intrudes upon his private moments. She has bargained for wealth, and power, and pomp, and influence; she has them: let her be content. Love was out of the 'bargain;' it is useless now to contend for it, as if it were her due. But for my Ellen, you misjudge her, if you think that, with the knowledge she now has, she would ever admit me to her presence again. I do not even know how I can induce her to accept a maintenance from me—from me, who would have died to save her, yet who have caused her such bitter pangs! Oh! I could stab myself from sheer remorse!"
And the dark shade that passed over the features, now convulsed with mental agony, showed that the words were not ones of mere expression.
Mr. Godfrey paused, yet was his anger not subdued; he had not deemed that the duke had so much of human feeling in his composition. Worldly and courtly as he seemed, who could suspect go strong an undercurrent of deep and passionate emotion?
That this should be there, and not felt for his wife! Mr. Godfrey did feel this an injury; though, as the duke said, love had not been in the bargain.
The long pause was at length broken by Mr. Godfrey's saying: "Your grace must excuse me, but, for my daughter's sake, I must insist on obtaining evidence that this marriage, which you admit did take place, was not legal. If I may not approach the lady myself, who can procure me the evidence I demand?'"
"I know not—unless—stay; I would willingly make one more attempt to secure Ellen's acceptance of a provision for her child. Hitherto she has rejected all mediation: not only the lawyer, but De Villeneuve, and a bishop of her own church, have solicited her in vain to listen to such an idea; a lady—a Catholic might be more successful. You have in your family one seemingly as pure and good as Ellen's self—one holding the same holy faith; if she will consent to undertake the mission, I will confide to her the secret of Ellen's residence. De Villeneuve will escort her, but I doubt if she will gain admittance; none have yet succeeded who went from me."
"You mean Euphrasie, I presume?"
"I do; if you can trust to her report, I shall gladly make her my ambassadress to treat respecting the future provision to be made for mother and child."
"I will see her on the subject."
"Tis well; good morning, Mr. Godfrey."
How little do we know of the inward feelings even of those with whom we fancy ourselves intimate! Here was the cold, heartless man of pleasure, so-called by the world, so thought of by his father-in-law, a prey, when left to himself, to the most violent emotions of grief for the loss of Ellen. Had it been possible at that moment to redeem her affections by the sacrifice of earthly grandeur, there is but little doubt that the sacrifice would have been made, for the loss of that sweet solace had never been contemplated as a necessary accomplishment to this marriage. For fifteen years he had kept his incognito in her society as Colonel Ellwood, and as Colonel Ellwood he meant to visit her still, and to indemnify himself in her sweet society for the heartlessness and cheerlessness of the ducal mansion.
This dream was at an end; he's incognito had been discovered, and at once all intercourse was over. The gay and courtly duke felt as if all interest in life had suddenly vanished from the earth. His outward demeanor appeared, indeed, unchanged, at least to superficial observers, but those who looked beneath the surface could detect a latent disdain for all things; and if the same pursuits still seemed to engage his attention, it was from habit, or from want of occupation, not from any relish for the pursuit itself. [{189}] Little did the world suspect that his gay and polished manner covered a broken heart, and that the munificent owner of countless rangers, the haughty scion of a long line of ancestors, was pining away beneath the blight which had destroyed is happiness, and was eventually to destroy his life. But we must not anticipate, rather let us return to our theme.
Euphrasie heard with surprise and pain of the position of her young friend Adelaide, but was most unwilling to undertake the negotiation proposed; it was only at M. de Villeneuve's reiterated assurance that it was a great work of charity which she demanded of her, that she at length consented.
On their arrival at the village, some hours' journey distant from London, and further yet from the duke's residence, M. de Villeneuve requested Euphrasie to proceed from the hotel alone to Ellswood cottage, as his presence would be suspicious, and probably prevent her gaining admittance. A dark-haired, bright-eyed boy was playing in the garden before the cottage; he came to the gate on seeing a stranger approach, and as he held the gate in his hand, he said, before Euphrasie addressed him:
"Mamma is very ill, no one can see her today."
"I am very sorry to hear that. Has she been ill long?"
"Yes, ever since she took a long, long journey, and came back so tired. She went to find papa, and did not find him," and the child's voice dropped to a whisper: "I think papa is dead, but I must not tell her so."
"Why do you think so, my dear?"
"Because he would never stay away so long if he were alive; he never did before: and when he did stay away he used to leave mamma lots of money; now she has no money at all, and she is going away from here."
"Where is she going to?"
"I do not know; but she says she must work, and that I must work now for my living; so I know she must be very poor."
"I want to see your mamma. They say she is very kind. Tell her I am a stranger—a French girl; that I seek kindness from her."
"Are you poor, too?" asked the little boy.
"Yes, very poor, indeed," replied Euphrasie.
"Then I will ask mamma if you may come in; mamma loves the poor."
When the boy returned he was accompanied by an elderly woman, bearing the appearance of an upper servant. She addressed Euphrasie respectfully: "Mrs. Ellwood can see no one to-day, miss; can you send in your business by me?"
"Not very well, my business is personal; shall I be able to see her tomorrow?"
"It is impossible to say, but you can call and see; to-morrow you may be able to find some one who will see you in her stead; she sees no one herself, but she expects a friend to-night who manages her business for her."
With this answer she was obliged to be content: she returned to the hotel where M. de Villeneuve awaited her. "This is a bad business," he said; "I have been here twice before with no better result, she will not see strangers."
"You have not seen her, then?"
"No! I have only heard of her, she is almost adored here for her deeds of kindness and charity. I never knew of a case which excited my interest so much; it was on her account, not on the duke's, that I assented to pay this place so many visits. God only can console her!"
* * * * * *
There was a sound of carriages in the night, a very unusual thing in that secluded village; and in the morning early, again there was the sound of wheels. M. de Villeneuve strolled to the end of the street; he shook his head on his return. "We are altogether too late," he said; "the people [{190}] say that she is gone; and many are weeping, for she was dearly loved."
"Shall we not go to the house?" asked Euphrasie.
"There is no harm in making the inquiry, but she is not there."
It was even so: Mrs. Ellwood had departed, fearing that if she remained there she should be constantly subject to intrusion. In the parlor into which they were shown, Euphrasie found one whom she was little prepared to see: it was M. Bertolot. A general grasping of hands and affectionate recognition took place; and then the old priest inquired their business. "The bishop sent me here," he said, "because he could not come himself, and because the poor lady entreated the utmost secrecy; but what brought you here?"
M. de Villeneuve took up the word: "We came from the duke; his grace thought our young friend here might find admittance, though we were all refused."
"His grace need not dream of any such thing; the wrong he has done is not such as embassies or money can rectify. The lady is a true-hearted, noble woman, a sincere Catholic; the message that she has left for him is simply that 'she forgives him, and will pray for his conversion; but if ever he loved her, she entreats that he will never more pursue her or send to her.'"
"But how is she to be supported?"
"She trusts in God, who is a husband to the widow, and a father to the fatherless. The duke's money she will not touch; it is no use to press the matter, she has a woman's instincts, and that is often better than a man's reasoning."
"You are severe, father, but this is a case to make you so; may we not know where she is gone to?"
"No! you may not even know you saw me here; say only you saw her agent, who gave you her message, and would not tell you her residence. Never let the duke or the Godfrey family know that the bishop sent me here."
"You may depend on us, father. But is this all that we are to say to the duchess? You know the question has been raised respecting the validity of the marriage."
"The bishop examined that himself; he would have been glad to prove it a true one, but the scamp who married them was a disguised young spendthrift, who did not know how to keep out of a debtor s jail in any other way than by taking that wicked fee; if Mr. Godfrey is uneasy on that point, he can apply to the bishop, there is his address."
When M. de Villeneuve and Euphrasie returned to Durimond Castle with the result of this mission, they found Adelaide far less placable than the more deeply injured Ellen had expressed herself by her message. She assented indeed to do the honors of the castle, to reign supreme, but she insisted on a virtual separation as the price of her continuing to wear the title of the Duchess of Durimond.
The duke was in no humor to contend with her; perhaps even he was as well pleased to have it so. He was careful to surround her with all imaginable tokens of deference and respect, and told Mr. Godfrey he would see what time would do to soften his haughty Juno. Soon after he accepted the office of ambassador to a foreign court, and thus left his wife at liberty to queen it o'er her vassals at her pleasure.
Meantime we lay before our readers the sad history which occasioned all this commotion.
CHAPTER VIII.
ELLEN'S HISTORY.
