Although throughout the writings of the Anti-Succorists there are constant denunciations of these succors as flagrant and wicked temptings of Providence, yet I do not find therein any allegation that serious injury was ever sustained by any of the patients. Montgéron himself, however, admits, that, on one occasion, a wound was received. He tells us that a certain convulsionist long resisted the instinct which bade her demand the succor of a triangular-bladed sword against the left breast, fearing the result. At last, however, the pain became so intense that she was fain to consent. For the first seven or eight minutes the sword-point only indented the flesh, as usual. But then, says Montgéron, "her faith suddenly failing her, she cried out, 'Ah! you will kill me!' No sooner had she pronounced the words than the sword pierced the flesh, making a wound two inches in depth." He alleges, further, that the instinct of the convulsionist informed her that the wound would have no bad consequences, and could be cured by severe blows of a club on the same spot; which, he declares, happened accordingly.[46]
Besides the incidents above related, and a hundred others of similar character, which, if time and the reader's patience permitted, I might cull from Montgéron's pages, the restless enthusiasm of the convulsionists ultimately betrayed them into extravagances, in which it is often hard to decide whether the grotesque or the horrible more predominated. One convulsionist descended the long stairs of an infirmary head-foremost, lying on her back; another caused herself to be attached, by a rope round her neck, to a hook in the wall. A third repeated her prayers while turning somersets. A fourth, suspended by the feet, with the head hanging down, remained in that position three-quarters of an hour. A fifth, lying down on a tomb, caused herself to be covered to the neck with baked earth mixed with sand and saturated with vinegar. A sixth made her bed, in winter, on billets of wood; a seventh on bars of iron. The Sister Félicité was in the habit of causing herself to be nailed to the cross, and of remaining there half an hour at a time, gayly conversing with the pious who surrounded her.[47] Another sister, named Scholastique, after long hesitation between different modes of mortification, having one day remarked the manner in which they constructed the pavement of the streets, had her dress tightly fastened below the knee, and then ordered one of the assistants to take her by the legs, and, with her head downward, to dash it repeatedly against the tiled floor, after the fashion of paviors, when using a rammer.
"If," says Calmeil, "the idea had chanced to suggest itself to one of these theomaniacs, that disembowelling alive would be a sacrifice pleasing to the Supreme Being, she would undoubtedly have insisted upon being subjected to such a martyrdom."[48]
The mental and physiological phenomena connected with this epidemic remain to be noticed, together with the theories and suggestions put forth by medical and other contemporary writers, in explanation of what has here been sketched, the substance of which is usually admitted by these commentators, however incredible, when related at this distance of time, it may appear. Next month the subject will be continued.
PRESENCE.
The wild, sweet water, as it flows,—
The winds, that kiss me as they pass,—
The starry shadow of the rose,
Sitting beside her on the grass,—
The daffodilly, trying to bless
With better light the beauteous air,—
The lily, wearing the white dress
Of sanctuary, to be more fair,—
The lithe-armed, dainty-fingered brier,
That in the woods, so dim and drear,
Lights up betimes her tender fire
To soothe the homesick pioneer,—
The moth, his brown sails balancing
Along the stubble crisp and dry,—
The ground-flower, with a blood-red ring
On either hand,—the pewet's cry,—
The friendly robin's gracious note,—
The hills, with curious weeds o'errun,—
The althea, with her crimson coat
Tricked out to please the wearied sun,—
The dandelion, whose golden share
Is set before the rustic's plough,—
The hum of insects in the air,—
The blooming bush,—the withered bough,—
The coming on of eve,—the springs
Of daybreak, soft and silver-bright,—
The frost, that with rough, rugged wings
Blows down the cankered buds,—the white,
Long drifts of winter snow,—the heat
Of August, falling still and wide,—
Broad cornfields,—one chance stalk of wheat,
Standing with bright head hung aside,—
All things, my darling, all things seem
In some strange way to speak of thee;
Nothing is half so much a dream,
Nothing so much reality.
My soul to thine is dutiful,
In all its pleasure, all its care;
O most beloved! most beautiful!
I miss, and find thee everywhere!