New Publications.
State Charities Aid Association. Report of a Committee on a new Bellevue Hospital. New York: American Church Press Co., 4 St. Mark's Place. 1874.
This pamphlet is worth reading by all who are interested in hospitals. The need of reformation in this branch of philanthropic work is only too well proved. The gentlemen and ladies who interest themselves in the care of the sick poor merit both honor and gratitude. All that is written or done, however, by the most zealous and disinterested persons who seek to accomplish their end outside of the Catholic Church only adds to the evidence that the church alone is competent to deal with great social evils and miseries. The state is cold, selfish, and merciless, except so far as it is Christianized. Mercenaries are always lacking in the qualities necessary to secure a truly faithful and charitable care of the sick and miserable. Division among those who are seeking to carry out the precepts of Christian charity, and the want of organization and of religious institutions among those who are out of the one true church, paralyze their efforts. It is only Christian unity which can give the proper remedy for this lamentable state of things, and without Catholic faith and obedience this unity is impossible. Religious orders are alone capable of carrying out great works of charity, and they cannot exist and flourish except in the Catholic Church. If modern society does not return to the bosom of the church, its evils are incurable, however much individuals may do in a partial way. Nevertheless, these partial and imperfect efforts ought to be encouraged; and during this past winter we have had occasion to admire and rejoice in the outflow of a stream of beneficence upon our suffering population in New York which has relieved an immense amount of misery. In so far as the special subject of this pamphlet is concerned, it is obvious that the erection of a new Bellevue Hospital is imperatively demanded, and we trust that it will be accomplished.
Universite Laval. Sixieme Centenaire de Saint Thomas d'Aquin a S. Hyacinthe et a Quebec. Quebec: Coté et Cie. 1874.
We are rejoiced to see that the six-hundredth anniversary of S. Thomas was celebrated with due splendor and solemnity in at least these two places on the American continent. The same was done in private at the college of the Jesuits, at Woodstock. The Quebec pamphlet, besides the two excellent discourses of M. l'Abbé Bégin and the Rev. F. Prior Bourgeois, O.S.D., contains a very remarkable poem by a religious of the Congregation of the Precious Blood at S. Hyacinthe. We tender our thanks for the courtesy of the friend who sent us this interesting memorial of a religious fête which does honor to the taste and piety of the devout and cultivated Catholics of Lower Canada.
The two discourses contained in the pamphlet are of a high order of excellence in regard both to thought and diction. We have accidentally omitted to notice among the other discourses that of Professor Pâquèt, which is fully worthy of the brilliant occasion on which it was delivered, viz., the soirée which took place in the evening in the grand hall of the university.
True to Trust. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)
This story, the epoch of which is placed during the reign of Henry VIII., is almost worthy of Lady Georgiana Fullerton, and its style frequently reminds us of that accomplished writer of fiction. The character of Catharine Tresize is truly beautiful and original. We recommend this story as one of the best which has lately appeared.
In Six Months; or, The Two Friends.By Mary M. Meline. Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1874.
The story of the two friends, who are two young Americans converted to Catholicity in Europe, has the advantage of appearing upon tinted paper, in a neat form, suitable to the polished, ornate diction and poetic fancy of the lady author, a near relative of the late Mr. Meline, who was one of our favorite contributors. Miss Meline has a cultivated literary taste and a decided talent for writing stories. She has, moreover, the genuine Catholic spirit of fervent devotion to the Holy Father, and in the present story describes some scenes connected with the invasions of Rome under Garibaldi and La Marmora. We trust Miss Meline will not suffer her pen to lie idle, but keep it busily at work.
Dr. Coxe's Claims To Apostolicity Reviewed. Right Rev. Bishop Ryan's Reply to the Attack of the Episcopal Prelate. Buffalo: Catholic Publication Co. Price 15 cents.
Dr. Coxe is a prelate who has always been conspicuous for arrogance and reckless assertion in maintaining the pretensions of the High Church party in the Protestant Episcopal denomination, and for his vituperative and defamatory assaults on the Catholic Church. In this temperate but severe criticism, Bishop Ryan has made an end of his claims to possess episcopal character and mission, and has refuted him out of his own mouth. We trust that this able and valuable pamphlet will not be permitted to go into oblivion, as pamphlets are wont to do, but be carefully preserved and made use of by clergymen and others who have to deal with Episcopalians searching after the true church, of whom there are so many in these days.
Count de Montalembert's Letters To A Schoolfellow. 1827-1830. Translated from the French by C. F. Audly. London: Burns & Oates. 1874. New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.
Goethe somewhere remarks that many of an author's best thoughts are to be found in his letters to his intimate friends; written, not for the public, not for fame but from the strong desire to communicate that which is most living within him to a kindred spirit.
In the confidential correspondence of great minds there is a yet greater charm. We feel a kind of personal interest in men who have exercised great intellectual power over us; they become our heroes, and we endow them with imaginary qualities, [pg 282] from lack of more certain information concerning them. The minutest details in their lives become to us affairs of moment. How they looked, how they dressed, what they thought about the most trifling subjects, seem to us to be matters worthy of becoming a part of history. There is a still higher interest in the story of the unfolding of a powerful intellect. It contains a lesson in psychology more instructive than any which can be learned from abstract treatises on this subject. This it is that gives the chief value to autobiographies of philosophers, poets, and theologians. Yet an autobiography can never be a mirror in which we may behold the workings of the human mind. It is an after-thought, a reflex judgment, the expression of what men now think they once felt or thought. It does not give us the process of intellectual growth, but a theory concerning what that process must have been; and a theory formed by the individual concerning the flux and reflux of the currents of his own life can never be wholly trustworthy. Autobiography is necessarily subject to all the vices inherent in special pleading.
The truest history of the intellectual and moral development of a man is to be found in his letters to his intimate friends. There we have, not what in after-years he thinks he thought and felt, but what he really did think and feel; and in this view of the matter, the egotism which is always so prominent in letters to friends gives them an additional value. Instead of being offended with the writer for talking so much about himself, we are grateful for the weakness which gives us a truer insight into his character.
These considerations will prepare our readers for a favorable criticism upon the volume before us. Few men have lived to whom we more gladly give the homage of admiration and respect than to Charles de Montalembert; and though we strongly condemn certain words which he uttered when his mind was troubled by suffering and disease, and which, had he lived longer, he himself would have been the first to wish unsaid, he was yet so great a man that we willingly forget that he made this blunder.
These Letters, of which Mr. Audly has given us an excellent English translation, were first published in the Contemporain (June, 1872, to March, 1873).
They run from 1827 to 1830, and, as the work of a youth from his seventeenth to his twentieth year, are of course fresh, frank, and ardent; but they also reveal in the future orator and historian a depth of feeling and a command of language rarely to be met with in one of so tender an age.
They are addressed to M. Léon Cornudet, whom Montalembert calls the friend of his soul, his dearest friend; to whom he is bound by a common sympathy in every noble feeling and high aim; whom nor time nor absence can make him even for one moment forget. What chiefly strengthens him in his faith in the permanency of this friendship is the fact that it is based on religion, which becomes the immortal mediatrix between his soul and that of his friend.
When he travels and contemplates the beauties of nature, his only regret is that his friend is not near him; when he reads a poem, and his soul is borne aloft on the wings of inspiration, he exclaims, “Oh! if he were but here to share my delight.” He never dreams of the future, of battling for religion and freedom, of victories won and defeats nobly borne, that he does not behold his friend by his side; and when, picturing to himself the vicissitudes of life, he imagines that possibly, in spite of his high resolves and strong purposes, he may fail, may be doomed to obscurity and the contempt of the world, he seeks for consolation in the thought that in the heart of his friend he will find a better world.
His friend is, as it were, his other self, which gives to him a twofold life; making him feel always that “joy was born a twin,” and that all who joy would win must share it, and that sorrow, too, longs to pour itself into the heart of love.
This strong friendship—“the only impulse of the soul admitting of excess”—which, like a thread of gold, runs through all these letters, wins at once our sympathy and our confidence.
There is something noble and great in the youth who is capable of such pure and deep love. After all, it is the heart that reaches highest and deepest, and through it man attains to the best.
Of course there is in these letters much that is immature; were it not so, they would not be the letters of a mere boy; but the infinite faith in the possibility of divine realities even on earth, the lofty contempt for what is mean and ignoble, the self-confidence that never doubts of [pg 283] itself, the restless activity that no work satisfies, the boundless craving for knowledge, the freshness of the heart that falls like dew upon every lovely thing, giving it health and beauty—all this so charms and delights us that we have no eye for defects.
“A contempt for life,” he writes to his friend, “is, in my opinion, the finest privilege of youth. As we grow older, the more we cling to a frail existence which becomes a burden to ourselves and to others.”
What has experience that can compensate for the loss of
“The love of higher things and better days;
The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance
Of what is called the world, and the world's ways;
The moments when we gather from a glance
More joy than from all future pride or praise
Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance
The heart in an existence of its own”?
Young Montalembert, with wealth and noble birth, which gave him the entrée of the highest circles, found no charm in what is called society. His mind was too serious, his ambition too lofty, to permit him to throw away the precious time of youth in frivolous amusements.
“People usually say,” he writes to his friend during the summer vacations of 1827, “that in youth we ought to give ourselves up to the pleasures of society. In my opinion, this amounts to downright absurdity. I should think that in youth we ought to plunge into study or into the profession we wish to embrace. When a man has done his duty towards his country; when he can come before the world with laurels won in the senate or on the field of battle, or at least when he enjoys universal esteem; when, again, he is sure of commanding universal esteem and respect, then I can understand that he has a right to enjoy himself in society, and to mix in it with assurance.”
Montalembert had a passion for labor, which is the only sure road to excellence and power, and which is also the greatest evidence of ability.
We find him, when not yet ten years old, shut up in his grandfather's library, acting as his secretary, helping him in the designs of his geographical maps, and absorbed in the study of the great English orators; and later, at college, giving up his recreations, and devoting fifteen hours a day to the severest mental discipline. By saving five minutes every morning in his cell at Sainte-Barbe out of the time allowed to the pupils for rising and dressing, he managed in one year to translate a whole volume of Epictetus. He spent a portion of the summer vacation of 1827 at La Roche-Guyon, the country-seat of the Duc de Rohan; and though the castle was filled with guests, for whom the duke provided every kind of amusement, this intrepid young worker is able to write the following lines to his friend:
“While you are idling your time away, pray just hear what I shall have read during my month's residence at La Roche: in the first place, all Byron, which is no trifling job; Delolme, on the British Constitution—a capital and highly important work; the whole of the Odyssey, twenty-four cantos, at the rate of one a day; Thomson, Cowper, Pliny's Letters; the Lettres Provinciales; the Life of S. Francis Xavier, by Bouhours, which the duke obliged me to read; three volumes of the Mercure newspaper; and, lastly, the poetical part of the Greek Excerpta.”
Even in Stockholm, whither he went in 1828 with his father, who had been appointed French ambassador to the court of Sweden, he is able, in the midst of the endless and tiresome routine of court etiquette, to devote six or seven hours a day to study. “In the morning,” he writes, “I read Kant, whom I study deeply, not finding him over-difficult in the beginning. At night I plod in detail over Northern history. In the afternoon I devote all the time I can catch to my correspondence, to reading a few German poems and novels, and to certain statistical or political studies.”
Not content with working himself, he seeks to rouse the flagging energies of his friend by pointing out to him' what great things he may be able to do for God and his country. The ruling passion in Montalembert's heart, in these early years as during his whole life, was the love of the church and of freedom.
“Religion, liberty,” he writes—“such are the eternal groundworks of all virtue. To serve God, to be free—such are our duties. In order to fulfil them, we must use every resource, every means, which Providence has placed in our hands.” And again: “I have succeeded in preserving my faith in the midst of one hundred and twenty infidels; I hope that God [pg 284] will not allow me to lose my independence of mind in the midst of half a dozen absolutists.”
And then he pictures to himself the great good which might be accomplished by a writer who, bidding defiance to the prejudices of youth and the public, would raise a bold and eloquent voice in defence of freedom and the church. “What a noble part he would have to play!” he exclaims. “What blessings he would confer upon mankind! What services he would render to religion! Ah! wherefore has not God deigned to give me talent? With what passionate ardor I would have embraced such a glorious future!” Who does not perceive here how the thoughts of the boy were father to the deeds of the man?
