If man is a creature born to immortality—and certainly no thought is so congenial to largeness and nobleness of heart as this is—I can see no reason why he should not have some vision given him of the minor things to happen on this theatre of the earth, which might serve as a sort of foretaste of that major light which is to clothe him as with a glorious garment when he steps forth from this his present condition of earthworm into that exalted bodily temple that he shall inhabit to all eternity. Science so-called is free to teach what it chooses: it may level man to the rank of a turnip by its insidious analysis and gradational processes. Its business is with the present, and with all its pretence of intellect it remains of the material earth, earthy. The future is out of its ken and reach. But the soul, which is the broad, many-sided reason of man in concrete, and the, so to speak, spiritually substantialised symbol of it, cannot be shut up to this. Chop logic by Aristotle’s chaff-cutter, whether handled by a Duncan, a Watts, an Aldrich, or a Whately, as you please, yet the soul, defies you with its absoluteness, pushes aside induction and the contingent with it, and laughing at your littlenesses and your petty syllogisms, leaps at one bound into the incommensurable freedom of the future of eternity.
It now remains for me to show, not that Nostradamus is a grand type of the order of prophets, not that all the Quatrains in all of the twelve books of the “Centuries” are intelligible and of definite purpose, nor that everything he uttered and recorded is to be regarded as a prophecy either fulfilling or fulfilled. (This is not at all what I propose to do.) I intend simply to select, without over much attention to chronology or the sequence of events, such of the quatrains as by philological apparatus existing are capable of being translated into simple and intelligible language out of the occult prophetic, barbaric, and almost always pedantic phraseology (or old Franco-Provençal patois, if you like to call it so) in which it pleased or suited our prophet in his fureur poëtique[14] to record for us his “nocturnes et prophétiques supputations” (des astres). In doing this, if one case of unmistakable prevision can be established, the missing spiritual link is set up that connects the present with the future.
Christians generally grow almost rancorous against those who reject their Scripture miracles, as Hume did, on the ground that the laws of nature being inviolable miracles become impossible; but a miracle that contravenes a law of nature is far more incredible per se than such a spiritual link as the above. The miracle of bringing a man to life goes, so to speak, dead against nature and its laws customary. But a forecast, as such, is little more miraculous than a telescope that focuses and brings into range what lies out of the range of the ordinary human eye. It is really as feasible a thing to the seer, as for you and me to see that a kitten will become a cat nine months later on. He sees by imagination what you see by reasoning on association in the past. It is discovery by a different faculty, I admit. But if Christian belief accepts a future state and the immortality of the life (commonly called the soul) of man, then I say, that the Christian who denies the gift of prophecy to be inherent in mankind[15] is really as dead to spiritual life as if he were a materialistic member of a scientific society of the nineteenth century, or a Parisian enclycopædist of the eighteenth.
Again, if Christianity be a heaven-descended revelation, its foundations must be rooted deep in the spiritual world and should be full of correspondences. The material universe is full of them. There the meanest particle of dust is link by link connected at last with the grandest astral phenomena, and can we suppose that men are all possessed with an immortal spirit, and yet at the same time announce that not one of them has any prescience, any foreknowledge of things coming on the earth, no sign rendered from the great unnameable Director, who, vast and invisible, also dwells in spiritual obscurity, and never gives an inkling to anyone born of woman that He cares more for an empire with its myriads of embryo angels (according to the doctrine of the Churches) than for an oak tree or a medlar? Yet we are willing to make it a point of virtue to believe that His only Son died for us, and that a whole line of prophets from Jacob to Caiaphas harped perpetually and in succession upon the Paganini string of the one great utterance of His advent. At the birth of Christ it is untruly said that the oracles stopped. So, according to the present Christian dogmatising, did the prophets. Would it not be a thousand times more fraught with hope, if we had not basely smothered such beliefs by materialistic science (or Atheism, for it is closer of kin to the blasphemy of unbelief), could we have said there is a spiritual living link of prophecy existing, and now and again found amongst us; a correspondency in man with the future; a power in him to forecast it a little, though darkly—as with a dark lanthorn moving through a dark season—and touching so, through film, the future of time as to interlink the whole series into one, and make to-day, perishing—with its bells, its bustle, and its breathing—into a continuous whole, one with the glories of eternity?
It will perhaps be well before proceeding to the Quatrains to meet an objection against Nostradamus put forward by the famous Gassendi,[16] who received it from Jean-Baptiste Suffren. Gassendi, it seems, was at Salon in 1638, when Jean-Baptiste Suffren, a judge in that town, communicated to him the horoscope drawn by Nostradamus for his father Antoine Suffren, and written in our prophet’s own hand, giving ten points, such as he should have a long curly beard, so bent in age, that in his 37th year he should be wounded by his half-brothers, and he had none, and much more of the same sort, but invariably wrong, till the horoscope fixes Suffren’s death in 1618, whereas he died in 1597. Now, in the first place, Gassendi was of a sceptical turn of mind, so that he would be glad to find Nostradamus wrong. Then Nostradamus died in 1566, and only in 1638, seventy-two years after, do they produce this document and assert that it is in Nostradamus’s handwriting. We may assume that the MS. was eighty years old at least. Gassendi does not profess to know his handwriting, but took it to be so on Jean-Baptiste Suffren’s simple assertion. It is perfectly possible that Suffren had some desire to ridicule an astrologer, and might have invented the whole thing. At any rate, it is not likely that every one of ten or eleven guesses would be precisely the contrary of the fact.[17] One of the clauses ran that at twenty-five he should cultivate rhetoric, arithmetic, geometry, theology, natural science, and the occult philosophy. Jean-Baptiste has the effrontery to say that he studied not one of these, but only the science of jurisprudence. It is not likely, I say, that Nostradamus would guess wrongly in all the sciences, and leave out the only one that the man pursued. This looks as if it had been manufactured for the express purpose of bringing the name of Nostradamus into ridicule and disrepute. It is quite certain that the late John Varley, the painter, could draw some most wonderful horoscopes; a cousin of my father’s, in whose family he taught, had seen his forecasts marvellously verified. So correct had he frequently been that at the time she knew him it was with the greatest difficulty he could be induced to draw one. It is not likely that Nostradamus would fall so absurdly short of John Varley. Guessing at haphazard would correspond with the facts better than this upon the mere doctrine of probabilities. Jean-Baptiste in his haste has proved too much, and Gassendi, like a multitude of incredulous people, was quite ready to receive too much of the things for which his mouth was open and eager.
(To be continued.)
A Dead Flemish City.
NOTES OF A VISIT TO DAMME.
By the Rev. Joseph Maskell.
THERE are few cities in Europe of greater interest for the intelligent traveller than Bruges, the “cradle of opulent Flanders,” and the “Venice of the North.” The student in history, the connoisseur in art, the lover of antiquity, all find here ample instruction and enjoyment. Even the superficial traveller, hurrying on to more fashionable localities, but “doing” Bruges en route, as the correct thing, finds much to interest him in its quaint exteriors, silent canals, and old-world streets, to say nothing of its many treasures of pictures, sculptures, wood carvings, and other monuments of antiquity, to be seen only by penetrating into interiors, and looking deeper than the surface. “A decayed, dull place, where the grass grows in the streets,” was the verdict of a fellow-traveller, as the train from Ostend steamed into the modern Gothic unfinished station of Bruges on a wet day in last July. Not so. Bruges is neither decayed nor dull, nor does the “grass grow in its streets.” Gone is the day in which it could be written of the turbulent Flemish cities—