Ellen D'Aubrey was the daughter of an Irish officer, who her mother (Ellen Carpenter) had married against the wishes of her family. Our heroine was their only child. [{191}] Soon after her birth the mother, Mrs. D'Aubrey, fell into delicate health, and years of pain and suffering ensued, after which she died, leaving Ellen, then ten years old, to condole her husband for her loss. This, however, was not so easy, for Captain D'Aubrey had truly loved his refined and gentle wife, and the illness she had borne with so much sweetness and patience had the more endeared her to him; besides which, during that sickness he had learned many important lessons. Up to that time his wife, though amiable and affectionate, had thought but little on serious subjects, and he, though nominally a Catholic, had neglected his religion. But when sorrow came, and the wife and mother became aware that though she might linger on a while, she could not regain health, and must leave behind her those so dear to her, then an anxiety for future reunion took possession of her. She began to question her husband of religion, and he, recalling for her solace the lessons of his youth, became himself impressed with their importance. Catholic truth and Catholic consolation were poured into the soul of the departing wife, and having procured her every necessary aid, the captain imparted himself a great consolation by promising to watch over the education of their darling child, and endeavor to bring her up in the faithful performance of her duties as a Catholic Christian, without endangering her faith by permitting her to frequent schools or society hostile to her religion.
The noble-hearted captain had scarcely closed the eyes of the being he held so dear, than he began to consider how he might best fulfil his promise. He sold his commission, and living on a small annuity which he possessed, applied himself to develop in his child the powers that lay enfolded in her soul; but above all, he sought to cherish and to strengthen religious principle. Well did the little Ellen repay his care. At that time, in England, there were few exterior aids to religion. Catholic chapels were few and far apart. One priest attended many missions, and these but stealthily; but so much the more sedulously did the captain endeavor to infuse the spirit of religion into the soul of his child, and to animate her with patience, meekness, humility, and universal charity. Loving and beloved, she grew up beneath her father's eye like a beautiful flower, reciprocating his tenderness, and increasing daily in beauty and accomplishments. Suddenly a dark cloud lowered above that happy home. Captain D'Aubrey was seized with a fever, and in three days expired, leaving Ellen, at the age of sixteen, an orphan, almost penniless, cast upon the world's cold charity.
Strangers made out her connexions, for Ellen was stupefied by the blow. Strangers wrote to Mrs. Carpenter, her maternal grandmother, and before Ellen well knew what she was about she was travelling south with an old lady, who endeavored in vain to rouse her from her sorrow.
When the captain's affairs were arranged, but little was found remaining. His annuity ceased at his death. It had just sufficed for their maintenance; and as the sale of the furniture amounted to very little, the poor girl was utterly dependent.
Such was the account given by Mrs. Carpenter to Mrs. Barford, her married daughter, with whom, being herself a widow, she then resided. Mrs. Barford had married a man whose character was the very reverse of that of Ellen's father. He was a thorough business-like, money-making instrument, having no higher idea than to be continually extending his business, no higher ambition than to be mayor of the city in which he resided. Already he was a great man in his own estimation, and he intended that his family should become of importance also. This couple received Ellen but coldly, though she hardly knew or felt it, for she was as yet absorbed in grief. Mrs. Carpenter intended to be kind, and insisted on Ellen's grief being respected. [{192}] A week or two passed, then it was proposed one Sunday to Ellen to go with the family to church. She excused herself. Another week passed—and the same proposal was repeated. On this she was closely questioned as to the reason why; and when Mr. Barford came at length to understand that Ellen was a Catholic, his anger knew no bounds. A Catholic in his own house! He feed popery! He foster rebellion! He countenance powder-plots! The thing was impossible! the girl must leave the house—she would corrupt the children, contaminate the servants, compromise his respectability, pervert the neighborhood; in short, breed every kind of disorder and endanger his position. Go she must. In vain his wife pleaded that the poor girl had nowhere to go to; she was obliged to summon Mrs. Carpenter to her aid. As the old lady had plenty of money, Mr. Barford held her habitually in respect, especially as she could will it as she pleased; therefore, when she insisted that where she was her grand-daughter should find a home, the great man yielded, and among themselves they arranged a plan which was to counteract the evil influence they dreaded. Mrs. Carpenter undertook to watch Ellen closely, and by degrees to win her from her papistry: and as there was no papist church in the locality, the neighbors need not even know what her religion was.
As for powder-plots, the good old lady argued that a girl of sixteen, without friends, money, or resources, could not effect much against the government, so she was not uneasy on that score. Silenced, but not convinced, Mr. Barford, who dared not disoblige his wife's mother, said no more on the subject to her, but he determined to keep a sharp lookout, and nip in the bud any incipient conspiracy. But under these influences, the poor girl's happiness was sadly compromised. Her grandmother undertook to enlighten her as to the character of these papists, to show her what a terrible set these unfortunate, benighted idolaters are, and so to bring her round to the Protestant establishment. Most horrible tales of conspiracies, plots, martyrdoms, inquisitorial victimizing, and every species of villanous scheming for the overthrow of pure religion, were recounted to her. These failing to make impression, the sin of idolatry was brought home to herself, and on Fridays the crime of not eating meat was by no means accounted a small one. A regular series of petty persecutions were commenced, the children of the family were taught to distrust her; she was not allowed to make acquaintances in the neighborhood, nor to stir out, save at her grandmother's side.
The old lady meant well in the part she took in this; she was not aware of the greater portion of the annoyance Ellen underwent, and she thought time only was wanted to enable her to throw off the prejudices of her education. She really liked Ellen for her refinement and gentleness, and kept her as much as she could about her. She made her read to her, and wait upon her; and though the books were not to Ellen's taste, yet this was by far the most tolerable portion of her existence. But even of this small alleviation, Mrs. Barford grew jealous; she was greatly afraid that her mother would leave too great a portion of her wealth to the poor orphan girl, and her harshness increased in proportion as Mrs. Carpenter's partiality manifested itself. She did not hesitate to impute the most unworthy motives to Ellen for paying such kind and respectful attentions to her grandmother, for Ellen's conduct contrasted too painfully with that of the unruly children of the household; and when by her reproaches Mrs. Barford drew tears from the poor girl's eyes, she would bid her "go and warm herself into her grandmother's favor, by her Jesuitical caresses and her crocodile tears." [{193}] Poor girl! it was no wonder that she became pale and thin and miserable; but instead of being induced to give up her religion, she clung to it the more, the more she stood in need of consolation. And thus a year, a long and dreary year, had passed away. At length a partial respite came. Mrs. Carpenter was taken sick; Ellen waited on her most assiduously; but although she could scarcely be spared as a nurse, on account of the comfort her presence seemed to afford the sick, yet Mrs. Barford's jealousy, and her husband's ill-treatment, considerably increased. Measures were often spoken of between this amiable pair, and plans devised to effect an estrangement between Ellen and her grandmother. The old lady partially recover, and then Mrs. Barford grew eloquent on the wonderful effects of a change of air. By dint of manoeuvering, she at length made the poor sick woman consent to dispense with Ellen's attendance at the watering-place to which they were bound. Mrs. Barford went herself to take care of her mother, and her children accompanied her.
* * * * * * Ellen was now virtually alone, for Mr. Barford was engaged in his business, and not wish to be troubled with her company, even at his meals. What a relief! Ellen heard the carriage drive from the door with a feeling of release from bitter thraldom. How long it might last she knew not, but certainly for some weeks. She read her own books —her father's books—so long concealed at the bottom of her chest. She opened the piano, and sang the hymns of the church. She took out her sketch-book, and reviewed the seems she had visited with her father.
At once her spirits rose, her eyes sparkled, her animation returned, and at the close of the day she retired to rest, for the first time in that house, with a light and joyous spirit. The next morning she was up with the lark. She opened her window to inhale the balmy air, and a gush of joy came over her as she felt that she was secure from annoyance at least for a time. A hasty breakfast was soon despatched, and the fragrant, breeze driving in at the window, attracted her attention to the flowery meadows. Her spirits were too keen to permit her to sit still, and as the bright sunshine poured in upon her, she asked herself why she should not enjoy it out of doors; she had been imprisoned so long, and now there was no one to rebuke or find fault with what she did. She could not withstand the temptation. "I will go and sketch the ruins of the abbey," she said, "and meditate on the times the good old monks were there." Sketch-book in hand she sallied forth. The streets of the city were soon traversed, and the avenues leading to the ruins more slowly paced. The morning was one of most glorious beauty. The birds sang in the new-leafing groves, the busy bees hummed, and the dew-drops clinging to the tips of the fresh-springing grass, presented a most dazzling appearance as, waving in the sunshine, they reflected hues of every color, and freshened with new life the whole creation. Ellen's spirits were at their height; yet with somewhat of a solemn step she approached the hallowed solitudes. None was there save herself—at least she perceived none. Long she wandered within the precincts trodden by holy feet of old, and at length sat down on a fallen tree to begin her sketch.