No author of our time has written more feelingly or eloquently of Ireland than Montalembert. He was drawn to her by a double attraction—he loved her for her faith, and he sympathized with her because she was wronged. The finest portion of his history of The Monks of the West is that devoted to the Irish saints. Nothing could be more beautiful or more consoling than the noble pages which he has devoted to this subject. As his Histoire de Sainte Elisabeth opened a new path across the vast field of Catholic history, his studies on S. Columba and S. Columbanus called attention to the wealth of religious poetry and Christian example which was suffered to remain buried in the archives of the early Irish Church. In these letters we perceive the first awakening of his love for Ireland, and are able to trace the causes which led him to study the history of that most interesting but unhappy land.
“By reading the admirable speeches of Grattan,” he writes in 1828, “I have discovered, as it were, a new world—the world of Ireland, of her long-sufferings, her times of freedom and glory, her sublime geniuses, and her indefatigable struggles. The universal interest now felt for Ireland, and the remarkable circumstances in which she is placed at present, have tempted me to unfold before the eyes of those Frenchmen who care for Ireland the highly interesting annals and the sundry revolutions of her history. My Irish parentage on my mother's side, my deep knowledge of English, and my acquaintance with several families in that country have confirmed my first ideas on this matter, and I have determined upon writing a history of Ireland from the year 1688, and to do it as soon as possible, in order that it may be published, if that can be done, before the vital question of the emancipation is solved. There is perhaps no country presenting such a plentiful harvest of events equally interesting and unknown.”
Montalembert was in Sweden when he wrote this letter, and he at once sent to England for books, that he might without delay set to work on his proposed history of Ireland. In addition to this, he proposed at the end of the year to visit Ireland itself, that he might consult libraries and make a thorough study of the people and country. This somewhat ambitious project of the youthful Montalembert led to no other immediate results than an article on Ireland in the Revue Française, and a journey to the Emerald Isle in 1830; but to it we are no doubt in part indebted for the eloquent chapters on the Irish Saints in The Monks of the West. His first letter from Ireland to his friend is full of the enthusiasm with which the history of that country had inspired him:
“As for the Irishwomen,” he writes, “they are bewitching. They form the most beautiful female population I ever beheld. But I reserve all my remarks on the country and the people for our conversations in Paris. For the present I must simply beg of you to pray that my passion for Ireland may not become criminal, for it threatens really to lead me astray from the lawful object of my affections; and I am but too often tempted to turn away my thoughts from our France to a country so completely responding to my beliefs, my tastes, and even my most trifling prepossessions.”
He visited the county Wicklow in September, 1830, and wrote to his friend from the “meeting of the waters in the vale of Avoca.” “No, never,” he exclaims, “in France, England, the Netherlands, or even in Germany, have I met with anything comparable to the wild and picturesque defiles of this Wicklow County.... Only figure to yourself the grandest and yet the most lovely landscape; torrents abounding in numberless cascades, struggling to make their way through perpendicular rocks; forests of almost fabulous depths; meadows and swards full worthy of the Emerald Isle; and then old abbeys, modern residences, and lodges built in the purest Gothic style. Place, [pg 285] moreover, in such a landscape, the most pious, most cheerful, most poetical population in the world. Then, again, say to yourself that Grattan passed his childhood here; that he meditated his speeches along these torrents; that one of these residences was bestowed on him by his fatherland, and that therein he lived in his old age; that all these beautiful lands were sanctified and immortalized by the Rebellion of 1798. Well, figure to yourself all this, and you will still have but a faint idea of what I have felt for the last few days.”
As in his eyes Irishwomen were the most beautiful, and Irish scenery the most lovely, he was prepared to admire enthusiastically the men of the country. At Carlow College he dined with the celebrated Bishop Doyle and several of his professors, who, he says, received him with a truly Homeric hospitality.
“I really don't know,” he writes, “which I ought to admire most, the people or the clergy. I feel confounded at the sight of this people, equally faithful—as I said in my article, whilst myself hardly believing it—equally faithful to its old misery and to its old faith, who, of all the possessions of their forefathers, have preserved nothing but their religion, the only relic snatched from the conqueror, without ever allowing themselves to be carried away by the invincible attraction of imitation.... As for the priests, they are all model priests—manly, open, cheerful, energetic. No hypocrisy, no assumed reserve, to be read on their candid and serene countenances; they talk of freedom with all the buoyancy of a Paris school-boy, and of their country, of their dear and unfortunate Ireland, with an accent that would melt a heart of stone. One can see that over their hearts religion and patriotism hold equal sway. Indeed, in order to comprehend fully what patriotism is, one must hear an Irish priest talk of his country.”
It is a mistake to affirm, as has been done, that Montalembert made this journey to Ireland merely, or chiefly even from a desire to see O'Connell.
The great Liberator had indeed fired his young heart with enthusiasm, and he rode sixty miles through a dreary country to have the pleasure of talking with him; but from these letters it is evident that a feeling, higher and more general than any which could be inspired by an individual, however great, had drawn him to the Isle of Saints. At Derrynane he found O'Connell, surrounded by his twenty-three children and nephews, looking like a plain country farmer. “I was struck,” he writes, “but not dazzled, by him. He is by no means the most interesting object in Ireland.”
He heard O'Connell speak, and, in spite of his enthusiastic and impressionable nature, was disappointed.
“He is but a demagogue,” he tells his friend, “and by no means a great orator. He is declamatory, inflated, full of bombast; his arguments are loosely strung together; his fancy is devoid of charm or freshness; his style harsh, rough, and choppy. The more I see of him, the more I hear him, the more I am confirmed in my first opinion—to wit, he is not stamped with the mark of genius or with true greatness. But he defends the finest of all causes. He has before him no mighty antagonist or rival, and circumstances—as is the case with many others—will stand him in lieu of genius.”
We have given our readers but a faint idea of the warmth, and glow, and freshness that pervade these letters; of the frank and unaffected candor with which their youthful author lays open his whole heart to his friend; of the deep spirit of religion and reverence which runs through them; of the noble sentiments and generous resolves which, as from an inexhaustible fountain, well up from young Montalembert's heart. In reading them, we have felt our own heart grow younger and kindle with new fire; we have seemed to catch the accent of the olden time, when men lived for honor, and were glad to die for faith and truth, rather than the metallic tone of this age, “when only the ledger lives, and when only not all men lie.”
We know of no book which we would more gladly see in the hands of our Catholic youth who lack enthusiasm and are without the courage which a noble and high purpose in life can alone give.
They need the education which will lift them above low and petty aims, and cause them to take an interest in things of an unselfish kind. They must learn that worth is more than success, and honor better than wealth; they must be taught to outgrow the narrow, calculating spirit of the huckster and the shopkeeper, the disposition to sneer at enthusiasm and to depreciate high principles of action; and to this end we know of nothing [pg 286] that is likely to contribute more effectually than the example and writings of such men as Montalembert, who devoted the labor of a lifetime to high aims and noble purposes; who loved the truth for its own sake, and freedom, not for himself alone, but for all men; who never worshipped the rising sun or paid court to success, but fought for the just cause without stopping to reflect whether he would win or lose.
“Let us never forget,” said Montalembert, towards the end of his life, speaking to his friend—“let us never forget that Rio, when we were young, cultivated enthusiasm within our souls, and for such a blessing we must be bound to him by the deepest gratitude.” This is a debt which many a Catholic to-day, not in France alone, but throughout the world, owes to Charles de Montalembert.
The Consoling Thoughts of S. Francis Of Sales. Gathered from his writings and arranged in order by the Rev. Père Huguet. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1874.
This work is really beyond the scope of the reviewer or the critic, as it is made up wholly from the writings of a great saint. To every one who knows the works of S. Francis of Sales, it will be a fresh pleasure to see such well-arranged parts of them in an English dress. Père Huguet has had the happy thought of choosing from the saint's spiritual treatises everything that could console the sorrowful, strengthen the weak, and encourage the doubtful. The translator made it a labor of love to put these thoughts within the reach of many millions of English-speaking people. S. Francis has been read and admired by every one, within or without the church; and there is between him and the modern mind a peculiar sympathy which makes him essentially welcome to men of our day. Non-Catholics would call him a thoroughly reasonable saint. Everywhere his counsel will be found on the side of moderation. The “smoking flax” and the “bruised reed” need not fear him; his gentle touch is the very thing they require. The care with which Père Huguet has made this compilation is apparent; for though the sentences that compose one page may, as he says, have been taken from twenty various treatises, they all follow each other in admirable order. The author has also supplemented them with footnotes, consisting of appropriate passages from other spiritual writers, ancient and modern, bearing on the same subjects as those treated of by S. Francis. A few of these notes are signed with no name, and are probably the adapter's own. S. Francis has a wonderful power of expressing spiritual truths in little terse sayings that might well be called proverbs. A few quotations will give an idea of this peculiarity of his style:
“Persecutions are pieces of the cross of Jesus Christ; we should scruple very much to allow the smallest particle of them to perish.”
“It is not with spiritual rose-bushes as with material ones; on the latter, the thorns remain and the roses pass away; on the former, the thorns pass away and the roses remain.”
“It is necessary that all these sentiments should sink deep into our hearts, and that, leaving our reflections and our prayers, we should pass to our affairs sweetly, lest the liquor of our good resolutions should evaporate and be lost, for we must allow it to saturate and penetrate our whole soul; everything, nevertheless, without strain of mind or body.”
Some very beautiful thoughts will be found on death, and the sorrow of the living for the loss of their dear ones; also some merciful and encouraging conjectures on the number of the saved, which S. Francis thinks will be the greater number of Christians.
Sermons, Lectures, etc., etc., of the Rev. Michael B. Buckley, (late) SS. Peter and Paul's, Cork. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1874.
This volume, containing the literary remains of the lamented F. Buckley, will, we have no doubt, be well received by his numerous friends both here and in Ireland. Though a young man, he had earned a high reputation as a speaker and a writer; and the contents of this volume prove that his reputation was not undeserved.
The subjects of the sermons and lectures are varied and interesting, and are, for the most part, well handled. The memoir of the devoted young priest attached to the volume will be found edifying and instructive, and the whole book [pg 287] we deem well worthy the careful perusal of both clergy and laity.
Novena to Our Lady of Lourdes; with an Account of the Apparition. From the French Edition. Approved by the Bishop of Tarbes. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. 1874.
The devotion to Our Lady of Lourdes has spread so rapidly, and miraculous favors coming from it have become so common, even in this country, that this little book is extremely welcome, and will, no doubt, be very popular. It cannot fail, also, to do much good by making the apparition more generally known, and increasing the love of the faithful for Our Lady, and their confidence in her intercession.
Meditations on the Holy Eucharist.By Brother Philippe, Superior-General of the Brothers of the Christian Schools. Translated from the French. West Chester: New York Catholic Protectory. 1873.
All who are acquainted with other meditations by the lately-deceased and much-regretted Brother Philippe will not need to be assured of the excellence of the present work. We have eighty-two meditations on the Eucharist, admirably chosen and thought out. Among them we are delighted to see one entitled “The Holy Eucharist and the Most Blessed Virgin,” and another upholding “Frequent Communion.”
Subjoined to these meditations are some on the Sacred Heart of Jesus, by the same author. These are twenty-four in number, and will prove of service for instructions and conferences to sodalities of the Sacred Heart.
May our glorious Lady, to whom this volume is dedicated, secure it the reception it deserves. We have never seen anything to surpass these Meditations, which Brother Philippe has left us as a precious legacy.
Snatches of Song. By Mary A. McMullen (Una). St. Louis: Published by Patrick Fox, No. 14 South Fifth Street. 1874.
There are several reasons which incline us to speak favorably of this book of poems. The first, perhaps, is the appearance of its printed pages, which are neatly executed upon tinted paper. We notice, also, that the red on the edges does not rub off on our fingers, which is a great source of satisfaction to one who is obliged to handle new books. On turning the book over, it occurs to us that green muslin does not form a pleasant contrast with red edges; but as we notice a gilded harp and shamrock on the cover, the arrangement of color is perhaps intended to be typical of the sentiments of the authoress.
The book-noticer—for we shall not claim the august title of critic—pauses with instinctive reverence at sight of the works of a poet, and, above all, of a poetess. The rhymes must be either good or bad. If good, how shall he condense the ecstasies, the harmonies, of one volume into the prosaic compass of a notice? If bad, how shall he run the risk of breaking by rude treatment the strings of a lyre which is perhaps just working into tune, or inflict a wound on those gushing hearts which sing with the birds or bubble with the brooks? In the present instance, we are glad to be able to say that the verses are not bad. The writer has talent. While there is no marked or striking originality in the subjects chosen, and not much of deep and moving pathos, there are many well-turned and pretty stanzas, and at times quite a wealth of imagery and illustration. The lines on “The Nightingale,” “To Cashel,” “The Wayside Shrine,” will furnish instances of this; and the volume will be found agreeable to lovers of poetry. The writer deserves to be encouraged. We wish her success in the fortune of her volume.
