The Catholic World

A Monthly Magazine of General Literature and Science

Vol. XX.

October 1874 to March 1875

The Catholic Publication House.

New York

1875

Contents

Contents.

Anglicanism, The Present State of, [41].

Annals of the Moss Troopers, [222].

Another General Convention of the P. E. Church, [465].

Are you my Wife? [596], [738].

Assunta Howard, [62], [234], [332], [474].

Bit of Modern Thought on Matter, A, [786].

Blind Student, The, [802].

Burke and the Revolution, [823].

Bussierre's A Legend of Alsace, [91], [260].

Christmas in the Thirteenth Century, [502].

Church Authority, etc., [578].

Church Chant vs. Church Music, [145], [317].

Civilization of Ancient Ireland, [506].

Colonization of New South Wales by Great Britain, [650], [759].

Congress of the Catholic Germans at Mayence, [109].

Craven's Veil Withdrawn, [15], [193], [297], [446], [630], [767].

Discussion with an Infidel, A, [73], [175], [405].

Eighteen Hundred and Seventy-Four, [561].

English and Scotch Scenes, [529].

Fac-Similes of Irish National MSS., [102], [213].

Future of the Russian Church, The, [544], [703], [810].

German Empire, The Persecution of the Church in the, [289], [433].

Ice-Wigwam of Minnehaha, The, [424].

Infidel, A Discussion with an, [73], [175], [405].

Ireland, The Civilization of Ancient, [506].

Irish National MSS., [102], [213].

Italian Documents of Freemasonry, [721].

Izdubar, The Poem of, [138].

La Salle, Robert Cavelier de, [690], [833].

Legend of Alsace, A, [91], [260].

Log Chapel on the Rappahannock, The, [847].

Lucerne, [123], [245].

Matter, [1], [272], [487], [666].

Matter, A Bit of Modern Thought on, [786].

Minnehaha, The Ice-Wigwam of, [424].

Moss Troopers, Annals of the, [222].

New South Wales, The Colonization of, [650], [759].

On the Wing, [158].

Ontologism and Psychologism, [360].

Persecution of the Church in the German Empire, The, [289], [433].

Personal Responsibility, [578].

Poem of Izdubar, The, [138].

Present State of Anglicanism, The, [41].

Protestant Episcopal Church, General Convention of the, [465].

Religion and State in our Republic, [615].

Reminiscences of a Tile Field, [374].

Rigi, The, [388].

Robert Cavelier de La Salle, [690], [833].

Robespierre, [519], [680].

Russian Church, The Future of the, [544], [703].

Russian Sister of Charity, A, [428].

Scotch Scenes, [529].

Southern Flight, A, [158].

Summer in Rome, A, [658].

Swinburne and De Vere, [346].

Switzerland in 1873, [123], [245].

Tile Field, Reminiscences of a, [374].

Tondini's A Russian Sister of Charity, [428].

Tondini's Russian Church, [544], [703], [810].

Veil Withdrawn, The, [15], [193], [297], [446], [630], [767].

Year of our Lord 1874, The, [561].

Poetry.

Antar and Zara, [55].

Better Christmas, The, [528].

Bells of Prayer, The, [713].

Birth-Days, [702].

Brooklet, The, [649].

Church in F——, The, [595].

Christmas Tide, [443].

Church Song, [404].

Crown Jewels, [737].

Destiny, [192].

Episode in the Career of Pres. MacMahon, [557].

Hope, [14].

Ingenious Device, The, [387].

Inscription on the Bell Gabrielle at S. Mary's of the Lake, Lake George, [244].

Leap for Life, The, [557].

Release, [629].

Requies Mea, [359].

Roger the Rich, [135].

September—Sabbath Rest, [40].

Three Edens, The, [174].

Turning from Darwin to Thomas Aquinas, [809].

Vision, A, [157].

Wind and Tide, [271].

New Publications.

Alzog's Universal History, [287].

Anecdote Biographies of Thackeray and Dickens, [143].

Augustine, S., The Works of, [575].

Avancinus' Meditations, [714].

Bateman's Ierne of Armorica, [720].

Bric-a-Brac Series, [143], [576].

Caddell's Summer Talk about Lourdes, [288].

Catholic Family Almanac for 1875, [429].

Characteristics from the Writings of John Henry Newman, [860].

Charteris, [288].

Complete Office of Holy Week, The, [860].

Cumplido's The Perfect Lay-Brother, [859].

Curtius' History of Greece, [288].