The ruin had formerly been surrounded by a moat; even now one side of this remained, and communicated with the river. By the side of this, our heroine took her seat on the fallen tree. How long she sat she knew not. It was a great delight to her once more to handle the pencil so long laid aside. She worked as if inspired, and the main features were at length described with taste and accuracy. In her eagerness she had untied her bonnet, (which was a close one, covering her face, after the fashion of those days,) and pushed it slightly back, [{194}] thus displaying her animated features, unconscious the while that a stranger was gazing at her, and that for upward of an hour he had been tracing her features in his gratified imagination.
At length she rose to depart, but as she was putting up her sketch, her bonnet fell from her head, and would have rolled into the river had not the stranger caught it, as it reached the brink, and gracefully restored it to her. He was older than herself and wore an officer's uniform. Could there be any harm in thanking him, and in unfolding, at his request, the sketch which had occasioned the accident? Ellen thought not of harm. She was unversed in the world's ways, and had experienced more of its annoyances than its dangers. Insensibly a conversation was entered into. It was prolonged until the shadows proclaimed that the sun was verging to the west. The stranger was evidently pleased and surprised at Ellen's keen sense of natural and artistic beauty, and at the simple yet poetic manner in which she clothed her ideas. The themes dilated on touched exactly his favorite hobby, and it was evidently a gratification to him to find one fresh in feeling, endowed with genius and beauty, who could appreciate his feelings and sympathize with his artistic tastes.
Reluctantly he parted with his companion, and on the morrow he seemed intuitively to know where he should find her, to renew the enjoyment of the previous day. Another day came, and another, until at length it became a matter of course that the two should meet. And still it was only poetry, or music, or painting, that occupied them. Why, then, did Ellen half surmise that the meeting was wrong? One day she did keep away, and thought she would try to do so always, but the hours hung heavily on her hands, and her resolution failed; so the walks continued.
At length the period for her aunt's return arrived, and not only must she expect to be virtually imprisoned as before, but the dread of what her aunt would say when she heard (as surely from some kind, gossiping neighbor she would hear) of her daily interviews with a strange gentleman, broke upon her. Why had she not thought of this before? Why had she yielded to the temptation? All too late those questions now, and those only who know what it is to live amid insult and neglect can appreciate her feelings or estimate the temptations to which she was exposed.
The stranger, who called himself Colonel Ellwood, had travelled much; he spoke to her of Italy, of Spain, of France; he had brought her a rosary which the Pope had blessed, and had described to her in glowing terms many of the ceremonies which he has witnessed. Why should she distrust him? With tears in her eyes she told him that in two days her aunt was expected home, and that these interviews must cease. "Indeed," she added, "I am afraid my aunt will half-kill me when she finds they have ever taken place."
"Then why not forestall her return by your own departure?"
"And to what quarter of the world should I go?' asked Ellen.
"If, sweet lady, you would trust yourself with me," said Colonel Ellwood.
Ellen started and shrank back, but the colonel followed her, saying: "Nay, do me not the injustice to suppose that I would wrong you; the impression you have made upon me is for life; your happiness, your honor, are as dear to me as my own soul. It is marriage I offer you—a bona fide marriage, though a private one. My circumstances at this moment are peculiar. But fly with me, and a Catholic priest shall bless our union; I swear it on my honor."
Ellen hesitated, but her very hesitation encouraged hope. The day passed. Another came. Again Colonel Ellwood urged flight. Again the fear beset her lest her aunt should hear of these clandestine meetings. Love, too, for the stranger, who, although [{195}] unknown, was evidently refined, cultivated, and well versed in all human learning, grew rapidly since he had declared his love. To lose him was to lose everything; for who save he had shown kindness to the poor, friendless orphan girl? The time passed:—the day was at hand—a restless day—sleepless night—haunted by the sound of carriage wheels bringing back her tyrant to her home. Ellen's resolution gave way: two hours before her aunt's arrival she quitted that dwelling of strife for ever.
Colonel Ellwood appeared to keep his promise. One in the dress of a Catholic priest united them in marriage, and to Ellen's fancy that there was someone of informality in the ceremony, came the ready reply that it was necessitated by the anomalous position of a Catholic priest in England. [Footnote 37]
[Footnote 37: This was before the Catholic emancipation bill had passed.]
She knew little or nothing of the law, and for some time afterward she resided on the Continent with her husband. Here no doubt harassed her; love for him excluded doubt, and that love at times nearly reached the height of adoration. On the other hand, the happiness of geniality, combined with the high mental culture which her husband loved to promote, added so intellectual, nay so ethereal an expression to her naturally handsome features, that his love and reverence increased as time wore on, and he dared not tell the being who thus fondly loved him for himself alone, how foully he had deceived her. In his eyes she was an angel of light; and far from offering impediments to her fulfilling her religious duties, he delighted in her constancy; though there were times when a cloud came over him, and he felt as if he were but he demon of darkness by her side, destined to become the destroyer of her happiness. At such moments, Ellen, who was in mute amazement at the paroxysms which assailed him would strive by every endearing art to charm away his melancholy, and by so doing sometimes nearly drove him to frenzy; and alarmed her for his sanity, without decreasing her affection. But these fitful moments passed away. Continental troubles drove them back to England, and here Colonel Ellwood's difficulty in keeping his incognito increased. Sometimes he took an abode for her in the North of Scotland, sometimes in the mountains of Wales; his restlessness and anxiety distressed and puzzled her, he was not the same man in England he had seemed on the Continent. He was often absent, too, for weeks, nay for months together; but this he accounted for so plausibly on the score of army duties and the like, that Ellen tried to be satisfied, especially as he carried on a constant correspondence with her, and always sent her regular and plentiful remittances. But one circumstance puzzled her even in this—it was that she had to address all her answers to him under cover to his lawyer. This person, who knew nothing of Ellen, believed it was a sort of affair common among the nobility, young and old, and performed the business part of the transaction faithfully as regarded transmitting money and letters, while he gave himself no further trouble about the matter.
The time of discovery arrived but too soon. Ellen's child had been ill, and she had taken him to the seacoast to restore his health. It was the first time that she had ever left the residence appointed for her by her husband without his sanction and permission, and it was the urgency of the case that prompted her to deviate from this settled plan. She thought to be gone only a few days, and his last letter had bidden her not to expect him for a month or two, as pressing business was to be imperatively attended to; so there was little chance of his being displeased at the proceeding, indeed he had never been really displeased with her. She went, then, and on the beach she was recognized by a lady she did not remember, but [{196}] who chanced to have a better memory than Ellen. The lady appeared to be somewhat of a morose and malignant disposition, and entered into conversation apparently to gratify some ill-natured feeling. Ellen was annoyed and would have avoided her, but the other evidently had an object in view. At last she blurted out:
"So the Duke of Durimond is to be married soon, I hear."
"I do not know," said Ellen, "I have no acquaintance among the great."
"No acquaintance with the Duke of Durimond, madam? Why, surely I saw you at——Hotel in Inverness-shire with him three years ago."
"In Inverness-shire I was with my husband, but I saw no duke there."
"Your husband, ma'am! the gentleman was called Colonel Ellwood, was he not? Well, then, madam, the world believes Colonel Ellwood and the Duke of Durimond to be the same person. But, to be sure, you ought to know best. I can only say I was told so, often, in Inverness-shire, and now the duke is gone to marry Miss Godfrey of Estcourt Hall; is that a secret also to you?"
The woman evidently gloated in the pain she inflicted, and stood gazing at the victim. Ellen replied not—she was thunderstruck. Then she deemed it impossible. She turned back to the house, gave up the lodgings, and returned to her former home. There, making necessary arrangements, she left her child in the care of trustworthy servants, and ordering a post-chaise, was driven, as fast as horses could carry her, to the house of the London lawyer, travelling night and day till she reached her destination.
The lawyer, Mr. Reynolds, would not reply to her questions. He begged the lady to go home, saying that Colonel Ellwood would soon be with her, and that he would be the best person to explain all mysteries. He, Mr. Reynolds, really was not in a position to satisfy her.