There is, however, a tone in some of the strains which grates somewhat upon our ears. Although no one suffers from the abuse of arbitrary power as greatly as the holy church, it is not her spirit to seek relief by violence, nor is this permitted to her children, even under oppressive tyranny, excepting when it promises to be a true remedy. There is much more to be feared in these days from the spirit of lawlessness and rebellion than from intelligent submission to governments, even when imperfect in form and unjust in practice. Our Holy Father, while branding with his apostolic eloquence the iniquities of which he is the victim, has forbidden violent resistance, [pg 288] for the time being, to the oppressors of Italy. The Catholics of Germany, under the most diabolical tyranny, have not sought relief by agitating insurrection. And while we do not propose to submit to injustice, or to call bad things by good names, we will never wilfully stain our hands by unnecessary bloodshed. Under these circumstances, the “Hymn to Liberty,” page 39, strikes us as a piece of heated declamation.
Some lines which we have noted at intervals, and which seem to look forward to the emancipation of Ireland as the work of the sword, though highly gratifying to martial spirits, will not wholly commend themselves to those friends of Ireland who are now seeking it by peaceful means, and tread in the paces of the great O'Connell. There is no beauty without truth; and those who lose sight of it, even in minor details, run the risk of a false inspiration. We are glad to notice, on the other hand, several poems in the volume full of Catholic thought and piety. As for the melodies, harmonies, etc., before alluded to, those who wish for them must lay aside our notice and read the book.
The Paradise of God; or, The Virtues of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. By a Father of the Society of Jesus. Baltimore: John Murphy & Co. London: R. Washbourne. 1874. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society).
The idea of this book is to show that the lovers of the Sacred Heart find in that “masterpiece of creation” an Eden more beautiful than that from which sin expelled us. The various chapters treating of the “Virtues,” will be read with delight by all who are capable of appreciating them. The book is one of the “Messenger Series,” and uniform with the Happiness of Heaven and God Our Father—two works which have been widely read.
Books and Pamphlets Received.
From D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New York: Sadliers' Catholic Directory, Almanac, and Ordo for 1874. 12mo.
From the Author: The Anæsthetic Revelation and the Gist of Philosophy. By Benj. P. Blood. 8vo. pp. 37.
From J. Murphy & Co., Baltimore: Circular of the Catholic Commissioner for Indian Missions, to the Catholics of the United States. Paper, 8vo, pp. 14.
From Compton & Co., Halifax, N. S. The Evil of our Day: A Lecture by Rev. A. Chisholm. 8vo, pp. 15.
From the Author: Speech of Hon. N. P. Chipman in the House of Representatives, Feb. 28, 1874. Paper, 12mo, pp. 31.
From Metcalf & Co., Northampton: Sixth Annual Report of the Clarke Institution for Deaf Mutes. Paper, 8vo, pp. 40.
From C. Lange & Co., New York: Fourth Annual Report of the Manhattan Eye and Ear Hospital. Paper, 12mo, pp. 34.
From J. Lovell, Montreal: The Labor and Money Questions. By Wm. Brown. Paper, 24mo, pp. 58.
From J. A. McGee: Ireland Among the Nations. By Rev. J. O'Leary, D.D. 12mo, pp. 208.
From P. Fox, St. Louis: Snatches of Song. By Mary A. McMullen (Una). 18mo, pp. 203.
From Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York: The History of Greece. By Prof. Dr. Ernst Curtius. Translated by A. W. Ward, M.A. Vol. IV. 12mo, pp. 530.
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From The New York Catholic Protectory, West Chester: Meditations on the Holy Eucharist, and Meditations on the Sacred Heart of Jesus. By Brother Philippe. 12mo, pp. xvi., 508, 153.
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The Catholic World. Vol. XIX., No. 111.—June, 1874.
The Principles Of Real Being. VI. Principles of Nominal Realities.
There are beings which are called real, not because they have any special reality of their own, but only on account of their objective connection with real beings. Thus possibilities are called “real,” although the things possible have no formal existence and no actual essence; relations are called “real” when they have real terms and a real foundation, although they are not found to possess (unless they be transcendental) any new and special reality; distinction, too, is called “real” from the reality of those things that are distinct, although distinction in itself is neither a new thing nor aught of any real thing. Hence possibility, relation, and distinction are to be looked upon as entities having only a conventional reality, from which their denomination of “real” has been desumed. Let us therefore inquire what are the principles on which these nominal realities depend.
Principles of possible being.
It has been proved, in one of our preceding articles, that every created being is constituted of an act, of a potential term, and of their formal complement. It is now to be observed that an act, when conceived as ready to be produced and to actuate its term, is called a “first act”—actus primus; whilst the same act, when already produced and existing in its term, is called a “second act”—actus secundus. In the same manner, the potential term, or the potency, when conceived as ready to be first actuated by an act and to complete it, is called a “first potency”—potentia prima; whilst the same term, when already actuated and completing its act, receives the [pg 290] name of “second potency”—potentia secunda.[85]
When treating of being as possible, it is evident that we cannot consider its act as really actuating a term; for such a real actuation would immediately be followed by the real actuality of the being. Yet the quiddity of a possible being is always conceived through the same principles and the same ratios through which the quiddity of the actual being is conceivable. For a being is adequately possible when an act is terminable or can give existence, when a term is actuable or can receive existence, and when, from the concurrence of the two, one complete actuality can result. The act, the term, and the complement are therefore implied in the possible no less than in the actual being; with this difference, however: that in the actual being the act and the term are actually existing in one another, whereas in the possible being the act and the term are not really existing in one another, but only mentally conceived as ready to conspire into one common existence. In other words, in the actual being the act is a second act, the term is a second potency, and the complement is a real and formal result; whilst in the possible being the act is a first act, the term is a first potency, and the complement is a mere resultability.
Hence the intrinsic possibility of a being may be regarded under two correlative aspects—that is either as the terminability of a first act, or as the actuability of a first potency. Under the first aspect, possibility involves a positive reality, because it implies a real entity which is eminently (that is, in a more perfect manner) pre-contained in the entity and power of its cause. Under the second aspect, possibility does not involve anything positive—unless we speak of the possibility of accidents, which require a positive subject—but only connotes something positive, to wit, the first act by which the term is to be formally actuated. Possibility, under this second aspect, and with reference to primitive beings, is nothing else than the potentiality with which we clothe nothingness when we conceive it as a term out of which beings are educed by creation; for nothingness thus conceived connotes the act by which the non-existing term can be brought into being.
Every possible being has, therefore, a twofold incomplete possibility—the formal and the material. The formal consists in the terminability of a first act; the material in the actuability of its term; while the complete and adequate intrinsic possibility of the being is a simple result of the concurrence of the two.
It must be manifest, as a consequence from the preceding remarks, that a possible being is not truly, but only nominally, real. For its material possibility, or its possible term, is only an entity of reason, since it means nothing more than a non-entity conceived as liable to actuation; and its formal possibility, or its possible act, although involving, as we have said, the notion of a positive reality [pg 291] eminently contained in the entity of the Creator, is still nothing formally in that line of reality to which we refer when we speak of its possibility. Thus the possibility of man, so far as it is eminently contained in the entity of the Creator, is no human entity at all, but simply God's entity and power; just as the possibility of velocity, so far as it is eminently contained in the entity of its cause, is no formal velocity at all, but simply the entity and power of the agent by which the velocity can be brought into being. Certainly, the velocity with which a drop of rain falls to the ground has no formal existence in the earth which produces it, but only in the drop itself; it being evident that the attractive power of the earth is not velocity, but the principle of its production. And the same is to be said of any other effect inasmuch as it is eminently contained in its efficient cause. Nothing, therefore, that is merely possible has any formal being in its cause; whence it follows that whatever is merely possible is nothing more than an entity of reason—that is, an unreality—whether we consider its material or its formal possibility. All entities, in fact, of which the act and the term are beings of reason, can have no actuality but an actuality of reason. Hence possible beings are themselves only beings of reason, and have no reality, either physical or metaphysical. Why, then, are they called real? Certainly not for what they are, but simply because their possibility is the possibility of real beings. Many philosophers are wont to style them metaphysical realities; but this is a mistake, for all metaphysical reality implies existence.
Possibles, as mere beings of reason, have neither actuality nor formal unity, except in intellectual conception; whence it follows that they do not constitute number, except in intellectual conception. This inference is evident. For every multitude is made up of distinct units; and therefore no real multitude can be conceived without real units really distinct. On the other hand, possible beings are not real, but conceptual, units, nor are they really, but only mentally, distinct from one another. As, however, they are distinctly conceived, and have a distinct ideal actuality in the intellect that conceives them, they constitute what may be called an ideal multitude. Such a multitude, as seen and exhaustively comprehended by God's intellect, is absolutely and positively infinite; for possibilities are nothing but the virtual degrees of being which God's infinite reality eminently contains, and which God's infinite power can produce outwardly. The range of possibilities is therefore co-extensive with God's infinity, and thus actually comprises an infinite (not an indefinite) multitude of distinct terms.
This infinite multitude is distinctly and positively known to God in the perfect comprehension of his own infinite being, which is the inexhaustible source of all possible beings; to our intellects, however, which cannot comprehend infinity, the same infinite multitude is known only negatively, inasmuch as we understand that the multitude of possible beings admits of no limit whatever. We have, in fact, no positive intuition of the infinite, but acquire a notion of it by means of abstraction only, as we remove the limits by which any finite reality directly perceived by us is circumscribed. In other terms, our [pg 292] notion of the infinite is not an intuitive idea, as the ontologists assume, but only an abstract concept.[86]
Thus far we have spoken of what is called intrinsic possibility. Besides this possibility, which is theoretical and absolute, there is also a relative possibility which is extrinsic and practical. Extrinsically possible we call that which is in the power of some being to do. With regard to God, all that is intrinsically possible is also extrinsically possible; for his omnipotence has no bounds. With regard to creatures, whose power is confined to the production of accidental acts, the range of extrinsic possibility is very limited, since it is reduced to acts of a determinate species, and depends on extrinsic conditions. Still, as the efficient power of created substances is never exhausted by exertion, creatures virtually contain in their own power a multitude of possible acts which has no limit but that of the multitude of terms or subjects which can be placed within the sphere of their activity. This amounts to saying that the active power of creatures can be exerted, not only successively, but even simultaneously, in the production of any number of accidental acts of a certain kind. Thus the attractive power of the sun sufficiently accounts for the possibility of innumerable movements which can take place at any time and at all times in any number of planets, comets, or particles of matter around it; so that the multiplication of the effects does not require the multiplication of the power, but only that of the number of subjects, or potential terms, in which the acts proceeding from that power must be received.
From what we have just said of real possibility, it will be easy to determine in what real impossibility consists. Really impossible we call that which cannot exist in nature. Now, nothing can exist in nature which is not an act completed by a suitable term, or a term actuated by a suitable act, or an actuality resulting from the conspiration of an act and a suitable term, as we have shown in a preceding article. That, therefore, is absolutely and intrinsically impossible in which this essential law of being is not fulfilled. Thus passion without action is absolutely and intrinsically impossible, because a term cannot be actuated without an act; whiteness with nothing white is absolutely impossible, because no mode of being is conceivable where there is no being; a material form actuating an intellectual term is absolutely impossible, because the one cannot give that kind of reality which the other should receive, and thus they cannot conspire into one essence; rotundity and triangularity in the same subject are absolutely impossible, because they exclude and destroy one another. Generally, whenever the assumed principles of a thing do not conspire into one essential ratio, the thing will have no essence, and consequently no possibility of existence. Hence everything is intrinsically impossible which lacks some constituent, or of which the constituents cannot meet together.
Things intrinsically impossible are no beings, not even ideal beings; for since they have no essence, they have no objective intelligibility. Nevertheless, they are said to be really, truly, entitatively impossible, inasmuch as they are the opposite of possible entity, reality, and truth.
Besides this intrinsic and absolute impossibility, there is a relative impossibility, which is styled extrinsic, arising from a deficiency or limitation of extrinsic power. It is evident that a thing intrinsically possible may be extrinsically impossible to causes possessing limited power. To God nothing is impossible. When we say that God cannot sin or make a square circle, we do not limit his power, but only point out the intrinsic impossibility of the thing. And let this suffice with regard to possibles and impossibles.
Principles of real relation.