Didiot's The Religious State, [859].

Dodge's Rhymes and Jingles, [576].

Excerpta ex Rituali Romano, [716].

Father Eudes and his Foundations, [839].

Fleuriot's Eagle and Dove, [575].

Greenleaf's Testimony of the Evangelists Examined, [718].

Harper's Peace through the Truth, [860].

Hewit's King's Highway, [574].

History of Greece, [288].

History of the Catholic Church in Scotland, [287].

Holland's Mistress of the Manse, [430].

Holy Week, The Complete Office of, [860].

Ierne of Armorica, [720].

Illustrated Catholic Almanac for 1875, [429].

Katherine Earle, [288].

King's Highway, [574].

Leguay's The Mistress of Novices, [859].

Lessons in Bible History, [715].

Letters of Mr. Gladstone and others, [716].

Letter to the Duke of Norfolk on Gladstone's Expostulation, [857].

Library of the Sacred Heart, [576].

Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, [142].

Margaret Roper, [860].

Maria Monk's Daughter, [430].

Marvin's Philosophy of Spiritualism, [860].

Meditations on the Life and Doctrine of Jesus Christ, [714].

Meline's Charteris, [288].

Mill's Three Essays on Religion, [575].

Milwaukee Catholic Magazine, [720].

Mistress of Novices, The, [859].

Mistress of the Manse, [430].

Montgomery's On the Wing, [860].

Montzey's Father Eudes, etc., [859].

Morris' Prisoners of the Temple, [714].

Murray's Manual of Mythology, [287].

Newman's Characteristics, [860].

Newman's Letter, etc., [857].

Nobleman of '89, The, [714].

Notes on the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore, [430].

On the Wing, [860].

Ordo Divini Officii Recitandi Missæque Celebrandæ, juxta Rubricas Breviarii ac Missalis Romani, Anno 1875, [719].

Oriental and Linguistic Studies, [573].

Outlines of Astronomy, [717].

Peace through the Truth, [860].

Perfect Lay-Brother, The, [859].

Personal Reminiscences by Barham, Harness, and Hodder, [576].

Philosophy of Spiritualism, The, [860].

Prisoners of the Temple, The, [714].

Protestant Journalism, [288].

Purgatory Surveyed, [715].

Quinton's The Nobleman of '89, [714].

Ram's Life of Anne Catherine Emmerich, [142].

Réglement Ecclesiastique de Pierre Le Grand, [719].

Religious State, The, etc., [859].

Rhymes and Jingles, [576].

Sadliers' Catholic Directory for 1875, [720].

Searle's Outlines of Astronomy, [717].

Sins of the Tongue, [718].

Smith's Notes on the Council of Baltimore, [430].

Stewart's Margaret Roper, [860].

Summer Talk about Lourdes, [288].

Testimony of the Evangelists Examined, etc., [713].

Three Essays on Religion, [575].

Tondini's Réglement Ecclesiastique de Pierre Le Grand, [719].

Torrey's Theory of True Art, [288].

Trafton's Katherine Earle, [288].

Universal Church History, [289].

Valiant Woman, The, [718].

Walsh's History of the Catholic Church in Scotland, [287].

Whitney's Oriental and Linguistic Studies, [573].

Works of Aurelius Augustine, [575].

Young Catholic's Illustrated School Series, [143].

The Catholic World. Vol. XX., No. 115.—October, 1874.

Matter. III.

The plain philosophical and scientific proofs by which we have established the actio in distans, although sufficient, in our judgment, to convince every unbiassed reader of the truth of the view we have maintained, may nevertheless prove inadequate to remove the prejudice of those who regard the time-honored doctrine of action by material contact as axiomatic and unassailable. It is true that they cannot upset our arguments; but they oppose to us other arguments, which they confidently believe to be unanswerable. It is therefore necessary for us to supplement our previous demonstration by a careful analysis of the objections which can be made against it, and to show the intrinsic unsoundness of the reasonings by which they are supported. This is what we intend to do in the present article.