What an answer to an anxious heart! mystery upon mystery! Why, since they came to England, did these long absences take place? Why did she not know his address? Why—a long list of whys that sorely oppressed her heart. What was she to do now? Being thus far, she thought at least she would go down to Estcourt Hall and try to catch a glimpse of the Duke of Durimond; she would know then if the report that identified him with her husband was based on truth.
She turned suddenly on the lawyer: "Where is the Duke of Durimond at this instant?" Her manner, so unlike her usual calm demeanor, startled Mr. Reynolds, and put him off his guard.
"I believe, madam, the duke is at the mansion of the Hon. Mr. Godfrey, at Estcourt."
"What is he doing there?"
"The world reports him as about to be married."
Ellen turned in a resolute manner to the door—the lawyer followed her. "Be persuaded, ma'am, go home in peace; all will be right in time, believe me."
Ellen got into the post-chaise, and ordered the driver to proceed to Sussex without delay. That night she was at Estcourt. The next day, as we have seen, she approached the carriage, recognized the duke to be Colonel Ellwood, followed him in his bridal tour, spoke with him, and then returned, as best she might, to her now dreary home.
The duke sent to her—she received not his messages; he wrote—she returned his letters unopened; he called on a Roman Catholic prelate to confess the transaction, and beg of him to take care that Ellen was suitably provided for; but the bishop, after seeing Ellen and becoming interested in the story, would not receive any money from the duke on Ellen's account. He said she refused it, and he could but acquiesce in her decision. The duke was utterly perplexed.
TO BE CONTINUED.
Translated from La Correspondant
THE FOUNDERS OF FRENCH UNITY.
[Footnote 38]
BY THE COUNT DE CHAMPAGNY.
[Footnote 38: Historical Studies. By the Count L. de Carné.]
Our readers are certainly not ignorant of the name or the book of M. de Carné. The work which he published in 1848, on the eve of the revolution of February, attracted the interest as well as the suffrages of all serious times, and the mass of those who read may know and appreciate it.
The idea of this book is well known. M. de Carné has been struck with what constitutes the peculiar genius of the French nation, its unity. He has wished to ascertain and trace the origin of that unity; and has found it summed up in a few proper names, and has condensed in the history of a small number of statesmen that of the nation.
Nothing could be more proper. We are the republican of any nation that God has made, and we are so because the French nation is more strictly one than any other, and more than any other needs a chief. Abandoned ourselves, and obliged, willingly or unwillingly, to take each a personal part in the common action, we are worth very little; but we are admirable when we are commanded. I do not know if Shakespeare is right when he calls France the Soldier of God, but what appears to me certain is that we are much better soldiers than citizens. In France the citizen is a stupid lout who, three-fourths of the time, lets himself be led, and miserably led, either by a journal or a spouting chief of a club; he abdicates himself and consents to be led blindly by the passions of others. He cries "Harrah for Revolution!" when he thinks he is only crying "Hurrah for Reform!" and makes a revolution without intending it, and makes it to the profit of his enemies. The soldier, on the contrary, finds in obedience the element of his spontaneity, of his intelligence, I had almost said, of his liberty. He was but a peasant, very dull and lubberly when he was free; put upon him the coat of passive obedience, and he acquires abilities which seem to belong only to liberty. He is prompt, he is sagacious, he is intelligent; faithful to his commander when his commander guides him, full of activity and spontaneity, if by chance the commander fails him. Why is this? Why is the English citizen so intelligent in commercial and political life, so hampered under the red coat? Why is the French peasant so stupid when he is taken from his plough, so much at his ease when in uniform? To this I know no answer, unless it be, that God has so made us. In France, the soldier is more himself when under discipline than the citizen in his liberty. It is not, then, surprising that the history of a people, I will not say so royalist, but so monarchical in the etymological sense of the word, should be summed up in the proper names of a few men.
The Abbé Suger, St. Louis, Du Guesclin, Joan of Arc, Louis XI., Henry IV., Richelieu, Mazarin: such are the personages whom M. de Carné has selected, and who he shows have gradually effected the development of French unity. It is in the succession of these names that we can follow with him that development.
However, it is not necessary to believe, and M. de Carné does not pretend it, that these men made French unity. It has been made by itself. France was really one in fact before being made so by the government and laws. From the tenth century, when all Gaul was parcelled out, when the large provinces all belonged to masters independent in fact, save for the nominal law of vassalage, hardly acknowledged, this divided nation felt herself already one, felt herself already a nation. She has been one ever since, in reacting against the yoke of the Austrasian dynasty of the Carlovingians, she commenced to reject from her midst the Germanic race, language, and institutions. She had her language—we find it distinctly in the oath of 843; she had her capital—that little mud city which began to pass the arm of the Seine and to spread itself from the island over on the right bank, was already the centre of French life. She had her dynasty—that kinglet possessor of a narrow domain, which he disputed with great feudatories more powerful than he, was already and for all the king of France. She was already herself advancing to the time when the grandson of Robert the Strong would make himself obeyed from the Rhine to the Pyrenees, the langue d' Oyl would become the common tongue of Christendom, and all the fiefs from Flanders to the Mediterranean would hold from the great tower of the Louvre.
Thus it seems to me that one of the most important facts in our history, though little remarked, is the first armed manifestation of France under Louis the Fat. At the time the Emperor Henry V. penetrated into Champagne with a German army, the king, who, according to his own expression, had grown old at the siege of Montlhéry, in a few weeks found himself at the head of three hundred thousand men, united as a thick cloud of grasshoppers, who cover the banks of the rivers, the mountains, and plains. A few weeks more, and the great vassals, the Count of Flanders, the Duke of Aquitaine, the Count of Brittany, brought him new reinforcements, and his army, raised to four hundred thousand men, was double that of the emperor, which was itself enormous for the middle ages. The political bond, however, which united those different countries which are to-day called France, was very feeble. These vassals, present at the camp of Louis the Fat, rendered him scarcely a ceremonial homage. What bond could unite so many different populations for the defence of a territory which, at that epoch, had scarcely a name, if it was not community of origin and a common aversion to the Germanic domination? The French nation was then one, even at that epoch, when the king was king of only five of our present departments at most. She made herself one by herself and her blood, before being made so by kings and laws.
In all we have been ourselves, and more ourselves than we think. We are neither Franks nor Visigoths; we are Gallo-Romans. We are Gauls civilized by Rome, and baptized by the church. The influence of the Frank domination has been more superficial than was believed in the last century; the name remains to us, but what else remains? In the language, which is the great symbol of nationality, the Germanic element, whether in words or in forms of speech, has evidently been only secondary; and it has left no traces in the national character. In institutions the Germanic element dominated for a time, for the simple reason that it possessed the political power; but it was the labor of the middle ages, and we can say their glory, to efface it.
In fact, the struggle against feudalism and feudal institutions was, to speak truly, a national struggle. There were traces of German domination during four centuries which it was necessary to efface. The day when France demanded of the house of Robert the Strong a chief, king or not, but a chief to oppose to the Rhenish sovereignty of the Carlovingians, that day she commenced, without knowing it, the struggle against the institutions which grew out of the Germanic [{199}] conquest. That struggle was continued under St. Louis, the epoch of the great radiation of French power, when the Mediterranean was almost our domain; when we established colonies even on the coasts of Africa; when our missionaries penetrated even to Thibet; when the sons of Genghis Khan were in diplomatic relations with us, and when even in Italy they spoke by preference our language as "the most delightful" and the most generally understood of any in the world.
In this work the church came to our aid. The great struggle of the papacy was also against the pride of the Germanic supremacy. It was against the feudalism planted in the church, against feudatory bishops who bore armor, and carried the falcon on their wrist, who held their dioceses as fiefs, and received their investiture from the German suzerain, and against the kings their patrons, that St. Gregory VII. wielded the papal power. It was against the institutions of Germanic barbarism, against the feudal aristocracy, against tests by fire and water, against private wars and judicial combats, that the church, and especially the papacy, never ceased to struggle. There was, then, during a whole century a perfect accord between the kings of France and the pontiffs of Rome, between the independence of the commons and the franchises of the religious orders, between the authority of the legists and that of the councils.