Relative we call “that which connotes something else”—id quod se habet ad aliud. Thus the greater connotes the less, as nothing can be styled “greater” except as compared with something less; and, similarly, the less connotes the greater, as nothing can be styled “less” except as compared with something greater. Hence greater and less are both relative.
That one thing may connote another, there must be some link between them—that is, a communication in something that reaches them both, and thus connects the one with the other. Hence, to constitute a relative being, three things are required: 1st, that which is to be related, or the subject of the relation; 2d, that to which it is to be related, or the term of the relation; 3d, that through which it is related, or the foundation or formal reason of the relation.
It is worth noticing that the word “relation” is used by philosophers in two different senses. Sometimes it is used as meaning simply “the respect of a subject to a term”; as when we say that the father by his paternity is related to his son, or that the son by his filiation is related to his father. Here paternity and filiation are simple relativities, which may be called “transitive relations,” as the one leads to the other. But sometimes the word “relation” is used as meaning “the tie resulting between two terms from the conspiration of their distinct relativities”; as when we say that between the father and his son there is a tie of consanguinity. Relation in this sense is nothing else than the actuality of two correlatives, inasmuch as connected by their distinct relativities, and may be styled “resultant relation,” or “intransitive relation,” as it does not lead from the subject to the term, but is predicated of both together.
The precise distinction between relativity and resultant relation is marked out by the two prepositions to and between. Relativity relates the subject to its term; resultant relation, or correlation, intervenes between two terms. Relativity needs completion in a term having an opposite relativity, as it is evident that paternity has no completion without a son; and thus one relativity essentially needs to be completed by the other; but correlation is perfectly complete, as it is the result of the completion of one relativity by the other. And, lastly, the formal reason or foundation of the simple relativity is that which induces the connotation, or the respect of one term to another; whilst the formal reason of the correlation is the conspiration of two relativities. Thus the foundation of paternity and of filiation is generation, active on the part of the father, and passive on the part of the son; but the formal reason of consanguinity is not the generation, but the conspiration of paternity and filiation into a relative unity. This shows that these two kinds of relation are [pg 294] entirely distinct, though they are essentially connected with one another in the constitution of the relative being.
Let us now inquire in what the reality of relations consists. Here again we have to make a distinction; for among the relations which are called real, some are real in fact, as the transcendental relations, and others are real by denomination only, as all the predicamental relations.
Transcendental relation is that which intervenes between the act and the term, or the formal and the material principles of one and the same being. Such a relation is called “transcendental,” because it transcends the limits of any particular predicament, and, like being, extends to all predicaments. This relation is truly real, whether we take “relation” as a simple relativity or as a resultant correlation. For the relativity of an act to its term is nothing less than the actuality of the act in the same term; in like manner, the relativity of a term to its act is nothing less than the actuality of the term in the same act. We know, in fact, that the common foundation of the two relativities is actuation, active on the part of the act, and passive on the part of the term; and from actuation nothing but actuality can result. And since by such an actuation the act and the term are really constituted in one another, hence their relativities need nothing extrinsic for their completion, but the one intrinsically completes the other in the same individual being, and both conspire into one absolute actuality, which is the formal complement of the same being, as we have shown in another place.
But with predicamental relations the case is different. The subject and the term of the predicamental relation do not communicate with one another through themselves immediately, but through something else, and are always physically distinct, as we shall see hereafter; whence it follows that the predicamental relativity always refers the subject to a term extrinsic to it, and thus needs something extrinsic for its entitative completion. But nothing which is extrinsic to the subject can complete anything intrinsic to it so as to form a real entity. Therefore the relativity of the subject to its term is not a real entity of the subject, but only a real denomination. The minor of this syllogism can be easily proved; for two things which are, and remain, extrinsic to one another cannot conspire into one real unity; but the subject and the term of predicamental relations are, and remain, extrinsic to one another; they cannot, therefore, conspire into one real unity. Hence they cannot give rise to any new real entity; for unity and entity are convertible terms.
Moreover, predicamental relations arise between two absolute terms without anything new being introduced into them. For if we have two real terms, A and B, possessing something which is common to both, their communication in this common thing will make them relative. Yet such a communication leaves A and B in possession of that reality which is said to be common, and adds no real entity to them. If A and B are both white, the whiteness which is in A is by no means modified by the existence of whiteness in B. The fact that A and B are both white, simply means that whiteness is not confined to A; but it does not imply any new real entity in A, and [pg 295] therefore A remains identically the same, whether there is another white body, B, or not; and if there were one thousand white bodies, A would become related to them all, and acquire a thousand relativities, without the least real modification of its entity.
Not even the relation between agent and patient, which is the nearest possible imitation of the transcendental relation between the essential constituents of absolute being, is a new entity. A being which acts is an agent; and a being which is acted on is a patient. Agent and patient are connected by predicamental relation, the act produced by the first, and received in the second, being the foundation of their relativities. Now, is the relativity of the agent to the patient a new real entity above and besides the substance of the agent and its action? By no means. For such a relativity arises from this only: that the act produced by the agent is received in the patient; and as the patient is a being distinct from the agent, the reception of the act in the patient cannot concur to the constitution of any new reality in the agent. Hence the whole reality of the agent, as such, consists in its substance and its action; while the reception of its action elsewhere can add no real entity to it, but simply gives it a real denomination desumed from the reality of the effect produced. For the same reason, the relativity of the patient to the agent is no new real entity above and besides the substance of the patient and its passion. This relativity, in fact, arises from this only: that the act received in the patient comes from the agent; and as the agent is a being distinct from the patient, the coming of the act from the agent cannot concur to the constitution of any new reality in the patient. Hence the whole reality of the patient, as such, consists in its substance and its passion, or reception of the act; while the coming of this act from a distinct being can add no real entity to it, but simply gives it a real denomination desumed from the reality of the causation.
From what precedes we may conclude that the reality of predicamental relations requires no new real entity superadded to the real terms and the real foundation of their relativity, and accordingly predicamental relations are only nominal realities.
Relations are either virtual, formal, or habitual. Virtual relativity is predicated of a subject which contains in itself virtually (in actu primo) something through which it can communicate with a distinct term. Thus everything visible has a virtual relativity to the eye before it is seen; because all that is visible has the power to make an impression upon the eye. Hence visibility is a virtual relativity, or, if we may so call it, a mere referability. In Latin, it is called ordo—“ordination”; and in the language of the schools, the visible would be said to have “a special ordination to the eye”—visibile ordinem habet ad oculum. In the same manner, the eye has a special ordination to the visible, the intellect to the intelligible, etc.
The formal relativity is predicated of a subject which is formally (in actu secundo) connected with its correlative by the formal participation of a common entity. Thus, when the visible object strikes the eye, the action of the one upon the other entails a formal link of relativity between the two, and it is thus that the previous virtual relativity [pg 296] of the one to the other becomes formal. This formal relativity in Latin is often called respectus—“a respect”; and the things thus related are said “to regard”—respicere—one another.
The habitual relativity is predicated of that which has been brought into relation with its correlative by something in which both originally communicated, but which, owing to the destruction of one of the two, has ceased to be common. This relativity in Latin is properly called habitudo—that is, “habitual connotation”; and the subject thus related is spoken of as habens se ad aliquid—a phrase which we do not attempt to translate, and which is used by philosophers in a more general sense to express all kinds of relations.[87] Thus a murderer is still habitually related to the man whom he has killed, although the man killed is no more a man; and, in the same manner, a son is habitually related to his father, even after his father's death; for he is still the same son of the same father, and it would be absurd to pretend that he has lost his own relativity and ceased to be a real son only because his father is no more. It must be remarked, however, that this habitual relativity cannot be real, except when the relation has an intrinsic foundation. For when the foundation is extrinsic, there is nothing formally remaining in the subject which, after the suppression of the term, can keep up its relativity. Thus, if the moon were annihilated, the distance from the earth to the moon would totally vanish, as every one will easily admit.
Much might be said about predicamental relations, both intrinsic and extrinsic; but, in a general treatise like this, we cannot well enter into matters of detail. We will only state that relations are divided according to their foundations. Intrinsic relations are respectively founded on substance, on action and passion, on quality, and on quantity; and therefore may be reduced to four kinds. Extrinsic relations also may be divided into four kinds, as they are respectively founded on a common cause, on a common region of ubication, on a common duration, or on a common extrinsic term of comparison.
Substance, and everything else considered absolutely, founds the relations of unity and plurality. Action and passion found the relations of causality and dependence. Quality founds the relations of likeness or unlikeness. Quantity founds the relations of equality or inequality. All these relations are called intrinsic, because their foundation is something intrinsic to the terms related.
A common cause founds the relation which we may call of collateralness between two terms proceeding from it. Thus two brothers are connected in mutual fraternity, inasmuch as they are the offspring of the same parents. A common region of ubication and movement founds the relation of distance. A common duration founds the relation of succession. A common extrinsic term of comparison founds the relation of site or situation. All these relations are called extrinsic, because their foundation is extrinsic to the terms related.
Principles of real distinction.
Distinction is nothing but a negation of identity; and therefore there must be as many kinds of [pg 297] distinction as there are kinds of identity which can be denied. Hence we cannot properly determine the principles of real distinction without first ascertaining what are the principles of real identity.
Identity is a relative unity, or a relation founded on the unity of a thing. For the thing which is to be styled the same must be compared with itself according to that entity on account of which it is to be pronounced to be identical with itself; and it is evident that such an entity must be one in order to be the same. Thus if I say: “The pen with which I am now writing is the very same which I used yesterday,” the pen with which I am now writing will be the subject of the relation, the pen which I used yesterday will be the term of the relation, and the oneness of its entity will be the foundation of the relation and the formal reason of the identity.
As relations, like everything else, are specified by their formal reasons, it is clear that there must be as many kinds of identity as there are kinds of unities on which the relation of identity can be founded. Now, three kinds of unities can be conceived: first, the formal unity of a complete being, or a complete unity, which may be called physical unity; secondly, the unity of an incomplete or metaphysical reality, which may be called metaphysical unity; thirdly, the unity of a being of reason, which may be called logical unity. Accordingly, there can be three kinds of identity, viz., the physical, the metaphysical, and the logical. Let us say a word about each.
Physical identity is a relation founded on the unity of a physical entity, and is the most real of all identities. Some philosophers taught that this identity is merely a logical relation, or a relation of reason, because a relation cannot be real unless its subject be really distinct from its term—a condition which cannot be verified when the subject and the term are identical. But they did not reflect that a thing must be called really identical with itself then only when it cannot be really distinguished from itself, and inasmuch as it excludes real distinction from itself. It is therefore manifest that real identity excludes real distinction in that in which there is identity. Nevertheless, the thing which is substantially identical with itself may still really differ from itself in the manner of its being, and may, as the subject of the relativity, involve a real entity, which it does not involve as the term of the same relativity; and accordingly the substantial identity of a thing with itself does not exclude all real distinction. The pen with which I am now writing, although identical with the pen that lay on the table one hour before, is now in different accidental conditions, and has some real mode, which was wanting one hour ago. And this shows that there can be a sufficient real distinction between the subject and the term of the relation, even though they are substantially identical.
Physical identity may be divided into complete and incomplete. It is complete, or total, when a being is compared with itself through the unity of its physical entity, as in the preceding example of the pen. It is incomplete, or partial, when a physical part is compared with a physical whole, or, vice versa, as when we compare the whole man with his soul or with his body.
Metaphysical identity is a relation founded on the unity of a [pg 298] metaphysical entity, and possesses a metaphysical reality. It may be divided into adequate and inadequate. It is adequate when a being is compared with itself through the unity of some metaphysical reality which belongs to it. Such is the personal identity of John when old with John when young; for although he has undergone many physical changes in his body, and therefore has not preserved a perfect physical identity with himself, still his formal personality, which is wholly due to his soul, has not changed at all. The identity will be inadequate when any metaphysical constituent of a complete being is compared with the being itself, or vice versa. Such is the identity of the substantial act with the substance of which it is the act, of the matter with the material being, and of any property or attribute with the thing of which it is the property or the attribute. Such is also the identity of the divine Personalities with the divine essence; for, although the divine Paternity identifies itself perfectly with the divine essence, this latter requires further identification with the divine Filiation and with the passive Spiration; for it must be as whole and perfect in the Second and the Third Person as it is in the First.