A first objection.—The first and chief argument advanced against the possibility of actio in distans without a material medium of communication is thus developed in the Popular Science Monthly for November, 1873 (p. 94), by J. B. Stallo:

“How is the mutual action of atoms existing by themselves in complete insulation, and wholly without contact, to be realized in thought? We are here in presence of the old difficulties respecting the possibility of actio in distans which presented themselves to the minds of the physicists in Newton's time, and constituted one of the topics of the famous discussion between Leibnitz and Clarke, in the course of which Clarke made the remarkable admission that ‘if one body attracted another without an intervening body, that would be not a miracle, but a contradiction; for it would be to suppose that a body acts where it is not’—otherwise [pg 002] expressed: Inasmuch as action is but a mode of being, the assertion that a body can act where it is not would be tantamount to the assertion that a body can be where it is not. This admission was entirely in consonance with Newton's own opinion; indeed, Clarke's words are but a paraphrase of the celebrated passage in one of Newton's letters to Bentley, cited by John Stuart Mill in his System of Logic, which runs as follows: ‘It is inconceivable that inanimate brute matter should, without the mediation of something else which is not material, operate upon and affect other matter without mutual contact.... That gravity should be innate, inherent, and essential to matter, so that one body may act on another, at a distance, through a vacuum, without the mediation of anything else by and through which their action and force be conveyed from one to the other, is to me so great an absurdity that I believe no man, who in philosophical matters has a competent faculty of thinking, can ever fall into it.’ ”

Before we enter into the discussion of this objection we must remark that it is scarcely fair to allege Newton's view as contrary to actio in distans. For he neither requires a material contact of matter with matter nor a material medium of communication; he says, on the contrary, that the inanimate brute matter needs the mediation of something else which is not material; which amounts to saying that his inanimate brute matter must have all around a non-material sphere of power, without which it would never reach any distant matter. This assertion, far from being a denial of actio in distans, seems rather to be a remote endeavor towards its explanation; and it may be surmised that, had Newton been as well acquainted with the metaphysical doctrine about the essential constituents of substance as he was with the mathematical formulas of mechanics, he would have recognized in his “inanimate brute matter” the potential constituent of material substance, and in his “something else which is not material” the formal constituent of the same substance and the principle of its operation. The only objectionable phrase we find in the passage now under consideration is that in which he describes action and force as conveyed from matter to matter. But, as he explicitly maintains that this convection requires no material medium, the phrase, whatever may be its verbal inaccuracy, is not scientifically wrong, and cannot be brought to bear against the actio in distans. We therefore dismiss this part of the objection as preposterous, and shall at once turn our attention to Clarke's argument, which may be reduced to the syllogistic form thus:

“A body cannot act where it is not present either by itself or by its power. But actio in distans is an action which would be exerted where the body is not present by itself, as is evident; and where the body is not present by its power, as there is no medium of communication. Therefore the actio in distans is an impossibility.”

The objection, though extremely plausible, is based on a false assumption—that is, on the supposition that there can be distance from the active power of one element to the matter of another. The truth is that, however far matter may be distant from matter, no active power can ever be distant from it. For no distance in space is conceivable without two formal [pg 003] ubications. Now, a material element has undoubtedly a formal ubication in space by reason of its matter, which is the centre of its sphere of activity, but not by reason of its active power. Distances, in fact, are always measured from a point to a point, and never from a point to an active power, nor from an active power to a point. The matter of a primitive element marks out a point in space, and from this point we take the direction of its exertions; but the power of an element, as contradistinguished from its matter, is not a point in space, nor does it mark a point in space, nor is it conceivable as a term of distance. And therefore to suppose that there may be a distance from the active power of an element to the point where another element is ubicated, is to make a false supposition. The active power transcends the predicament ubi, and has no place within which we can confine it; it is not circumscribed like matter, and is not transmissible, as the objection supposes, from place to place through any material medium; it is ready, on the contrary, to act directly and immediately upon any matter existing in its indefinite[1] sphere, while its own matter is circumscriptively ubicated in that single point[2] which is the centre of the same sphere. Prof. Faraday explicitly affirmed that “each atom extends, so to say, throughout the whole of the solar system, yet always retains its own centre of force”;[3] which, in metaphysical language, means that while the matter of a primitive element occupies a single point, the form constitutes around it an indefinite sphere of power. And for this reason it was Faraday's opinion that the words actio in distans should not be employed in science. For although the matter of one body is distant from the matter of another, yet the power that acts is not distant; and therefore, although there is no contact of matter with matter, there is a contactus virtutis, or a contact of power with matter, which alone is required for the production of the effect.