And for these institutions introduced by the Germanic conquests, and which we in accord with the church combated, what have we in accord with the church substituted? The institutions proper to our race, proper to our traditions as a civilized people, proper to our manners as Christians. For feudalism the idea of direct power such as Rome had taught, and such as Charlemagne comprehended and attempted to revive; in other words, for suzerainty sovereignty; for the jurisdiction of lords was substituted in spirituals that of ecclesiastical judges, in temporals that of royal justices; consequently, for feudal law the canon law of Christian, and the civil law of imperial Rome. For the right of private battle we substituted the possession of arms remitted to the sovereign alone, as in Rome and in all civilized countries. For duels and judicial trials by fire and water we substituted trials by witness, according to the Roman law and the law of the church and of all civilized nations. In a word, we effaced the traces of Germanic paganism and barbarism, to become in our laws once more what we were by blood, Gallo-Romans; what we were by our faith, Christians; what we still are by our reminiscences, civilized men. Such was the work of our race from Robert the Strong to St. Louis, of the popes from Gregory VII. to Gregory IX., of our commons from the first communal revolt to the enfranchisement of the serfs under Louis le Hutin, of the church from the day when she proclaimed the truce of God, and constituted to sustain it a sort of universal Landwehr, to that in which she canonized, in the person of St. Louis, the type, not of the feudal chief, but of the Christian king. Only from this union of all forces in reference to a single end, essentially national, legitimate, and Christian, there was one unhappy exception, that of the nobility, the heir, whether by blood or position, of the Germanic traditions, investitures, and institutions, and who became a sort of common enemy. They were found, in spite of their patriotism, standing apart from the nation, and unpopular in spite of the many ties which bound them to the people. The church, royalty, even the legists had their place in the popular affection, but the nobility had none. They were suspected by the government and abandoned by it to the suspicions of the people. Hence they were so much the further removed from the political tendency of the nation as they were nearer to its political action, and all the less disposed to co-operate in the work of national elaboration as they were more open to the seductions of foreign [{200}] politics. Hence they could make the war of the Annagnacs in the fourteenth century, the war of the Public Good in the fifteenth, the religious wars of the sixteenth, and of the Fronde in the seventeenth; but it was never theirs to exercise that popular, regular, pacific action, the action of patronage and defence, exercised by the aristocracy of England. They had only the choice, on the one hand, of a selfish, unpopular revolt against the king—a revolt resting on the enemies of France for its support, or on the other, of service to the crown, a service which they gloriously and courageously rendered indeed, but which was a service of perfect obedience, in which there was nothing to be gained for their order, in which indeed they could reap glory, but not power. Never has there been a real aristocracy in France—there has been only an obedient or an insubordinate feudal nobility.
Thus may be given in brief the sum of the first part of M. de Carné s book; and this first part foretells what is to follow. The position of royalty, the nobles, and the commons respectively, was during four centuries developed only on bases furnished by the middle ages. The development effected in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries M. de Carné has personified in Suger, abbot of St. Denis, and St. Louis—an able and intelligent choice. Suger and St. Louis were two rare statesmen in an epoch when statesmanship hardly existed. Suger, formed by the rigid and wise discipline of the church, a full-grown man in the midst of the childish caprices and inconsequences of his age, a real statesman, although the minister of a king who was no statesman at all, was certainly one of the greatest and most intelligent agents in the national work, of which those even who were its instruments rarely had the slightest conception. St. Louis rose still further above his age. He pertained not more to the middle ages by his faith than by his statesmanship he pertains to our own times. No king ever labored harder to evolve from its feudal envelope the civil and political life of France; no king ever studied more diligently to place royalty on the footing of modern sovereignties, and to fashion it, as M. de Carné well observes, after the Biblical royalty, rather than after feudal suzerainty.
M. de Carné is very right, then, in seeking in these two rare men a serious and matured political plan; but he would have found it difficult to discover traces of such a plan in others, and perhaps even the habits of his own mind render him less fitted to judge other heroes of the middle ages. In the very pages he has written, I see, indeed, Suger; I see, indeed St. Louis; but I do not see enough of the middle age itself, of that age of youth with its contradictions and it's inconsistencies; and M. de Carné it seems to me to be too wise, too sensible, too logical, and too much of a modern statesman, to paint it in its true light.
I express here, I confess, a personal impression, not a judgment, and perhaps a profounder study of the monuments of the middle ages would give me a different impression. But I own that when I seek the the middle ages in modern writings, I receive an impression quite different from that which I receive when I attempt to study them in their own monuments. With the moderns, not only with M. de Carné, but with writers who are antiquaries rather than statesman, I find presented as characteristic of the middle ages profound political use, or at least a certain power of foresight and calculation in those who govern; but if I open the smallest chronicle, I discover nothing of the sort. These kings and these statesmen become only warriors, rude captains, capable of any devotion—capable also of any violence and even of any falsehood, rather than of any wise or consistent policy seriously and steadily pursued. Whether it is merely the result of the oldness of the language, and the simplicity, so often apparent, which a still unformed idiom gives to thought, I [{201}] must say this age has on me the effect of an age of infancy.
It's tongue stammers, and its diction resembles the patois of our provinces and the songs of our nurses. In art it had, not without a simplicity sometimes admirable, that awkwardness and that stiffness which mark the first toddling walk of children. Its public life was mingled with puerile ceremonies, with a fantastic symbolism, sometimes even indecent. Its faith asked for no reason, as asks the mature man; but felt, saw, understood as does the adolescent; it carried into it sometimes a puerile superstition which impaired it, sometimes an admirable simplicity which excludes the wisdom of the doctors, though not the devotedness of martyrs. It instituted the Feast of Fools and of Asses. Yet it made the Crusades. It embraced Christian morality without hesitation and without an objection; it embraced it, forgot to practise it; while professing good, it practised evil with the facility of contradiction surpassing even the ordinary powers of human nature; it was a good Catholic, but scrupled not to pillage the churches. Its submission it refused in principle to nobody—to the pope, the king, or the suzerain; and yet never did the papacy receive more frequent insults, never had royalty such trouble to make itself obeyed, never were quarrels between superior and inferior so frequent, as in the middle ages—those ages of submission and of insubordination, in which the rules of the hierarchy were better established and less observed than in any other. This contradiction, this inconsistency, this easy acceptance of the law while it is asserted only in theory, and this easy forgetfulness of it when it comes to practice, this subordination of the mind, and this revolt of the heart, is it not plainly that of boyhood? Boy seldom refuses to accept the moral truth that is taught him; he does not reject in theory even the obedience which is exacted of him; but, at a given moment, it costs him nothing to contradict that truth in practice, and to fail in that obedience; he denies never the law; he unceasingly breaks it.
It is true, that when we rise to a certain general point of view, nothing appears better regulated than the mediaeval society. Regularity, far from being defective, was in excess. A manifold foresight multiplied the laws. The church and the state, feudality and the commons, sovereignty and suzerainty, had each their codes, complicated and provident as those of a society in which right and interest are complicated and run athwart each other. Decretals, bulls, decisions of councils, feudal assizes, royal charters and commercial charters, laws and regulations of all kinds, embarrass us by their number much more than they sadden us by their absence. And the definitive result of the whole is a grand and admirable effort of Christian wisdom to establish in this world the reign of justice and peace. No right is denied, no interest is sacrificed, no power is without its limit, no liberty without its defense. Relations of the king to the subject, of the suzerain to the vassal, of the master to the serf, all are regulated there on the basis, so often forgotten, of reciprocal rights and duties. Never, perhaps, have the conciliation of order and liberty, hierarchy and the equality, the powers of the chief and the rights of the inferior, been conceived in so happy a manner.
I said conceived, not effected; for if we come to the fact, the rule fails to be translated into reality, or, rather, is so often broken that it may be said not even to exist; all relations become violent; master and serf, suzerain and vassal, king and subject, whose mutual relations were so well settled in law, are in a continual struggle against one another. That magnificent edifice presented us in theory, with the pope and the emperor at its summit, and in which the lowest serf holds his place, is in reality as unsubstantial as the fairy castles seen in our dreams.
When I speak thus of the middle ages, I speak only of the lay society; I do not speak of the cloister and the church. They judge very improperly the middle ages who identify society in them with the church. The church was then, as now, not of her age. She struggled against it, and was more or less sullied on the points on which she came more directly in contact with the world—that is, in the secular clergy, and even the episcopacy, and more completely herself only when the cloister, the distance of places, and the diversity of origin removed her farthest from the feudal society—that is to say, in the religious orders and the papacy. I regard as a veritable chimera that dream, sometimes entertained, of a Europe gentle and submissive, obedient to the least word of the papacy, and conducted peaceably by the staff of St. Peter—in the ways of ignorance and barbarism, say unbelieving historians—in the ways of happiness and salvation, say Catholic writers. Both delight in this dream; the former because they would ruin the church by throwing upon her the responsibility of the crimes and vices of the middle ages; the latter because they would restore those ages by identifying them with the church. But I ask them to tell me at what time, during what year, what day, or what hour only this general submission existed? I ask them to tell me if there was a single day, a single minute which did not bring to the church her combat, not merely against kings and feudal lords, but against nations, and not only on one point of Europe, but on a thousand?—if once only this temporal jurisdiction of the papacy over the world was exercised otherwise than at the point of the sword—the sword of steel, as well as the sword of speech?