Logical identity, or identity of reason, is a relation founded on the unity of a being of reason. It may be divided into objective and subjective. The objective has its foundation in the real order of things; the subjective has no foundation except in our conception. Thus the identity we conceive between a horse and its owner as to their animality is an identity of reason only, although it is grounded on a real foundation; for animality is indeed to be found really in both, but its unity is only a unit of reason; for animality, as common to both, is only a logical entity, which we call “genus.” The same is to be said of the identity between Peter and Paul as to their humanity; for humanity, though real in both, is not numerically, but only specifically, one, and its unity is therefore a unity of reason; for “species” is a logical being. On the contrary, when we say that “a stone is heavy,” the identity between a stone and the subject of such a proposition has no foundation except in our reason, and therefore is purely subjective; and the same is to be said of the identity of the verb is with the copula of the proposition, of heavy with the predicate, etc. It is evident, in fact, that the ground on which these last relations are founded is not a real unity, and not even a unity having anything corresponding to it in the real order; since subject, predicate, etc., are mere conceptions and creations of our mind.
We have thus three kinds of identity: the physical, which is either complete or incomplete; the metaphysical, which is either adequate or inadequate; the logical, which is either objective or merely subjective. Since distinction is the negation of identity, it is obvious that the distinction between two terms always results from the non-unity of the same, and is conceived by the comparison of the one with the other according to something which can be affirmed of the one, and must be denied of the other. Those things, in fact, are said to be distinct of which the one is not the other, or in one of which there is something not to be found in the other.
First, then, to deny real physical [pg 299] identity is to assert real physical distinction. Physical distinction may be either complete or incomplete as well as physical identity. It will be complete, or major, when, comparing two complete wholes with one another, we deny that the one is the other; as when we deny that the sun is the moon. It will be incomplete, or minor, when, comparing together the whole and any of its parts, we deny that the whole is any of its parts, and vice versa; as when we deny that Germany is Europe, or that the roof is the house. It is evident that incomplete physical distinction always coexists with incomplete physical identity.
The true and certain sign of real physical distinction between two things is their separability or their state of actual separation. For when two things are completely distinct as to their physical entity, they are each in possession of their own distinct existence; and consequently the existence of the one does not depend on the existence of the other. On the other hand, although a physical whole cannot exist as a whole, if its parts be separated, yet each of its physical parts can exist separated, as each of them has its own existence independent of the existence of the whole.
Secondly, to deny real metaphysical identity is to assert real metaphysical distinction. Metaphysical distinction may be either adequate or inadequate no less than metaphysical identity. It will be adequate, or major, when, comparing together two metaphysical constituents, we deny that the one is the other; as when we deny that the act is the potency. It will be inadequate, or minor, when, comparing a metaphysical compound with any of its constituents, we deny that the constituent is the compound, and vice versa; as when we deny that existence is the thing existing, or that person is personality. The inadequate metaphysical distinction always coexists with an inadequate metaphysical identity.
Thirdly, to deny an identity of reason is to assert a distinction of reason. A distinction of reason may be either objective or merely subjective, no less than the identity of reason. It will be objective, or major, when, comparing together two entities which are really identical, we find in their identical reality a ground for denying their conceptual identity; as when we deny that God's eternity is God's immensity, or when we deny that in any given being one essential attribute, as animality, is another, as rationality. This distinction is objective, because its ground is found in the object itself; and yet it is not real, because each term represents the same thing under two distinct aspects. Thus, in man, animality really includes a rational soul, and therefore implies rationality. But the distinction will be purely subjective, or minor, when, comparing together two entities, we find no ground whatever for denying their identity, except in our subjective manner of viewing them. Thus, although man is identical with rational animal, we can distinguish man from rational animal as a subject from a predicate; and it is evident that this distinction has no ground but in our conception.
Accordingly, we have three kinds of distinction: the real physical, which is either complete or incomplete; the real metaphysical, which is either adequate or inadequate; the logical, or of reason, which is [pg 300] either objective or merely subjective. This division is exhaustive. Some will say that we have forgotten the modal distinction. But the fact is that we have abstained on purpose from mentioning it in connection with any special kind of distinction, because it may fall under the physical as well as the metaphysical distinction, according as it happens to be understood; for it is differently understood by different writers.
Some authors consider that there is a modal distinction between the spherical wax and its sphericity, between the soul affected by fear and its affection, between the finger inflected and its inflection, and generally between the modified subject and its mode. Others, as Suarez, seem to admit a modal distinction between the wax simply and its sphericity, between the soul simply and its affection, between the finger simply and its inflection, and generally between the subject simply and its mode. And others, again, admit a modal distinction between the wax having a spherical form and the same wax having a different form; between the soul affected by a movement of fear and the same soul affected by a different movement; between the finger inflected and the same finger not inflected; and generally between a subject having one mode, and the same subject having another mode.[88]
These different opinions have been occasioned by an imperfect analysis of distinction. Those who originally treated of this matter called real all distinction which was not a mere distinction of reason, and overlooked the necessity of subdividing real distinctions into physical and metaphysical. Hence the modal distinction was simply called real, without further examining whether it had a physical or a metaphysical character; the more so as it was assumed that real modes were physical entities—which would convey the idea that real modal distinction is of a physical nature. But the assumption is not to be admitted, because, as we have remarked in another article, modes cannot be styled “physical” entities, as they have no possibility of separate existence. This being premised, let us briefly examine the three aforesaid opinions.
The first admits a modal distinction between spherical wax and its sphericity. Sphericity cannot exist without a subject; and therefore it must be ranked among metaphysical entities. On the other hand, spherical wax is a metaphysical compound of wax and sphericity. Hence, from what we have said above, the distinction of the one from the other is an inadequate metaphysical distinction.
The second opinion admits a modal distinction between the wax simply and its sphericity. Sphericity, as we have stated, is a metaphysical entity, and so is “wax simply” also; for wax, as such, is not yet spherical, although, as a subject of sphericity, it excludes every other form. Such a wax therefore has no form, and, as such, it cannot exist; and accordingly it is an incomplete being. Hence the distinction between the wax simply and its sphericity is that which intervenes between two principles [pg 301] of a complete being, and therefore is an adequate metaphysical distinction.
The third opinion alone gives the true notion of the modal distinction. For if a piece of wax which is spherical happens to acquire another form, say the cubical, the comparison of the cubical with the spherical wax will involve two terms physically real; and as the substance of the wax is still the same, no distinction will be found between the two terms, except that which arises from denying the identity of the cubical with the spherical form. We have thus a real and physical modal distinction: real and physical, because the spherical wax really and physically differs from the cubic wax; modal, because the negation of identity falls on the two modes, and not on the substance.
From this we learn that neither the first nor the second opinion above mentioned gives the true notion of modal distinction. The first denies only the identity of the spherical wax with its sphericity; the second denies only the identity of wax simply with sphericity. Now, it is evident that neither spherical wax nor wax simply is a mode. It is evident, therefore, that neither opinion denies modal identity. But modal distinction cannot be anything else than a denial of modal identity. Therefore neither opinion gives the true notion of modal distinction.
As modes are accidental formalities, the modal distinction may also be called formal. The Scotist philosophers imagined a formal distinction of another kind, which, according to them, was to be admitted between the attributes of real being, and which was neither real nor a mere distinction of reason, but something intermediate. They called it “formal distinction arising from the nature of the thing”—distinctio formalis ex natura rei. We need not refute this invention. We have already given in full the general theory of distinction, and we have found no room for any formal distinction intermediary between real distinctions and distinctions of reason; and, as to the attributes of real beings, we have shown, in the article before this, that they are not really distinct from one another, but admit of a simple distinction of reason, which, however, has a real foundation in the thing.
Sometimes distinction is styled formal as contrasted with virtual. Thus we may say that there is a formal distinction between two terms formally existing—e.g., two existing men, and a virtual distinction between two virtual terms—e.g., two possible men. And generally, whenever one and the same thing virtually contains two or more, these latter, as thus contained, are said to be virtually distinct. Thus intellect and reason are only virtually distinct, as they are one concrete power of acquiring knowledge which can perform its task by two different processes. This virtual distinction is, of course, nothing but a distinction of reason.
Sometimes, again, distinction is called positive as contrasted with negative. It is positive when the two terms of which we deny the identity are both positive, and it is negative when one of the two terms is negative; as when we distinguish the existent from the non-existent. Negative distinction is a real distinction; for the negation of real identity can be predicated not only of two real beings, but [pg 302] also, and with greater reason, of the existent as compared with the non-existent.
It may be remarked that distinction, difference, and diversity are not synonymous. Diversity is most properly predicated of two things that are not of the same genus; difference of two things that are not of the same species, and distinction of two things that are not numerically identical. Nevertheless, the terms distinct, different, and diverse are very frequently employed for one another, even by good authors.
We observe, lastly, that distinction, as such, is not a relation; for all relation presupposes some distinction between the terms related, as a condition of its possibility. Yet two positive terms really distinct have always a certain relative opposition, inasmuch as there is always something common to both (at least their being) which may be taken as a foundation of mutual relativity.
And here we close our investigation about nominal realities. We have shown that possibles, relations, and distinctions are no special realities, but are called real from the reality of other things. Real possibility is only the possibility of a real being; real relation is only the actuality of two terms really communicating in something identical; and real distinction is only the existence of things of which the one is not really the other.
As this is our last article on the principles of real being, we beg to remind the reader that our object in this treatise has been only to point out distinctly, and to express with as great a philosophical precision as our language could permit, all that concerns the constitution of being in general. We may have failed to employ always the best phraseology, but we hope our analysis of real being is philosophically correct, and the principles we have laid down under the guidance of the ancients will be found to shed a pure and abundant light on all the questions of special metaphysics. But the student of philosophy should not forget that the greatest difficulty in the settlement of all such questions arises, not so much from the nature of the subjects investigated, as from the imperfect knowledge and mis-application of philosophical language. And this is the reason why we did our best to determine the exact purport of the terms most frequently employed in metaphysical treatises.
Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.” II.
An Eastern Romance Narrated In Songs.
By Aubrey De Vere.
Part II.
She Sang.
I.
I heard his voice, and I was dumb
Because to his my spirit cleaved:
He called to me from far. I come.
Because I loved him, I believed.
He said, “Though love be secret yet,
Eternity its truth shall prove.”
It seemed not gift, but ancient debt
Discharged, to answer love with love.
II.
Thy herald near me drew and knelt:
I knew from whom the missive came
Ere yet I saw, ere yet I felt
Thy sigil-mark, or kissed thy name.
I read—'twas like a thousand birds,
Music confused of Paradise:
At last the words became thy words;
Thy voice was in them, and thine eyes
Above them shone in love and power,
And flashed the meaning on the whole:
We were not severed, friend, that hour:
One day shall blend us, soul with soul.
III.
That face is valorous and grave:
To it, despite thine unripe spring,
Thy spirit's might the painter gave:
It is the countenance of a king.
Look down, strong countenance, strong yet fair,
Through all this weak, unstable soul!
Like stars sea-mirrored, kindle there
His virtues—truth and self-control!
Not beauty, nor that youthful grace
Uncareful girlhood's natural dower,
Suffice. A child of royal race,
A hero's wife should walk in power.
IV.
Like some great altar rises vast
That rock whereon our City stands,
With gray woods girt; with shade far cast
At morn dividing distant lands.
Nor war she fears, nor summer drouth,
By runnels pierced whose sparkling tide
Is drawn from mountains of the South
O'er myriad arches far descried.
Around her cliff-like, stony zone,
From tower to tower, from gate to gate,
At eve, when sunset changes stone
To gold, her princes walk in state;
And priests entoning anthems sweet,
The people's strength; and maiden choirs
That, passing, make them reverence meet;
And orphaned babes, and gray-haired sires.
High up, with many a cloistered lawn,
And chapelled gallery widely spread,
Extends, flower-dressed at eve and dawn,
The happy “City of the Dead.”
There musing sit I, day by day;
I sing my psalm; I pray for thee:
“If men could love, not hate,” I say,
“How like to heaven this earth would be!”
V.
Love bound a veil above my brow;
He wrapt it round me, o'er and o'er;
He said, “My little nun art thou,
My solitary evermore.
“Where hid'st thou when the falcons fly;
The flung jereed in music shrills?
When sweep the Arab horsemen by
In valleys of the terraced hills?
“Where are thy childhood's blithesome ways?
The tales, the dances, and the sports?
The bards that sang thy beauty's praise
Amid the hundred-columned courts?”
Love took from me all gifts save one:
The veil that shrouds me is his gift:
Love! say to him I love, “Alone
That veil of severance thou canst lift.”
VI.
On crimson silk, 'mid leaf and flower
I traced thy name in golden thread;
A harper harped beneath my bower:
I rose, and brought him wine and bread.
He sang: methought he sang of thee!
“My prince!” I cried—“how knew'st him thou?
His victories in the days to be?
His heaven-like eyes, and king-like brow?”