We are far from supposing that the adversaries of the actio in distans will be silenced by the preceding answer; as it is very probable that the answer itself will be to many of them a source of new difficulties. Still, many things are true which are difficult to be understood; and it would be against reason to deny truths sufficiently inferred from facts, only on account of the difficulty which we experience in giving a popular explanation of them. Those who, to avoid such a difficulty, deny action at a distance, expose themselves to other difficulties which are much more real, as admitting of no possible solution; and if they reject actions at a distance because their explanation appears to be difficult, they are also bound to reject even more decidedly all actions by material contact; for these indeed admit of no explanation whatever, as we have already shown.[4]

To understand and explain how material elements can act at any distance is difficult, for this one radical reason: that our intellectual work is never purely intellectual, [pg 004] but is always accompanied by the working of that other very useful, but sometimes mischievous, power which we call imagination; and because, when we are trying to understand something that transcends imagination, and of which no sensible image can be formed, our intellect finds itself under the necessity of working without the assistance of suitable sensible representations. Our imagination, however, cannot remain inactive, and therefore it strives continually to supply the intellect with new images; but as these, unhappily, are not calculated to afford any exact representation of intellectual things, the intellect, instead of receiving help from the imagination, is rather embarrassed and led astray by it. On the other hand, the words which we are generally obliged to use in speaking of intellectual objects are more or less immediately drawn from sensible things, and have still a certain connection with sensible images. With such words, our explanations must, of course, be metaphorical in some degree, and represent the intelligible through the sensible, even when the latter is incompatible with the former. This is one of the reasons why, in some cases, men fail to express intelligibly and in an unobjectionable manner their most intellectual thoughts. True it is that the metaphysicians, by the definite form of their terminology, have greatly diminished this last difficulty; but, as their language is little known outside of the philosophical world, our use of it will scarcely help the common reader to understand what it conveys. On the contrary, the greater the exactness of our expressions, the more strange and absurd our style will appear to him who knows of no other language than that of his senses, his imagination, and popular prejudice.

These general remarks apply most particularly to actio in distans. It is objected that a cause cannot act where it is not, and where its power is not conveyed through a material medium. Now, this proposition is to be ranked among those which nothing but popular prejudice, incompleteness of conception, and imperfection of language cause to be received as axiomatic. We have pointed out that no material medium exists through which power can be conveyed; but as the objection is presented in popular terms and appeals to imagination, whilst our answer has no such advantage, it is very probable that the objection will keep its ground as long as men will be led by imagination more than by intellect. To avoid this danger, Faraday preferred to say that “the atom [primitive element] of matter is everywhere present,” and therefore can act everywhere. But by this answer the learned professor, while trying to avoid Scylla, struck against Charybdis. For, if the element of matter is everywhere present, then Westminster Abbey, for instance, is everywhere present; which cannot be true in the ordinary sense of the words. In fact, we are accustomed to say that a body is present, not in that place where its action is felt, but in that from which the direction of the action proceeds, and since such a direction proceeds from the centres of power, to these centres alone we refer when we point out the place occupied by a body. Prof. Faraday, on the contrary, refers to the active powers when he says that matter is everywhere present; for he considers the elements as [pg 005] consisting of power alone.[5] But this way of speaking is irreconcilable with the notions we have of determinate places, distances, etc., and creates a chaotic confusion in all our ideas of material things. He speaks more correctly in the passage which we have already mentioned, where he states that “each atom [element] extends, so to say, throughout the whole of the solar system, yet always retaining its own centre of force.” Here the words “so to say” tell us clearly that the author, having found no proper terms to express himself, makes use of a metaphor, and attributes extension to the material elements in a sense which is not yet adopted in common use. He clearly wishes to say that “each element extends virtually throughout space, though it materially occupies only the central point from which its action is directed.”

This latter answer is very good. But people are not likely to realize its full meaning; for in speaking of material substance men frequently confound that which belongs to it by reason of its matter with that which belongs to it by reason of its substantial form. It is evident, however, that if the substance had no matter, it would not mark out a point in space; it is, therefore, only on account of its matter that a substance is formally ubicated.

As to the substantial form (which is the principle of activity), although it is said to have a kind of ubication on account of the matter to which it is terminated, nevertheless, of itself, it has no capability of formal ubication, as we have already shown. Hence the extent to which the active power of an element can be applied is not to be measured by the ubication of its matter; and although no cause can act where it is not virtually by its power, yet a cause can act where it is not present by its matter.

The direct answer to the argument proposed would, therefore, be as follows:

“A body cannot act where it is not present either by itself or by its power.” Granted.

“But actio in distans is an action which would be exerted where the body is not present by itself, as is evident.” Granted. “And where the body is not present by its power.” False.