This middle age, this docile child, this innocent lamb, which allows itself to be led gently and blindly by the shepherd's crook, I find nowhere; I see indeed a child, but a hard and rebellious child, who seldom bends, rarely except to threats, and who, however humbly he may and, finds it no fault to straighten himself immediately after. Alas! the infancy of a people is not the infancy of men. The infant man has his physical weakness, which permits him to be controlled, and in restraining protects him. The infant people, for its misfortune, has all the passions and all the material forces of the full-grown man, and by the side of this formidable infant, the papacy to me appears different in everything, different by its supernatural life, which lifts it above the human condition, by the maturity of its intelligence, which elevates it above this youthful world, by the traditions of the Italian civilization which raises it above this world, still sunk in barbarism. It is divine in the midst of men, adult in the midst of children, Italian in the midst of these Teutons, Roman in the midst of these barbarians, civilian in the midst of these soldiers.
And by this, it seems to me, is justified, even if not otherwise, the political part played by the papacy in the middle ages. When it is demanded by what right it pretended to the temporal government of Europe, I answer unhesitatingly, by
"The right that a spirit vast and firm in its designs
Has over the gross spirits of vulgar men;"
or, at least, the right which maturity has naturally over youth, science over ignorance, reason over unreason. The mature man, whom chance has placed in the midst of indocile and imprudent children, has over them by his age and reason alone a part, at least, of the rights of a father and a teacher. Only, with the father or teacher physical force supports this right, while to the papacy it was wanting, and could be supplied only by the sanctity of its character, the authority of it's words, and the intrepidity of its government.
This will be for ever its glory. The glory of the church is far less in having reigned than in having fought. That temporal dominion of the Holy See was never in the state of a peaceable, regular, acknowledged sovereignty. It was only a form of the unrelenting warfare which the church sustained against evil,—one of the phases of her never-ending combat, one of the arms of her ceaseless struggle. The church has fought either without auxiliaries, or with auxiliaries always ready to abandon her; she herself wields not the sword of the flesh, and is never sure that those who do handle it in her name will not turn it against her; sometimes saved by kings and menaced by the people, sometimes aided by the people and crushed by kings, she has fought her fight without having, in reality, any other human power than that of her dangers, the sufferings, the exile, the captivity, the humiliations, the death of her pontiffs. She has never completely triumphed, but she has never fainted. She has never completely teamed the lion she combated, but she has been able to soften him. She has never been a peaceful and happy mother in the midst of submissive children, a pacific queen in the midst of devoted subjects; she has been rather an unwearied combatant, according to his word who said, "I am calm to bring the world not peace, but a sword."
But the moment must come when the child becomes a man. The struggle then changes front. The man is not better than the child; properly speaking, he is not wiser or more reasonable: he has simply more order in his life, and more logical sequence in his conduct. A sort of human respect induces him to study to maintain greater harmony between his principles and his actions; when he has a good theory, he tries oftener than the child to have a good practice; and oftener when his conduct is bad, he concocts a bad theory to justify it. To use a well-known word, he practices his good maxims or he maxims his bad practices, as the grace of God in him and his conscience are stronger or weaker. This accord with himself, which is the characteristic, at least the pretension, of the mature man, makes alike his greatness and his littleness. The church, when society is matured, has to combat doctrines rather than passions, ideas rather than vices. The middle ages were, then, the infancy of Christian nations; should we say the sixteenth century—the age of passion, of effervescence, of revolt, of lapses—was the age of youth? Is the present age the age of maturity or of decrepitude? This, five hundred years hence, our descendants may be able to determine.
It still remains to know whether the childhood of a people, like the childhood of individuals, ought not to be regretted rather than disdained, and whether it does not charm us more by the memory of its joys than it humiliates us by the memory of its weaknesses. If the childhood of the individual is not capable of crimes, it is not any more capable of great deeds; the childhood of a people, on the contrary, although it may have its gentle and simple side, has also its heroic and sublime side. It was so with the child-people who passed the Red Sea, or fought under the walls of Troy. They are child-men for whom the Pentateuch was written, and who inspired the Iliad. They are child-men, our ancestors, who reconquered the tomb of Christ, who carried faith even to the depths of China, and who with Joan of Arc chased the English from France. They were not souls free from all blemish, nor hands never sullied; very often the brutality of their manners repels us, and we are borne, in seeing them, like the tender souls in those iron ages, to seek refuge in the shadow of the cloister, in order to find there, at least, peace, delicacy of heart, dignity of intelligence, and serenity of soul. But they were really of those to whom much is forgiven, for they loved much. Among their contradictions they had this grand and noble contradiction—that of having committed great faults, and yet preserving the love of God; of being soiled with vice, and yet not abandoned to it; of having removed far from the Lord, [{204}] but having never despaired of his mercy; of being very hard and very cruel, and yet preserving a loving fibre in their hearts, and tears in their eyes. After all, if these men were children, they were the children of whom it is said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven." If the middle ages had vices, they had also faith: the world in ripening has lost the faith, and retained the vices.
Here is what, as it seems to me, may be said of the middle ages, after what M. de Carné has said, and by the side of what he has said. It may not be without some advantage to place this very different view by the side of the political view, which he has so well developed. I repeat it, that considering only the two types of Suger and St. Louis, he comprehends them, for they come within his sphere; he has, perhaps, not so well comprehended the medium in which they lived, or perhaps he partially forgets it.
We must now follow France and Europe in that more manly, or senile, epoch of their life, which M. de Carné after having given us sketches of Du Guesclin and Joan of Arc, personifies in Louis XI., Henry IV., Cardinal Richelieu, and Mazarin. These are already times which touch very closely our own. The work of Henry IV., of Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV., has crumbled almost under our own eyes, and in many respects their spirit is still living in our midst. The proof is in the fact that it is still the object of attack, Richelieu especially. Louis XIV. is discussed with all the vehemence of a contemporary controversy. This indeed is not the case with M. de Carné. There is not, perhaps, in his book an appreciation more calm, more dignified, more grave than that of the policy of the great cardinal.
He has justified this policy. He shows with an evidence that seems to me incontestable, that, setting aside the severity of certain acts, setting aside the last months of a premature old age, when weariness of power began to obscure his lofty intellect, Richelieu could have done hardly otherwise than he did. The nobility, it must be said, a little in all times, and very much for a century, had yielded to a deplorable spirit of faction. Whether it dreamed, like the Calvinistic gentlemen of the sixteenth century, of a resurrection of feudalism; whether in its eyes, as in those of the Duke of Rohan, was zoning the plan of an aristocratic republic; or whether, as more frequently happens, all its ambitions were individual, and that the alliances it formed were only the coalitions of dissatisfied pretensions, always is it certain that it was in an eminent degree incapable of a serious and well-defined policy. It could not even be national, and for fourscore years there was not a chief of the party who did not seek his support in England or in Spain, and who did not treat in the beginning of his revolt with foreigners, as he counted at its close on treating with his king. The commonalty, though more national, had not a whit more case for the necessary conditions of regular political action. The parliament incontestably formed the head all the Third Estate: it was the most dignified post, the highest placed, the gravest, and the most capable of affairs; and yet the parliaments interfered in politics only with the littlenesses and caprice of children, the conceit of youngsters, or the timidity of old men; by turns submissive and rebellious, idolaters of absolute power, and rebels to every government; rash and timid, rebelling and begging pardon.
The cardinal has been almost always reproached for having established royalty without a basis; but this basis, where was he to find it? Was it ever in his power to create it? Could he found a political aristocracy, respecting the laws, and protecting the people, where there was only a turbulent, unpopular, and unstatesmanlike nobility? Could he erect on French soil a House of Commons, animated at once with the spirit of legal obedience and of constitutional resistance, [{205}] at a time when it did not exist even in England, and where there were only citizens ready to revolt, as was proved in the time of the League, and ready to submit, and even to worship power, as was proved under Henry IV., but wholly incapable of resisting without rebelling? At least, it will not be said that at all hazards, and without taking any account of these facts, the cardinal should have inaugurated in France something like the charter of 1814, or that of 1830, which would be very much like reproaching Hannibal for not using gunpowder, and Christopher Columbus for not using steam!