“O maid! I have not seen thy prince:
Old wars I sang; old victories won
In my far-distant land long since;
I sang the birth of moon and sun.”
VII.
He culled me grapes—the vintager;
In turn, for song the old man prayed:
I glanced around; but none was near:
With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.
“Were I a vine, and he were heaven,”
I sang, “I'd spread a vernal leaf
To meet the beams of morn and even,
And think the April day too brief.
“Were he I love a cloud, not heaven,
I'd spread my leaf and drink the rain;
Warm summer shower, and dews of even
Alike I'd take, and think them gain.”
“I would not shrink from wintry rime
Or echoes of the thunder-shock,
But watch the advancing vintage-time,
And meet it, reddening on my rock.”
VIII.
I often say, now thou art gone,
“How hard I seemed when he was here!”
I feared to seem too quickly won:
Love also came at first with fear.
I sang me dear old songs which proved
That many a maid had loved ere I:
No secret knew I till I loved:
I loved, yet loved reluctantly.
My heart with zeal more generous glowed
When he I loved was Danger's mate.
Great Love in this his greatness showed—
He lifted thee to things more great.
IX.
My childhood was a cloistered thing:
No wish for human love was mine:
I heard the hooded vestals sing
The praises of their Love Divine.
The village maids with rival glee,
Flower-filleting their unclipt hair,
Sang thus, “The meadow flowers are we”:
I thought the convent flowers more fair.
Yet false I am not. Still I climb
Through love to realms this earth above:
And those whom most I loved that time
Only for love's sake fled from love.
X.
Dear tasks are mine that make the weeks
Too swift in passing, not too slow:
I nurse the rose on faded cheeks,
Bring solace to the homes of woe.
I hear the Vesper anthems swell;
I track the steps of Fast and Feast
I read old legends treasured well
Of Machabean chief or priest.
I hear, on heights of song and psalm,
The storm of God careering by:
Beside His Deep, for ever calm,
I kneel in caves of Prophecy.
O Eastern Book! It cannot change!
Of books beside, the type, the mould—
It stands like yon Carmelian range
By our Elias trod of old!
The Farm Of Muiceron. By Marie Rheil. Concluded.
From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.
XXII.
During these terrible events, I dare say the combatants were not the most to be pitied. They, at least, were in action, in the midst of powder and noise; and if they fell, wounded or dead, they scarcely had time to know it. But think of the poor friends and relatives who remained without news, and almost without strength to seek any information! They were to be pitied.
Perhaps you may live in a city, which does not prevent you from sometimes going to the country; and so you can understand how certain villages are isolated from all daily communication. Our hamlet of Ordonniers, although near the large city of Issoudun, was, in this respect, worse off than many other places; for when M. le Marquis was absent from the château, there was no daily paper, none of the villagers being liberal enough to indulge in that luxury. The Perdreaux, in their time, subscribed for a paper, which came every other day, and gave the market prices and a jumble of news of people and things here and there about a month old. Even this resource no longer existed. M. le Curé was the only one who cared for what was going on; but as his means were very limited, he contented himself with a little paper which only came every Sunday.
Judge, then, of the terrible anguish at Muiceron; above all, when they saw all the able-bodied men of the commune leave; for you remember that then, for the first time, the provinces showed their teeth at the news of the horrors in Paris, and rose en masse to go and punish the rebellious children of a city that, in her selfishness, disturbed the whole of France without any just right.
The women displayed great bravery. They fitted out their sons, husbands, brothers, and betrothed, and let them leave for the dreadful struggle without wincing. But the next day—but the following days! What anxiety and what tears!
It was touching to see them each morning run before the country stage or speak to the letter-carrier, in hopes of hearing some words to reassure them. Generally, the stage drove rapidly on at a gallop; for stage-drivers are not patient, and the poor creatures' only information was an oath or rough word. As for the letter-carrier, he knew nothing positive, and was content to give the flying reports, which were not enough to quiet those troubled souls.
Jeanne and her mother kept at home. They prayed to God and wept, poor things! It was the best way to learn patience; but their hearts sank within them. It was a hard blow to have been so near happiness, and then suddenly to see it fly, perhaps for ever.
Old Ragaud was miserable that he could not go off with the other men of the neighborhood. He was too old, and this only increased his vexation, as he was but three or four years older than Michou, and he was in the battle! The sadness and ill-humor of the poor old fellow rendered Muiceron still gloomier, and the women neither dared stir nor sigh before him.
The little they knew was very terrible; and when the private letters began to arrive, all the families were plunged in despair and sorrow. Our commune alone lost three men; among them Cotentin, the miller, an honest peasant, and father of four children. He was shot dead, almost at the moment of his arrival; and the next day came the news of the death of Sylvain Astiaud, son of the head-forester, one of our bravest boys. Each one trembled for his own at the announcement of these misfortunes, and at last silence was considered a sure sign that mourning should be prepared.
Jeanne felt all her courage fail. She could no longer either eat or sleep, and even feared to question the passers-by. Certainly the good God, who wished to sanctify the poor child, and make her a perfect woman, did not spare her any suffering. He acted with her like a father who is tender and severe at the same time; who corrects the faults of his child, knowing well that they are more hurtful than death, and then recompenses her when petting can no longer spoil her.
Therefore this little Jeannette had to go to the end of her trial before relief came and her tears were dried. And this happened through that giddy, wild Pierre Luguet, who had left, like the others, singing and blustering, assuring the people around that he did not believe a word of the current rumors, and that, in one hour after his arrival in Paris, he would find out the whole truth, and send them all the news. But, behold! as soon as he was in the midst of smoking and bleeding Paris, he lost his senses, imagined himself killed before he had fired a shot, and wrote in pencil, on a scrap of blood-stained paper, a letter to his parents, all sighs and tears. He bade them farewell, and begged them to pray for his soul, as he would be dead before night; for no one could live in such a terrible conflict. If he had only spoken for himself, it might have passed; but he added that M. le Marquis, Jean-Louis, and Michou were certainly dead. He had sought for them everywhere, asked everybody, and no one could give him good news. To crown his stupidity, he added that, among the great heaps of corpses that lay yet unburied, he had recognized Jean-Louis' blouse of gray linen bound with black; and therefore they must weep for the death of that good, brave boy.
Poor Mme. Luguet ran straight to Muiceron to show that foolish letter. If there had been the least degree of cool good sense among them, it would easily have been seen they were the words of a brain addled from fear; but in the mortal anxiety of the poor Ragauds, they took it all for good coin. Jeanne fell on her knees, sobbing aloud, and, losing the little courage she still possessed, wrung her hands in despair. Pierrette threw herself beside her daughter, trying to comfort her; and Ragaud wept bitterly, although he had said a thousand times a man in tears is not worthy to wear breeches. In [pg 310] the evening, the true religion which filled those poor hearts came to support them and give them some strength. They lighted tapers before the crucifix and around the Blessed Virgin, and all night this afflicted family prayed ardently for the repose of the souls of the supposed dead—who were never better.
The next day you would have been shocked to have seen the ravages grief had made on their honest faces. Jeannette, wearied out with weeping and fatigue, slept in the arms of her mother, paler than a camomile-flower. Pierrette restrained her tears, from fear of awakening the child; but her hollow eyes and cheeks were pitiful to see; and the sun shone brightly in the room, without any one taking the trouble to close the shutters.
It was in this state that M. le Curé found the Ragaud family. His entrance at Muiceron renewed the lamentations; but Jeannette was calm, which greatly pleased the good pastor, as he saw that his lessons, joined to those of divine Providence, had borne their fruit.
He took the little thing aside, and, much affected by her deathlike appearance, spoke gently to her, and asked her to walk with him on the bank of La Range.
“My daughter,” said he, “it is not right to sink into such utter despair about news which is yet uncertain. Show a little more courage, for a while at least, until we hear something positive.”
“He is dead,” said Jeannette. “May the will of God be done! Alas! I should have been too happy, if I had seen him again.”
“Why are you so certain? As for me, I confess Pierre's letter would not make me lose all hope.”
“They were three together,” said she. “Pierre has written; could they not have written also?”
This argument was not bad. The curé could not reply; for, without acknowledging it, he did think the silence very strange. He made the poor child sit down by the side of the swift-running stream that glittered in the bright sunshine, and spoke to her for a long time in such soothing, touching words, Jeanne listened with profound respect and piety. He spoke of the happiness of this world, which is but for a short time; of the necessity of living and regaining her strength, that she might console her parents; of the beautiful day of eternity; of the heavenly home, where we will meet again the loved ones gone before us, never again to be separated.
At another time, Jeannette would not have understood these words, and perhaps might have even found them out of place; but now they fell upon her heart like soft caresses.
“Oh!” said she, “it is only now I understand how dearly I loved him. Father, tell me, can he see us from above?”
“You will have it, then, that he is absolutely dead,” said the curé, smiling.
Jeannette, in spite of her grief, smiled in her tears.
“That is true,” she said; “perhaps he is not dead.”
Hope had re-entered her soul with the consolations of the holy priest. They walked down the road to the farm, and Jeannette thanked him with much tenderness, and remarked, as it was near sunset, he must return home.
“One moment,” said the good curé; “you are a little egotist. I can't go without saying a word to father and mother.”
“Oh! yes,” said she, “of course you must; but, dear father, I will remain here, and say my rosary in the shade under the trees; the air will completely restore me.”
“Very well, dear child,” replied the curé; “and may the Blessed Virgin console you, my daughter!”
Jeanne retired under the heavy foliage, and really took her little rosary out of her pocket. But this wood recalled many sweet reminiscences. It was there Jean-Louis had found her and saved her life on that stormy night the year before. She looked for the spot, near the woodman's cabin, where he had taken her in his arms with a father's care; and as the remembrance of all this past happiness, which she had then slighted, came back to her heart, she leant against a tree, and hid her face in her hands.
Whether they were tears of repentance, of regret, of love, or of prayer that fell from her eyes God only knows; and surely, in his infinite goodness, he waited for this moment of supreme anguish, which could not have endured much longer, to say to that heart-broken child, “You have suffered enough; now be happy!”
For in that same hour Jean-Louis, wild with joy, leaped from the imperial of the country stage on the highroad, and ran, without stopping to take breath, toward his beloved Muiceron.
He also remembered the stormy night, and, from a sentiment you can well understand, wished to see again the little hut, if only to throw a passing glance.
He reached the spot, and was soon near the tree where Jeannette leant motionless. He recognized her. The beating of his heart almost suffocated him; for, with a lover's instinct, he immediately knew, if she had come to weep in that spot, it could only be on his account.
He advanced until he stood close behind her.
“Jeanne!” said he, so softly he scarcely heard his own voice.
Jeannette turned, and gave one scream. Her eyes wandered a moment, as if she had seen a phantom, and she fell half-dead into his arms.
“Jeanne! dear, dear Jeanne! don't you know me?” said he, pressing her to his breast. “I have caused you much sorrow, but it is all over—oh! it is all over; tell me, is it not?”
The poor child could not speak; her emotion and joy were too great. But such happiness don't kill; and gradually she revived, although she still trembled like a leaf.
“O Jeannet!” she said at last, “they wrote word you were dead.”
“And was that the reason you were weeping here all alone in this wood, my poor, dear darling?” he tenderly asked.
“Yes,” said she, looking down; “I could not be consoled. Why did you not send us some news?”
“I wished to surprise you,” said he, with simplicity; “and now I see I did wrong.”
“One day more, and I would have been dead also,” said she, leaning on his arm. “Cruel boy, go!”
She looked so lovely, still pale with grief, and yet as lively and coquettish as before, Jeannet was obliged to clasp her once again in his arms, and even kissed her, for which I hope you will pardon him, as I do.
“How good God is,” said he, “to permit us to meet again in this very place! This is the second time, [pg 312] dear Jeannette, that I have saved you when in great trouble; and I hope it is a sure sign that poor Jean-Louis will be able to comfort and assist you all the rest of his life.”
“You will never leave us again; you will promise that?” she replied. “When you are away, all sorts of misfortunes happen. Oh! how much we have suffered.”
And as these words suddenly recalled the sad events of the last six months, her flirtation, her thoughtless conduct, and the lamentable scenes that followed, she blushed, sighed, and leant her face, down which the tears were streaming, against Jean-Louis' shoulder.
“My own Jeannette,” said he, “you must no longer think of all that sorrow, now that God has made us so happy again. There is no misfortune which does not carry with it a profitable lesson when we recognize in it the hand of the Lord; and, for my part, although I have been nearly dead with grief, I say that my present happiness has not been too dearly bought, and I would consent to pass again through the same trials, on condition of possessing a second day like this.”