To the reason adduced, that “there is no medium of communication,” we simply reply that such a medium is not required, as the active power constitutes an indefinite sphere, and is already present after its own manner (that is, virtually) wherever it is to be exerted; and therefore it has no need of being transmitted through a medium.

This is the radical solution of the difficulty proposed. But the notion of an indefinite sphere of activity, on which this solution is grounded, is, in the eyes of our opponents, only a whimsical invention, inconsistent, as they think, with the received principles of philosophy. We must therefore vindicate our preceding answer against their other objections.

A second objection.—A sphere of power, they say, is a mere absurdity. [pg 006] For how can the active power be there, where its matter is not? The matter is the first subject of its form; and therefore the form must be in the matter, and not outside of it. But in a primitive substance the active power is entitatively the same thing with the substantial form; accordingly, the active power of a primitive substance must be entirely in its matter, and not outside of it. And the same conclusion is to be applied to the powers of all material compounds; for in all cases the form must be supported by the matter. How is it, then, possible to admit a sphere of power outside of its matter, and so distant from its matter as is the sun from the planets?

This objection, which we have often heard from men who should have known better, is wholly grounded on a false conception of the relation between the matter and the form of a primitive being. It is false, in fact, that the matter supports the substantial form, and it is false that the substantial form exists in the matter as in a subject. The accidental act requires a subject already existing; but the substantial act requires only a potential term to which it has to give the first existence. This is evident; because if the substantial act ought to be supported by a real subject, this real subject would be an actual substance before receiving the same substantial act; which is a contradiction in terms. And therefore the form is not supported by the matter, but only terminated to it; and the matter is not the subject of the form, though it is so called by many, but is only the substantial term, to which the substantial form gives existence. “Properly speaking,” says S. Thomas, “that which is potential in regard to some accidental actuality is called subject. For the subject gives actuality to the accident, as the accident has no actuality except through its subject; and for this reason we say that accidents are in a subject, whereas we do not say that the substantial form is in a subject. ‘Matter,’ therefore, and ‘subject,’ differ in this: that ‘subject’ means something which does not receive its actuality by the accession of anything else, but exists by itself and possesses a complete actuality (as, for example, a white man does not receive his being from his whiteness). ‘Matter,’ on the contrary, means something which receives its actuality from that which is given to it; because matter has, of itself, only an incomplete being, or rather no being at all, as the Commentator says. Hence, to speak properly, the form gives existence to the matter; whereas the accident gives no existence to the subject, as it is the subject that gives existence to the accident. Yet ‘matter’ is sometimes confounded with ‘subject,’ and vice versa.”[6]

From this doctrine it is manifest that the matter is not the subject of the substantial form, and consequently that the form, or the principle of activity, is in no need of being supported by its matter. It is rather the matter itself that needs to be supported—that is, kept in existence—by its form; as it has no being except from it. The matter is potency, and the form is act; now, all act is nobler than its corresponding potency. It is not, therefore, the potency that determines the conditions of existence of its act, but the act itself determines the conditions of existence [pg 007] of its potency. And thus it is not the matter that determines the range of its form, but it is the form that determines the being of its own matter, in the same manner as the form of a body determines its centre of gravity. These considerations, which will hereafter receive a greater development, suffice to show that the range of the elementary power is not determined or circumscribed by its material term. And thus the objection is substantially destroyed.

Those who make this objection suppose that the activity of a material element is entitatively enclosed, embedded, and merged in the matter as in a physical recipient by which it must be circumscribed. This supposition is a gross philosophical blunder. The matter of a primitive element is not a physical recipient of the substantial form; for it is nothing physically before it is actuated. The substantial form gives to the matter its first being; and therefore it cannot be related to it as the enclosed to the encloser or the supported to the supporter, but only as the determiner to the determinable. This is an obvious metaphysical truth that cannot be questioned. Moreover, the form can determine the existence of a material point in space without being itself confined to that point. This is very clearly inferred from the fact already established, viz., that a material point acts all around itself in accordance with the Newtonian law; for this fact compels the conception of a material element as a virtual sphere, of which the matter is the central point, while its virtual sphericity must be traced to the special character of the form. Now, although the centre of a sphere borrows all its centric reality from the sphericity of which it is the intrinsic term, yet the sphericity itself cannot be confined within its own centre; which shows that, although the matter of an element borrows all its reality from the substantial form of which it is the essential term, yet the substantial form itself, on account of its known spherical character, must virtually extend all around its matter, and constitute, so to say, an atmosphere of power expanding as far, at least, from the central point as is necessary for the production of the phenomena of universal gravitation.