Richelieu felt that all force, that every principle of peace, grandeur, and unity, was at the time in royalty. Royalty was in the sphere of things possible, or imaginary, the only regular, and even the only popular power. Outside of it there were only resistances, or rather attacks, more or less inconsequent and factious. The liberties of the middle ages, such as they had then, could appear only as turbulent and irregular liberties, incompatible with that order and that regularity which were a necessity for the genius of the cardinal and his age. Richelieu rendered absolute that power which alone could be a protection, well the others would be only sources of danger. In doing this he abolished no liberties, for there were then no liberties in the modern sense of the word. He had little else than privileges to suppress, and absolute monarchy conferred more privileges then it destroyed. We had only insubordinations to quell, and misdeeds to punish. That, in this struggle, his untempered severity amounted even to cruelty, sometimes odius, and almost always useless, M. de Carné does not deny, and I concede it even to a greater extent, perhaps, than he would approve; but what had been the triumph of the party, or rather of the contradictory parties? What monarchy—national, constitutional, and legal—could have resulted from the victory of those great lords, leagued together, and constantly intriguing against the government ever since the death of Henry IV.; sometimes open rebels, sometimes submissive; ever uniting, or separating, allying themselves at the the exigency of the moment; enemies to their friends of yesterday, faithful to-day with the factious of the morrow, Protestants with Catholics, Catholics with Huguenots, Frenchmen with Spain! What a magnificent bill of rights the Duchess de Chevereuse would have drawn up for Louis XIII. to sign!
Richelieu did the only thing which in his time was possible, and that is the justification of the political order which he founded. But his work was not complete, and was not completed, I dare add, solely because it was sanguinary. The blood shed, as M. de Carné well says, was not so abundant as is commonly believed; twenty-six men in all perished on the scaffold. How many politicians have the reputation of great benignity, who have put to death a much larger number! But on more than one occasion Richelieu's proceedings were odious, his cruelty refined, his vengeance useless. It belonged to a man of quite another nature to finish the work which he, with less violence, might have accomplished. The cardinal, when he died, left feudal opposition humbled, but living area The blood of Montmorency had implanted still more hate than fear. All the uneasy and restless forces, which, with no purpose, or only that of personal satisfaction, agitated France for nearly a century, crushed by the hand of the cardinal, drew themselves up anew when he was no longer there, and made themselves immediately felt and feared, under the reign of a child, the regency of a Spanish woman, and the ministry of an Italian. The work, then, was not complete, and the last germ of that aristocratic faction had not been extinguished on the scaffold of Cinq-Mars.
M. de Carné, who overrates Richelieu, greatly underrates Mazarin. Certainly, the man had less grandeur, and was more sullied; there were defects in his genius, and undeniably dark shades in his character; his morality was certainly of a low order, but his intellectual power was something marvellous. I am astonished to see that foreigner, that adventurer, that man who was never popular, that minister with greedy and grasping instincts, triumphing over enemies which the great cardinal had not been able to subdue, surviving the spirit of faction that had survived Richelieu,—to see him accomplish the work which Richelieu had not been able to accomplish by violence; and accomplishing it without having to reproach himself with erecting a single scaffold. This Italian, so furiously decried, who on re-entering Paris, after his victory, had not a word of anger to utter, nor a vengeance to inflict on any one; who re-established in their seats the magistrates of Parliament who had set a price on his head; who, vilified to satiety by the men of letters, tranquilly, and without ostentation, restored to them their pensions; who granted to the grandees of the kingdom—who were his enemies—nearly all they had asked, except their independence; this man, in all this, may indeed have been more able than generous, but I much like that kind of ability, and regard it as worth imitating. And what is curious, is that, from that minister, so many times dishonored, from that peace in which the factious were so well treated, from that struggle in which royalty was often so hard pressed, and in which it was so often forced to give way, royalty itself came forth stronger, more absolute, more venerated, more adored, than it was left by the lofty struggle maintained by Cardinal Richelieu, and in which his victories were ratified by the hangman.
It is in this way that monarchy was established in France; and, be it said in passing, without recurring to the necessity and legitimacy of this work, it has produced, in spite of its many imperfections and excesses, the most normal epoch in our history since that of St. Louis. This epoch had only brief duration, and it is sometimes, said, that what is called the ancient régime, was only a period of transition. I grant it. In this passing world, what century is there that is not a century of transition? When is it that the nations can stop, pitch their tents, and say, "It is good to be here?" I remember still all in my youth, the defunct Saint-Simonian school, which, perhaps, is not so defunct as is supposed, divided the history of the world into critical periods and organic periods; but as for its organic periods, they could not tell where to find them. It is the same with us all. I see, indeed, in history, times of passage, but not the time of sojourn; and I know not any century in which it might not be said with as much truth has in our own, "We are in the moment of transition." But if ever there was really an organic epoch, it was that of which we speak. If any age could really pass for a normal age, not indeed for the perfection of its virtue, but for the plenitude of its principle, it would certainly be the age of Louis XIV. That was essentially, in good and in evil, in greatness and littleness, in its good deeds and in its evil deeds, in its legitimate honor and in its idolatrous apotheosis, the age of royalty.
On many sides, certainly, this age is open to attack: yet neither men nor human institutions are to be judged after an absolute type. The greatest must miserably fail, if so judged. All judgments of human things our relative. When we place a life, in age, a rule, any institution whatever, by the side of the ideal type which are imagination forms to itself, nothing is to be said; that life is stained, that period is wretched, that régime is odious, that institution is detestable; but if we compare it with that which has been before, after, or contemporary with it, or even that which would have been humanly possible to put in its place [{207}] Our judgment is more indulgent, because less absolute. It is our glory, but also our error, to bear in ourselves a certain passion for the beautiful and the good, which can find no satisfaction in this world; to form to ourselves in everything, an ideal type superior to all human power to realize; to have in us the measure of heaven, which we very clear that Louis XIV. was only a poor knight, Bossuet only a common-place writer. Homer a street-singer, Raphael a dauber by the side of the king, the orator, the poet, the painter, of which we dream in our imagination.
That régime, inaugurated by Richelieu, confirmed by Mazarin, and glorified by Louis XIV., had, doubtless, its baseness as every other, but not more than others. It had its cruelties, and they were often inexcusable; it had a greater and more fundamental wrong still, that of pushing power to excess, and exaggerating its rights, as well as deifying the person of the sovereign. Human powers have all a limit, however absolute they may claim to be; and whether collected in a single hand, or dispersed among many—whether they are vested in the people, in an assembly, or in one man alone, the sphere of their action is no greater. Power has its limit in right, and this limit cannot be passed without guilt; it has its limit in fact, and against that it cannot dash its head without breaking it.
This was its fault, and it was cruelly expiated. We say, however, that the monarchy of Louis XIV. perished less by his fault than by that of his successor. Louis XV. inherited a royalty in its plenitude, surrounded by the profound respect of the nation. Louis XlV. had died unpopular, but he left the throne popular. The public calamities were charged to the man, not to the monarchy. I know not in all history a king more beloved, more venerated, more adored as king and independently of his personal qualities, than was Louis XV. A child at first, then a young man, without other personal merit than that of leaving Cardinal de Fleury to govern, Louis XV., during twenty years, gathered in peace the fruits of royalty. More humane than Louis XIV.; as selfish indeed, but selfish in another manner; not taking like him his royalty in earnest, and instead of accepting it as a dignity almost divine, regarding it as a private estate he had a right to enjoy without being under the slightest obligation to look after its management, Louis XV. took pleasure in squandering the treasures of popular respect and affection which his predecessor had bequeathed him. France persisted in respecting his royalty as long as she could. Neither the scandals of the Regency, less public than they have become for posterity, nor the succession of court influences, not yet sunk to the baseness of the later years, though beginning to approach it; nor the indolence and the corruption of that prince who hardly ever opened a letter on business, hardly ever spoke in council, and hardly ever went to the army; nor that egotism of the man crudely paraded in the place of the egotism of the king professed by Louis XIV. as a religion—nothing of all this disgusted the country, so marvellously had France been imbued with the love and worship of royalty by Richelieu, Mazarin, and Louis XIV.!