“Oh! no,” said Jeanne, “I have had enough. I have not your courage, and I will pray to God that I may be spared from such great trials. Come,” added she, taking Jeannet's arm, “we must go and surprise our parents. And the dear curé is just now with them! He told me so—the good, holy man told me you were not dead.”
“But who set such a report afloat?” asked Jeannet. “For really I was not even in danger.”
“Oh! what a story,” cried Jeanne. “You were in the fight; it could not be otherwise.”
“Certainly,” said Jeannet, “I fought, and did my best; but I never for an instant imagined the good God would let me die without seeing you again.”
“It is very well to have such happy thoughts,” said Jeanne joyfully; “if I could have had them, I would not have been nearly dead with anxiety, and hopeless from such great fear. Now I regret my tears, and would like to take them back.”
“You would not be the richer for it,” said he, laughing; “but, Jeannette, don't laugh at me. It was neither presumption nor carelessness made me think so. The good God put the faith in my heart; and then, didn't I have round my neck the silver medal you gave me the day of your first communion? Wasn't the image of the Blessed Virgin powerful enough to turn aside the balls?”
“What!” said Jeannette with emotion, “have you still my medal? Is it the very same one? Have you always worn it, in spite ... in spite of all.... Jeannet, show it to me; let me kiss it!”
“No,” said Jean-Louis, blushing, “not now. I will show it to you later.”
“Right away; I won't wait,” said she in the peremptory manner which so well became her. “I like to be obeyed.”
“But,” said Jeannet, much embarrassed, “I can't, because....”
“Because what?” she replied. “Don't think you are going to be master here! No, no, not more now than before, when, you remember, my mother said, ‘Jeannette is the boy....’ ”
“Really,” answered Jean-Louis, “you have a good memory. Well, then, since Jeannette is the boy, and I am the girl, I must submit to her wishes.”
And as, in spite of all this talk, he made no attempt to show her the medal, another idea entered her head.
“You are wounded,” said she, “and you don't wish me to see it.”
“That is not the reason,” he replied, unbuttoning his vest. “I don't wish you to believe any such thing.”
On opening his shirt, he showed the medal on his breast, and then the curious Jeannette understood his resistance; for, near the blessed image of our dear Mother, she recognized the long tress of blonde hair which had been cut off during her illness.
“It has never left me,” said he; “but I dared not let you see it. Do you forgive me? Your poor hair! I said to myself, While it rests upon my heart, it is as though my little sister were watching over me. And in the fight, I thought that, as the medal of the Blessed Virgin and your precious souvenir were also exposed to the fire, I could not be killed; and you see I was not mistaken.”
“Oh!” cried Jeannette, with tears in her eyes, “my dear Jeannet, I do not deserve such love.”
They reached Muiceron, arm-in-arm. Oh! how refreshing was the shaded court-yard and the fragrant hedges! And then, the dear house looked so gay in its new white coat, its green shutters, the fresh young vines that hung from the trellis, and its slate roof newly repaired, all shining in the soft rays of the sinking sun. The songs of the bullfinch and robin were more joyous than the trumpets and horns on a patronal feast; and it seemed as though the good God in heaven were well pleased, so beautiful was the blue sky, flecked with golden-edged clouds! Was it really the house we saw six months ago? Jeannet, who had long loved it, scarcely recognized it; he was mute with admiration, and, although he had left it in despair, he accused himself of having neglected to look at it until now; for surely his memory did not recall anything as joyous and beautiful as he now beheld in his beloved Muiceron.
Shall we ask the reason? There is a great artist who can paint, with colors of unparalleled brilliancy, whatever he chooses to place before our eyes. He is called happiness; and God wishes him to walk beside us, both in this world and the other.
The two dear children began to run as soon as they entered the court-yard of Muiceron. Jeannette was the first to spring across the threshold, and fell speechless into her mother's arms. Jean-Louis quickly followed her, and stood in the door-way, holding out his hands to his parents. Then there were cries, and tears, and confusion of kisses, and questions without end and without reason. Their hearts overflowed. The little one, as they always called the tall, handsome boy, was covered with caresses, stifled with embraces quite overpowering; for country-people drink in joy by the bucketful and don't put on gloves when they wish to show their love. But you can imagine Jean-Louis did not complain. M. le Curé alone kept aside, with clasped hands, from time to time putting his handkerchief to his eyes, and thanking God, while he waited his turn.
Gradually their happiness toned down a little; but the excitement was so great, each one showed his joy in some particular manner. Old Ragaud whirled around the room, [pg 314] took off his cap to smooth his hair, and replaced it, all the while laughing as though he did not know precisely what he was about; and Pierrette forgot to ask the children what they wished to eat, which was a sure sign her head was completely turned. As for Jeannette, I must tell you that, like all innocent, warm-hearted young girls, she dared act, in presence of her parents and M. le Curé, as she would not have done alone with her brother; she threw her arms around his neck every half-second, and clung to him so closely he could not stir an inch. Jeannet did not show greater timidity; seeing her act with such naïveté, he neither frowned nor looked sour, but accepted willingly what was so sweetly offered him.
Fortunately, Marion, whom no one thought of, and who bellowed with joy in chorus with the others, came to her senses sooner than any of them, and thought of the supper. Jeannet smelt the butter frying on the stove, and acknowledged he was very hungry. This covered Pierrette with confusion. She felt very guilty that she had so neglected her duties, and asked a thousand pardons; but Jeannet laughed, as he kissed her, and told her not to be excited, as he could easily wait until the next day, being only really hungry to see and kiss her.
Ragaud would not let the dear curé go home. It was right that he should wait until the end of the feast; and as the good pastor, who always thought of everything, expressed a fear that old Germaine might be anxious about him, they despatched a stable-boy, with the wagon and quickest mare at Muiceron, to fetch her.
What a fine supper that was! All these good people recovered their appetites, and ate and drank as they had not done for a long while. I leave you to imagine the stories that were told of the revolution. But Jeannet, not wishing to cloud their present joy, was careful to relate events as though all had been a kind of child's play. Jeannette, however, paused more than once as she was about to take a mouthful. She felt that Jean-Louis stretched a point now and then for love of her, and she showed her gratitude by looking tenderly at him, while she pressed his hand under the table.
At the dessert, they formed plans. They talked of re-establishing the old order of things, of living together again in peace and harmony, and that there should be no more separations. Ragaud, especially, dwelt at length, and very particularly, upon the happy future in store for all of them; threw meaning glances right and left, in which could be remarked much hidden meaning and not a little white wine. Jeannette smiled, blushed, looked down; and, I fancy, Jean-Louis' heart beat high with hope and expectation of what was to follow.
The good man ended by being much affected, though he endeavored to pass it all off as a joke; for it was his wish always to appear deaf to any kind of sentiment.
“After all,” said he, tapping Jean-Louis on the shoulder, “here is a boy upon whom we cannot depend. He is here now at this very moment; but who knows if to-morrow he will not be out of sight as quickly as the stars fall from the sky on an August night? Isn't it so, M. le Curé?”
“It is just as you say, Ragaud,” replied the curé. “ ‘He who has drunk will drink again,’ says the [pg 315] proverb; and as this little one went off once without giving warning, how can we know but he will do it again?”
“Oh! what nonsense,” said Jeannet. “My dear parents, I will never leave you again!”
“Hum!” replied Ragaud, “you said that a hundred times before, and then what did we see? One fine morning, no Jeannet!”
“We must tie him,” said old Germaine, laughing; “when Jeannette misbehaved in school, I used to tie her by the arm to an end of the bench.”
“I remember it well,” said Jeannette; “and more than once I broke the string.”
“Then we must find some other means, if that will not do; think of something, Germaine,” replied Ragaud, winking over at the children.
“Think yourself, M. Ragaud,” said she. “Are you not master here?”
“That depends,” replied Ragaud. “If I were master, I would say to Jean-Louis, Marry, my boy; when you will have a wife and children, they will keep you in the country more than all the ropes, even that of our well. But Jeannet has declared he will not hear of marriage; and here is Jeanne, who can't be relied upon for advice, as she said the same thing not more than a month ago, in presence of M. le Curé; so we can't sing that tune any longer.”
“But how do you know? Perhaps by this time they have both changed their minds,” said the curé, smiling.
“Let them say so, then,” replied Ragaud, his eyes beaming with paternal tenderness that was delightful to see.
“O father!” said Jean-Louis, rising, “if I dared to understand you, I would be wild with joy!”
“If you can't understand me, little one, Jeannette perhaps can be a little quicker. Speak, Jeanneton!”
The child instantly understood his meaning. In a second she was beside Jeannet, took his hand, and both knelt down before their father.
“My children, ask M. le Curé's blessing before mine,” said Ragaud solemnly. “He is the representative of the good God, and it is God who has conducted all.”
It was a touching scene. The good curé extended his trembling hands over Jean-Louis and Jeannette, who bent low before him, weeping; then Ragaud did the same with great simplicity, which is the sign of true piety, and then Pierrette took each of their dear heads in her arms, kissed them, and said:
“My poor darlings! May God protect you all the days of your life! You have wept so much, you deserve to be happy together.”
The poor children were overwhelmed with joy so deep and tranquil they could neither move nor speak. They kept close together, and looked tenderly at each other with eyes that said much. M. le Curé left them for awhile to themselves and their new-found happiness. He knew enough of the human heart to understand that great display of affection, loud weeping, and noisy parade of words and actions are often marks of a very little fire in the soul; while love which has been proved by deeds, and which is scarcely seen, is always very ardent. As he had never doubted that Jeannet, hitherto so perfect, would show and feel sincere affection as a lover, he was [pg 316] glad to see he was not mistaken, and regarded with much pleasure this young couple, who were so well matched.
However, it was very easy to see our curé had something to say. Jean-Louis and Jeannette had softly retreated to the corner near the sideboard, a little out of sight of the parents; and we must imagine that, feeling themselves a little more at ease thus sheltered from observation, the faculty of speech returned to them, as they could be heard whispering and laughing like children at recreation. It was so charming to see them thus relieved from all their difficulties, and swimming in the full tide of happiness, like fish in the river, no one had the courage to disturb them.
But our curé had his own idea, and would not leave until he had made it known; so, as he saw Jean-Louis and Jeannette might chatter away a long while, he rose, as if to say good-night, which made all the rest rise; for, although intensely happy, they did not forget to be civil.
“My children,” said the pastor, addressing the old as well as the young, “I will go to sleep to-night very happy. For forty years, come next All-Saints, that I have been your curé, never have I assisted at a betrothal as consoling as yours, for which I will return thanks to God all my life. You are going to marry as is seldom done in the world nowadays; that is to say, with hearts even more full of esteem than of love, which enables me, in the name of the Lord, to promise you as much happiness as can fall to the lot of mortals here below. You know already that a house built without foundation cannot stand, and that the grain sown in bad soil bears no fruit. It is the same with the sacrament of marriage, when it is received by a soul that is frivolous and vain, and feels neither regret for the past nor makes good resolutions for the future. Oh! how happy I am I cannot say this about you; and how my old heart, which has pitied all your sufferings, now is gladdened at your happiness, well deserved by the piety and resignation of the one and the sincere repentance of the other—this is for our betrothed. Great disinterestedness, and all the domestic virtues of a Christian life is the praise I unhesitatingly bestow upon you, the good parents! But if this reward is beautiful, if nothing can exceed it, since it is the pledge of a whole life of peace and happiness, know that the Lord will not be surpassed in generosity, and that he has prepared a delightful surprise by my mouth, which will be like the crowning bouquet on the summit of an edifice just completed.
“My dear Ragaud, I speak now to you. Twenty years ago, when your generous heart received, without the slightest hesitation, a poor, abandoned child, it was an honorable and religious act, which deserved the warmest praise; but to-day, when you give your only daughter to this same child, from pure esteem of his noble qualities, without regard to the gossip of the people around, this second action surpasses the first in excellence, and deserves a special recompense from our good God.
“Well! you will soon have it. Jean-Louis, my child, as it is generally said, there is no sky without clouds. Perhaps even at this moment your heart may have a little secret grief; for it is not forbidden to feel an honest wish to give the woman you love all possible honor; [pg 317] and that cannot be done when one comes into the world without family or name.
“Alas! for the name. I cannot repair that misfortune; but for the family, know, my friends, that the blood of him whom you call son and brother is equal to yours. In the name of my conscience, I here declare that Jeannet is the son of Catharine Luguet, who died in my arms sincerely repentant, and most piously giving me perfect license to reveal this secret, confided in confession, when I should judge it necessary. I have waited a long time, and I do not regret it. At no other time, I think, could you have been happier to hear me tell such good news. So, Ragaud, embrace your nephew; and you, my daughter Jeannette, in taking a perfect husband, you gain, at the same time, a good cousin. Too much happiness never hurts any one!”