Nor can this be a sufficient ground for inferring, as the objection does, that in such a case the form would be distant from its matter as much as the sun is from the planets. The form, as such, cannot be considered as a term of the relation of distance; for, as we have already remarked, there is no distance without two formal ubications. Now, the form, as such, has no formal ubication, but is reduced to the predicament ubi only by the ubication of its own matter. Hence it is impossible rationally to conceive a distance between the matter and its form, however great may be the sphere of activity of the material element. When the substantial form is regarded as a principle of accidental actions, we may indeed consider it, if not as composed of, at least as equivalent to, a continuous series of concentric spherical forms overlying one another throughout the whole range of activity; and we may thus conceive every one of them as virtually distant from the material centre, its virtual distance being measured by its radius. But, strictly speaking, the radius measures the distance between the agent and the [pg 008] patient, not between the agent and its own power; and, on the other hand, as the imagined series of concentric sphericities continues uninterruptedly up to the very centre of the sphere, we can easily perceive that the substantial form, even as a principle of action, is immediately and intrinsically terminated to its own matter.

A third objection.—What conception can we form of an indefinite sphere? For a sphere without a spherical surface is inconceivable. But an indefinite sphere is a sphere without a spherical surface; for if there were a surface, there would be a limit; and if there were a limit, the sphere would not extend indefinitely. It is therefore impossible to conceive an indefinite sphere of activity.

This objection is easily answered. A sphere without a spherical form is indeed inconceivable; but it is not necessary that the spherical form should be a limiting surface, as the objection assumes. We may imagine an indefinite sphere of matter; that is, a body having a density continually decreasing in the inverse ratio of the squared distances from a central point. Its sphericity would consist in the spherical decrease of its density; which means that the body would be a sphere, not on account of an exterior spherical limit, but on account of its interior constitution. Now, what we say of an indefinite sphere of matter applies, by strict analogy, to an indefinite sphere of power. Only, in passing from the former to the latter, the word density should be replaced by intensity; for intensity is to power what density is to matter. And thus an indefinite sphere of power may have its spherical character within itself without borrowing it from a limiting surface. We may, therefore, consider this third objection as solved.

Let us add that in our sphere of power not only all the conditions are fulfilled which the law of gravitation requires, but, what is still more satisfactory, all the conditions also which befit the metaphysical constitution of a primitive substance. We have a centre (matter), the existence of which essentially depends on the existence of a principle of activity (form) constituting a virtual sphere. Take away the substantial form, and the matter will cease to have existence. Take away the virtual sphericity, and the centre will be no more. But let the spherical form be created; the centre will immediately be called into existence as the essential and intrinsic term of sphericity, it being impossible for a real sphericity not to give existence to a real centre. And although this spherical form possesses an intensity of power decreasing in proportion as the sphere expands, still it has everywhere the same property of giving existence to its centre, since it has everywhere an intrinsic spherical character essentially connected with a central point as its indispensable term. Whence we see that the substantial form, though virtually extending into an indefinite sphere, is everywhere terminated to its own matter. Thus the Newtonian law and the actio in distans, far from being opposed to the known metaphysical law of the constitution of things, serve rather to make it more evident by affording us the means of representing to ourselves in an intelligible and almost tangible manner the ontologic relation of matter and form in the primitive substance.

A fourth objection.—A power [pg 009] which virtually extends throughout an indefinite sphere must possess an infinite intensity. But no material element possesses a power of infinite intensity. Therefore no element extends its power throughout an indefinite sphere. The major of this syllogism is proved thus: In an indefinite sphere we can conceive an infinite multitude of concentric spherical surfaces, to every one of which the active power of the element can be applied for the production of a finite effect. But the finite taken an infinite number of times gives infinity. Therefore the total action of an element in its sphere will be infinite; which requires a power of infinite intensity.

The answer to this objection is not difficult. From the fact that the active powers virtually extend through an indefinite sphere and act everywhere in accordance with the Newtonian law, it is impossible to prove that material elements possess a power of infinite intensity. We concede, of course, that in an indefinite sphere “an infinite multitude of concentric spherical surfaces can be conceived, to every one of which the active power of the element can be applied for the production of a finite effect.” We also concede that “the finite taken an infinite number of times gives infinity.” But when it is argued that therefore “the total action of an element in its sphere will be infinite,” we must distinguish. The total action will be infinite in this sense: that it would reach an infinite multitude of terms, if they existed in its sphere, and produce in each of them a determinate effect, according to their distance—this we concede. The total action will be infinite—that is, the total effort of the element will be infinitely intense; this we deny. The schoolmen would briefly answer that the action will be infinite terminative, but not intensive. This distinction, which entirely upsets the objection, needs a few words of explanation.