The corruption of ideas was slowly effected. The eighteenth century did not begin in 1700 nor in 1715, it was only beginning in 1750. The first irreligious book which gave much scandal was that of Toussaint in 1748. Up to that time Voltaire had restricted himself to some timid allusions against priests mingled with many flatteries of the court; the Pucelle was written but not published. Twenty-eight years after the death of Louis XIV., at the time of the illness of Metz, was still seen a thing unique perhaps—a whole country, not only the nobility and the court, but the citizens, the people, all those who were most disinterested in regard to royal favors, were seen [{208}] praying with a tenderness truly filial that God would leave to them a king who had reigned for twenty-eight years without having done anything, and wresting from Providence, so to speak, by the force of supplications, a life steeped in debauchery. This great and sincere testimonial of monarchical enthusiasm, which remained so deeply rooted in the memory of our fathers, was given, I say not to the worst, but certainly to the least meritorious of all our monarchs.
It is necessary, then, to render to our country this justice, that, if it came at length to despise power, it was because in spite of itself it was driven to it by power itself. It needed that this so solemn mark of filial devotion should be returned by continued indolence and corruption. It needed more than thirty years of the cynical workings of this royalty to erase from the heart in which it was so deeply rooted, the taste and the worship of royalty. They who, in seeking the semi-metaphysical, semi-political causes for the fall of the monarchy of Louis XIV., think they find the principle of its ruin in the manner of its constitution, may, in certain respects, be right, but they should tell us how it could have been constituted differently. However, they seem to me to count for too little the abuses so flagrant and so prolonged, which were made of it.
Neither am I among those who accuse the France of the old régime of servility. Its love for royalty may have been excessive, but it was, at least, sincere; and if sincere it was not servile. We may be guilty of idolatry towards those we love, but we can be guilty of servility only towards those we love not. Royalty, I admit, was regarded as a demi-god, but they who really worship the false god do it in good faith. Our fathers were, perhaps, fanatics, but they were not slaves. The great English lords who, in the eighteenth century, traversed France in a post chaise, in order to attend the court at Versailles, and to pass several weeks in Parts, doubtless judged the country to be inhabited only by the cowardly slaves of an Asiatic despot;—they found no House of Commons, no speaker nor usher with the black rod. In the same way, Sterne, seeing at a play a man who annoyed his neighbors and whom the guard ordered to leave, was confounded by the arbitrary proceeding, and could not comprehend that the citizen did not maintain by his fists the right to disturb the performance. It was a country judged on the surface by the habits of mind of another country during About the same time, another Englishman, [Footnote 39] who did not journey in a post-chaise, who went on foot from village to village, playing the flute for the peasantry, holding disputations in the monasteries, and thus paying his reckoning, judged France a little differently. He came very near, God forgive him, envying it, and preferring it to his own country! He met here not miserable slaves, but happy men, satisfied with themselves, and satisfied with all the world. The current money in this country, according to him, was not silver; was not the material favors of the government; was not, or, at least, was not only, pension and place; it was a vain money, no doubt, like all human riches, but a money, at least, more delicate and more noble. "Society here finds its life in HONOR. Praise gained by merit, or obtained by an imaginary worth, is the money which passes current from hand to hand, and by a noble commerce passes from the court to the camp and the cottage." France, which for the others was the country of servitude, was for him the country of honor.
[Footnote 39: We need hardly tell our readers the person referred to here was an Irishman—Oliver Goldsmith. (Ed. C.W.)]
In reality it is hardly for us to be ashamed of the servitude of forefathers. It is true, more mature than they, we no longer either worship or respect authority; but we count it no fault to beg its favors. We crowd around the altar, though we no longer believe in the god. Every revolution has shown us the ante-chambers [{209}] invaded in turn by a cloud of conquerors, revolutionists, or conservatives, monarchists or republicans, all men have profound conviction, of a well-tried self-respect, a liberalism true as steel, and an independence as firm as iron, but who nevertheless came to beg their bit from the budget Since we came into the world, four times, at least, have we seeing this hideous quarry to which (we must render all justice to our equalitarians) all classes, high or low, rich or for, lettered or unlettered, have flocked with a harmony truly democratic. We now no longer conceive of a public service which is not paid for, a state function which is not an income, a position which has not its money value. Have we the right, in good faith, to be ashamed of the times when they said not places but charges, because the public service was considered not a position but duty? Have we the right to attack even that court and that finance of aforetime, stained, I grant, with cupidity and adulation, but not otherwise than in all times, and are still the classes that approach power? Have we the right, above all, to attack the whole of that society much less greedy of the favors of power, much more independent of it than we are ourselves, that bourgeoisie who loved so much its king from whom it had nothing to expect, except the suppression of a fourth of its revenue? Those magistrates who gave their last penny for the right to rise at five o'clock in the morning, and pass the forenoon in the audience, well to-day the lowest deputy finds himself poorly paid by two thousand francs for rising at ten o'clock? That provincial nobility, poor, obscure, disdained, who had all the charges of aristocracy without its benefits, and who esteemed themselves but too happy when, after twenty years of service in order, where they left their patrimony at first, then an arm, a leg, their brothers and cousins, they obtained from the bounty of the king their discharge, and permission to retire to their homes with the cross of St. Louis, and the brevet of Brigadier-General; crippled, impoverished, but endeavoring, if possible, to "preserve a fortune sufficient to enable their children to replace them"? We, citizens and freemen, do we even for much money, what those servile beings did for a little honor?
I have passed here a little beyond the work of M. de Carné, who stops with Mazarin. He will pardon me, even thank me, for not permitting myself to go farther still, and to broach the hackneyed subject of 1789. I have elsewhere had occasion to set forth my views on that subject, by the side of M. de Carné's, happy to agree with him in many respects, though more severe, perhaps, in my judgment of that revolutionary movement than he is. The tendency of minds toward reforms might have been legitimate, but the way taken to effect them was false, and in my eyes infected with evil from the first. In fact, the groundwork of French unity, which M. de Carné represents for us with so much love, what has been its use, if, after the labor of so many centuries, it could be attained only by a national convulsion, the most violent, perhaps, which has figured in history? Civil equality, unity of territory, reform in legislation, were they not already sufficiently prepared by St. Louis, Charles VII., Louis XI., Richelieu, and Louis XIV., and was it necessary that they should be purchased by the revolt of the jeu de paume, by the blood of Versailles, and by the crimes of the reign of Terror? Were our countrymen not criminal, at that epoch, in repulsing a past in which they might, on the contrary, have found a firmer support for the reforms needed?
Be that as it may, I cannot but thank M. de Carné, in the name of all those who still read, for the work which he achieved in 1848, and for the return which he has just made to his former studies. Whoever we may be, and whatever may be the present, it is not necessary that it should absorb us. As the spectacle of the present age serves to explain past ages, so should a return to the past cool and calm in our minds [{210}] the agitation of the present. Of this freedom from contemporaneous reflection, M. de Carné has given us a noble example. On two or three points, at most, the statesman of our times is a little too perceptible. I much doubt, for instance, if in the sixteenth century, the Balafré could have founded in France a dynasty and a citizen royalty like that of Louis Philippe. Still it might have been had the Balafré been a cadet of the Capetian family, and if the dynasty of the Valois had been for forty years shaken by two revolutions. What strikes me, on the contrary, in the history of the League, and what appears to me one of the greatest proofs of the spirit of nationality and of loyalty which then reigned in the commonalty, is the repugnance which they always manifested to accepting a foreign dynasty, the timid and reluctant manner with which the proposition was made, and the unpopularity with which it was received. At the time of the League, the nation wished two things which then seemed irreconcilable—Catholic royalty and French loyalty; it wished, so to speak, an impossibility, but it willed it with decision and perseverance, and that impossibility it obtained.
But, save these slight traces of the man of the present, M. de Carné has been able, with rare facility, to identify himself with past ages; he has known how to take from erudition what was necessary to enlighten his political point of view, without suffering it absorb him. He has been perfectly able in surveying all these different subjects to identify himself by turns with each of them. Without neglecting details and without losing himself in them, without disdaining to speak to the imagination, and without suffering himself to be carried away by the fascinations of the picturesque, without abandoning himself to political theories, and without dispoiling history of them, he has in turn as fully known his Abbot Suger, his St. Louis, is Du Guesclin, and each one of his heroes, as if he had never studied else. He makes himself master of each one of these subjects in brief time, but with a sagacity worth more than time, and with a quick perception of the dominant idea which often escapes the simple erudite. He has not me what is called a philosophical history, a task become facile and commonplace, and he has not made what is still more easy, purely contemporary politics à propos of the past; he has not made a history, if by history we understand the detailed recital of events; but he has known how to keep constantly at his disposition the philosophical view which illuminates history, the political sense which helps to judge it, and the knowledge of facts which is its foundation. He has not made a history, but he has made a luminous summary, and given us a necessary complement of all the theories of French history.