“Ah!” said Germaine, wiping her eyes, “it was worth while staying so late to-night. I have been tempted half a dozen times to tell what M. le Curé has just made known; for I also received the secret from poor dear Catharine, and even before my master, although I do not pretend to interfere with his rights.”
“M. le Curé,” said Ragaud, “if I am very happy to learn that our dear child belongs to us by nature as much as by friendship, believe me when I say that I am most grateful to God that, without my knowing it, he allowed me to repair the too great severity with which I formerly treated my niece. Alas! I well remember it, and most sincerely do I regret it; and if she gave us this handsome boy a little too soon, according to the laws of God and man, I have no right to blame her, as I was the cause, from want of gentleness and kindness! Come, my son,” added the good Christian, extending his arms to Jeannet—“come, that I may ask your pardon in memory of your poor mother.”
Jean-Louis threw himself on his father's breast, whom he could not yet call dear uncle, while Jeannette added her embrace, giving herself up to the full joy of cousining her future husband. Pierrette had her full share of kisses, you can well fancy. It was so delightful to feel that he really had a family, and was bound to the country by ties of flesh and blood, and also to know that he belonged to the best people in the neighborhood, the Luguets and Ragauds, that Jeannet, who in his whole life never had a spark of vanity, felt a little glow of excitement and satisfaction, perfectly natural, flame up in his heart. But his beautiful soul quickly drove out such a feeling, to which he already reproached himself for having listened, even for a moment, although it could be easily understood, and was honorable in itself. The remembrance of his unknown mother, dying in sorrow and want, and who would have been so happy could she have witnessed his present joy, surmounted any personal satisfaction. He questioned M. le Curé, and spoke in the most tender and respectful manner in memory of his poor mother, and wished to know every detail of her death, which was sad, but very consoling at the same time.
Every one listened with much emotion to poor Catharine's story. I doubt not that God then permitted her to know something of the loving sympathy and compassion that filled those kind, good hearts, which most certainly must have added to her happiness; for, since [pg 318] the church commands us to believe that souls cannot die, can it be wrong to think that they see and hear us, when the Lord allows them?
Jeannette, while the curé spoke, was often much confused when she thought of the dangerous result of coquetry, wilfulness, and too great love of one's own pretty face and fine dresses. She felt how kind God had been to her, that she had not gone the same way as Catharine Luguet; for she had walked down the same path, and had nearly fallen as low as she.
By way of recovering her spirits, she embraced Jeannet, and promised she would be a good housekeeper, and nothing else.
“And also a pretty little wife, that will make me very happy,” replied Jeannet, pressing her to his heart.
“Now,” said Pierrette, who for several moments had been very silent and thoughtful, “I have just found out something that makes me feel how stupid I am. I never before noticed that Jeannet is the living image of his dear departed mother.”
“It is fortunate, Mme. Ragaud,” said Germaine, “that you have just perceived it, after seeing him twenty years; for, in truth, the likeness is so striking it has caused M. le Curé and me much embarrassment. It was so easily seen that I prayed God would protect him in case of discovery; and if there is one miracle in the whole story, it is that such a strong resemblance did not sooner strike you.”
As it had just been mentioned, in the course of the story, that Catharine Luguet, in her day, was the most beautiful girl in the country, this declaration made Jeannet blush, and I dare not affirm it was not from pleasure. They discovered, also, that Solange had a strong family likeness, and Pierrette, more and more astonished, acknowledged it was true, and that she was as stupid as an owl.
They had to separate at last, although no one felt the least fatigued; but they had had enough for one day, and a little sleep after these heavy showers of happiness would injure none of them.
As the surprises were not yet over, Jeannet had another charming one when he saw his room newly painted and papered, and his bed, with white curtains, perfumed with the iris-root that our housekeepers love to use in the wash. They installed him like a prefect on a tour of inspection, with a procession of lights, and wishes of good-night, and what do you want, and there it was, and here it is; and if he slept quietly is something I cannot say positively; but, at any rate, you needn't worry about his eyes, whether they were open or shut. What I can swear to is that his good angel watched joyfully by his bedside, and took care to drive off all bad dreams.
XXIII.
Now, I might make my bow, and wish you good-night in my turn; for I think you are satisfied with the fate of the little ones, and need have no further anxiety on their account. But just as two beautiful roses in a bouquet appear still more beautiful when they are surrounded by other flowers and green leaves that rejoice the eye, so our friends will lose nothing if I represent them to you for the last time among the companions of their adventures who have served as an escort during the whole recital. Consequently, if you will be [pg 319] patient a moment and listen to me, I will tell you what became of the people and things that have remained in the background for some time.
In the first place, according to the proverb, “Give every man his due.”
So we will commence with our good master, M. le Marquis, whom we left, if you remember, wounded in the arm and seated on a log near the barricade in the bloody days of June.
This wound, which was believed to be nothing, became inflamed and very dangerous, owing to the great excitement of the patient and the extreme heat of the summer. The poor marquis was obliged to keep his bed for a long time, and they even feared they would be obliged to amputate the arm. When the physicians made the proposition, he sprang up with a start on his couch, and, weak and feverish as he was, did not hesitate to tell them, in the most emphatic manner, that the first one who mentioned it again would go out of the window with one turn of the hand that was still sound. They advised him to be quiet and calm himself, all the while giving him to understand there was no hope for him—which, in my opinion, was not the best means of soothing him; but doctors never wish to be thought in the wrong, and, without meaning to offend any one, I may say very many of us are doctors on that point.
Our master was brave. He contented himself with saying:
“I prefer to be buried with two arms, rather than to live with one.”
“That depends on taste,” replied Michou, who nursed his master with loving fidelity; “but he must not be contradicted.”
When the doctors left, M. le Marquis said to Michou:
“Come here, old fellow; these idiots of Parisians know as much about revolutions and medicine as planting cabbages. Send for Dr. Aubry. I can get along with him.”
M. Aubry was summoned by telegraph, and God so willed it that scarcely had he seen the wound of M. le Marquis than he shrugged his shoulders, and said he would answer for him; and added, with much satisfaction, that one had to come to Paris to find doctors that talked like asses and acted like butchers.
He made them bring him a quantity of pounded ice, which he applied to the wounded arm, and took care that our master always kept a piece in his mouth. In that way his blood was refreshed, and there was no longer danger of the flesh mortifying. He added to this remedy another potion not less wonderful, which was to distract the mind of the marquis by telling him night and day—for he never slept—all kinds of stories, sometimes lively, sometimes serious, but always suitable to his state; and so kept him constantly amused and interested, which prevented him from thinking of his poor arm. At the end of a week, he was out of danger, and he could get up, eat the breast of a chicken, and think of going out in a few days. If I would be a little malicious, I could tell you that the Parisian doctors were not very well pleased at the triumph of their country colleague, and perhaps would have been more content to see our master dead than their prophecies frustrated; but I had better be silent than wanting in charity, and therefore I prefer to let you think what you please about them.
Poor mademoiselle and Dame Berthe, during this painful time of anxiety, acted admirably and showed great devotion and love. It was then seen that, although they had their little defects on the surface, their souls were generous and good. The old governess forgot her scarfs and embroideries, and devoted herself to making lint, and no longer indulged in dreams of the king's entrance into Paris, but constantly recited fervent prayers, which had not, I assure you, “the cause” in view. Mademoiselle received a salutary blow. She became, through this trouble, serious and recollected; began to see that in Paris nothing is thought of but pleasure and fine toilets, and that, after all, at Val-Saint there were a thousand ways of passing her life in a pleasant way worthy of a Christian whom God had so liberally endowed with riches.
One day, when she had gone out to pray and weep in a neighboring church, she returned with her eyes radiant with joy, and said to Dame Berthe:
“All will be right. My father will be cured. I cannot explain to you why I am so confident, but I am sure of it. When I was in the church before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, the idea entered into my head to make a vow; and I have promised to return to the country, and remain there the rest of my life, to work for the poor, and to occupy myself with all other kinds of good works, as my mother used to. I have too long neglected to follow her example, and henceforth I will act differently. I depend upon your assistance.”
Dame Berthe nearly fainted with admiration of her pupil's saintliness. As she was naturally very good, she was impressed with the beauty of the project, and promised to do all in her power to aid her.
After that, mademoiselle looked like another person. She visited churches and chapels, conferred with pious priests; and as monsieur improved every day, he could accompany her in the carriage; and she took great pleasure in confiding to him her new plans, proving to him that he could be much more useful to “the cause” by instructing the peasants in politics than by fighting the rabble in Paris; that, by his great wealth and the high esteem in which he was held, he could make himself still more beloved; and that, when they loved him, they would love the nobility which he represented; so that when the time came—and it would not be far off—for the triumph of his hopes, he could offer to the king a faithful population devoted to good principles, which was scarcely possible in the present state of affairs.
As she was in this happy frame of mind, you can imagine with what joy mademoiselle received the news of the engagement of Jean-Louis and Jeanne. She immediately wrote a letter on the subject which deserved to be put under glass and framed in gold; for not only did she congratulate the Ragauds with the greatest affection, but she humbly accused herself of having nearly ruined the happiness of her god-daughter, and thanked God he had directed all in a manner so contrary to her wishes. When you think that this high-born young lady spoke thus to the little daughter of a farmer on her estate, we must admire the miracles of the religion which teaches us that those who humble themselves shall be exalted; and I add, for the benefit of [pg 321] those who fancy themselves lovers of equality, and talk all kind of nonsense about it, that there never would have been the slightest chance of planting a seed of it in the hearts of men, even though it were no bigger than a grain of millet, if they had not beforehand received instructions on that virtue from our dear mother, the church.
About a month afterwards, M. le Marquis being perfectly cured, they all returned to Val-Saint; and it is unnecessary to say how universal was the joy. It is equally useless to tell you that their first occupation was the marriage of our children, which was so beautiful, so joyous, so enlivened with the music of violins and songs, it resembled that of a prince and princess in Mother Goose. During a whole week, the boys of the neighborhood beat tin pans and fired off guns under the windows of Muiceron, as signs of honor and rejoicing. With us peasants, joy is always rather noisy, but, at least, it can be heard very far; and, besides, as we don't often have a chance of amusing ourselves, it is best to let us have our own way.
There remains very little more for me to say, except that mademoiselle persevered in her laudable resolutions, and became the angel of Val-Saint. One of her first good acts was to buy the house of the unfortunate Perdreaux, which, since the sad end of its masters, had remained deserted and shut up, no one daring to put it up at auction. Mademoiselle sent for workmen, who soon transformed it into a fine school-house, divided into two parts by a garden, where nothing was spared in fruit-trees, flowers, and vegetables. The following year the school was ready for occupation, and the Sisters were placed in charge of the girls, and a good teacher over the boys. By good luck, they were able to obtain Solange, who came among the first. Thus all our friends met again, and formed one family, of which the good God was the true father.
M. le Curé was very old when he died, and Germaine soon followed him. This good pastor left many regrets which are not yet assuaged; but he departed from this world happy that he saw all his children around him leading good, holy lives; and at the moment he expired, they heard him softly repeat the Nunc dimittis servum tuum, Domine, secundum verbum tuum in pace—which is a prayer of compline, printed in all the Breviaries.
Muiceron continued to prosper under the management of good Jeannet and his dear wife. The Ragauds passed their old age in a dream of happiness, free from clouds, amidst the love and respect of the community. Pierrette, who had never sinned but from weakness of heart, was never cured of this defect. On the contrary, it increased; and she devoted herself so completely to spoiling the beautiful children that Jeanne gave her, that more than once the parents had to cry, Stop! But aside from these little troubles, which did not cause much difficulty, peace and concord never ceased to reign in this house of benediction.
As the last flower in the crown, I will tell you that M. Aubry, who was not remarkable for devotion, was taken in hand by Sister Solange, and quietly converted. He swore a little at first, as might have been expected, and said it was a shame, at his age, to fall into the net of a doctor in cornette and petticoats, at whose birth he had been present, and whom he had vaccinated; but [pg 322] the end of all was, the cornette led him by the nose to Mass and confession, where he was seen to weep, although he tried to be very firm. As he was a good man, frank and open in all he did, once the step was taken, he did not go back; and I knew him a long while, and never saw him act but like a perfect Christian.
And now, at this late hour, I pray that God may send down upon you, as well as myself, his choicest blessings, without which, you may truly believe, there is nothing worth living for here below.