In the action of one element upon another the power of the agent, while exerted on the patient, is not prevented from exerting itself at the very same time upon any other element existing in its sphere of activity. This is a well-known physical law. Hence the same element can emit a thousand actions simultaneously, without possessing a thousand powers or a thousandfold power, by the simultaneous application of its single power to a thousand different terms. The actions of an agent are therefore indefinitely multiplied by the mere multiplication of the terms, with no multiplication of the active power; and accordingly an active power of finite intensity may have an infinite applicability. This is true of all created powers. Our intellect, for instance, is substantially finite, and yet it can investigate and understand any number of intelligible objects. This amounts to saying that, if there is no limit to possible intellectual conceptions, there is no limit to the number of intelligible terms; but from this fact it would be absurd to infer that a created intellect has a power of infinite intensity. In like manner, the motive power of a material element is substantially finite, and yet it can be applied to the production of a number of movements which has no limit but the number of the terms capable of receiving the motion. The infinity of the total action is therefore grounded on an assumed infinity of terms, not on an infinite intensity of the power.

Nor can this be a matter of surprise. For, as the motive power is not transmitted from the agent to the patient, it remains whole and entire in the agent, however much it may be exerted in all directions. It is not absorbed, or exhausted, or weakened by its exertions, and, while acting on any number of terms, is yet ready to act on any number of other terms as intensely as it would on each of them separately. If ten new planets were now created, the sun would need no increase of power to attract them all; its actual power would suffice to govern their course without the least interference with the gravitation of the other existing planets. And the reason of this is that the power of all material elements is naturally determined to act, and therefore needs no other condition for its exertion than the presence of the movable terms within the reach of its activity. The number of such terms is therefore at every instant the measure of the number of the real actions.

We have said that the active power is not weakened by its exertions. In fact, a cause is never weakened by the mere production of its connatural effects, but only because, while producing its effects, it is subjected to the action of other agents which tends to alter and break up its natural constitution. Now, to be altered and impaired may be the lot of those causes whose causality arises from the conspiration of many active principles, as is the case with all the physical compounds. But primitive causes, such as the first elements of matter, are altogether unalterable and incorruptible with respect to their substantial being, and can never be impaired. When we burn a piece of paper, the paper with its composition is destroyed, but we know that its first components remain unaltered, and preserve still the same active powers which they possessed when they were all united in the piece of paper.

This incontrovertible fact maybe confirmed à priori by reflecting that the active principle, or the substantial form, of a primitive element, is not exposed to the influence of any natural agent capable of impairing it. Everything that is impaired is impaired by its contrary. Now, the active principle has no contrary. The only thing which might be imagined to be contrary to a motive power would be a motive power of an opposite nature, such as the repulsive against the attractive. Motive powers, however, do not act on one another, but on their matter only, as matter alone is passive. On the other hand, even if one power could act on another, its motive action would only produce an accidental determination to local movement, which determination surely would not alter in the least the substance of a primitive being. Hence, although two opposite actions, when terminated to the same subject, can neutralize each other, yet two opposite motive powers can never exercise any influence on each other by their natural actions; and therefore, in spite of their finite entity, they are never impaired or weakened, and are applicable to the production of an unlimited number of actions.

A fifth objection.—An action of infinite intensity cannot but proceed from a power of infinite intensity. But, according to the Newtonian law, two elements, when their distance has become infinitely small, act on one another with an intensity infinitely great. Therefore, if the Newtonian law hold good even to the very centre of the element, the [pg 011] elementary power possesses infinite intensity.

To this we reply that the mathematical expression of the intensity of the action, in the case of infinitesimal distances, does not become infinite, except when the action is supposed to last for a finite unit of time. But the action continued for a finite unit of time is not the actual action of an element; it is the integral of all the actions exerted in the infinite series of infinitesimal instants which makes up the finite unit of time. To judge of the true intensity of the actual exertion, it is necessary to exclude from the calculation the whole of the past or future actions, and to take into account the only action which corresponds to the infinitesimal present. In other terms, the actual action is expressed, not by an integral, but by a differential. In fact, the elements act when they are, not when they have been, or when they will be; they act in their present, not in their future or in their past; and the present, the now, is only an instant, which, though connecting the past with the future, has in itself neither past nor future, and therefore has a rigorously infinitesimal duration. It is this instant, and not the finite unit of time, that measures the actual effort of the elements. Accordingly, the action as actually proceeding from the elements, when at infinitesimal distance, is infinitely less than the integral calculated for a finite unit of time; which shows that the argument proposed has no foundation.

This answer serves also to complete our solution of the preceding objection. It was there objected that the active power of an element can be applied to the production of an infinite multitude of finite effects; to which we answered that a finite power was competent to do this by being applied simultaneously to an infinite multitude of terms. But now we add that none of those effects acquire a finite intensity, except by the continuation of the action during a finite unit of time, and therefore that the true effect produced in every instant of time is infinitesimal. Hence the infinite multitude of such effects, as related to the instant of their actual production, is an infinite multitude of infinitesimals, and the total effort of a primitive element in every instant of time is therefore finite, not infinite.

A sixth objection.—If we admit that a material element has an indefinite sphere of power, we must also admit that the element has a kind of immensity. For the active power must evidently be present entitatively in all the parts of space where it is ready to act. Accordingly, as by the hypothesis it is ready to act everywhere, its sphere being unlimited, it must be present everywhere and extend without limit. In other words, the elementary power would share with God the attribute of immensity—which is impossible.

This objection, which, in spite of its apparent strength, contains only an appeal to imagination instead of intellect, might be answered from S. Thomas in two different ways. The first answer is suggested by the following passage: “The phrase, A thing is everywhere and in all times, can be understood in two manners: First, as meaning that the thing possesses in its entity the reason of its extending to every place and to every time; and in this manner it is proper of God to be everywhere and for ever. Secondly, as meaning that the thing has nothing in itself by which it be [pg 012] determined to a certain place or time.”[7] According to this doctrine, a thing can be conceived to be everywhere, either by a positive intrinsic determination to fill all space, or by the absence of any determination implying a special relation to place. We might therefore admit that the elementary power is everywhere in this second manner; for although the matter of an element marks out a point in space, we have seen that its power, as such, has no determination by which it can be confined to a limited space. And yet nothing would oblige us to concede that the active power of an element, by its manner of being everywhere, “shares in God's immensity”; for it is evident that an absence of determination has nothing common with a positive determination, and is not a share of it.

The second answer is suggested by a passage in which the holy doctor inquires “whether to be everywhere be an attribute of God alone,” and in which he proposes to himself the objection that “universals are everywhere; so also the first matter, as existing in all bodies, is everywhere; and therefore something is everywhere besides God.” To which he very briefly replies: “Universals and the first matter are indeed everywhere, but they have not everywhere the same being.”[8] This answer can be applied to the active power of primitive elements with as much reason, to say the least, as it is to the first matter. The active power may therefore be admitted to be everywhere, not indeed like God, who is everywhere formally, and “has everywhere the same being,” but in a quite different manner—that is, by extending everywhere virtually, and by possessing everywhere a different degree of virtual being. We know, in fact, that this is the case, as the exertions of such a power become weaker and weaker in proportion as the object acted on is more and more distant from the centre of activity.

Yet a third answer, which may prove to be the best, can be drawn from the direct comparison of the pretended immensity of the elementary power with the real immensity of the divine substance. God's immensity is an infinite attribute, which contains in itself the formal reason of the existence of space, and therefore eminently contains in itself all possible ubications. By his immensity God is essentially everywhere with his whole substance, and is as infinite and entire in any one point of space as he is in the whole of the universe and outside of it. On the other hand, what is the pretended immensity of the elementary power? It is unnecessary to remark that an indefinite sphere of power does not give existence to space, as it presupposes it; but it is important to notice that, however great may be the expansion of that virtual sphere, the essence and the substance of the element are absolutely confined to that single point, where its form is terminated to its matter. Both matter and form are included in the essence of an element; hence there only can the element be with its essence and substance where its matter and its form are together. [pg 013] But they are not together, except in a single point. Therefore the element, however great may be the virtual expansion of its sphere of power, is essentially and substantially present only in a single point.

From this every one will see that there is no danger of confounding the virtual ubiquity of created power with God's immensity. Divine immensity has been ingeniously, though somewhat strangely, defined by a philosopher to be “a sphere of which the centre is everywhere.” The power of an element, on the contrary, is “a sphere of which the centre is ubicated in a single point.” If this does not preclude the notion that the element “shares in God's immensity,” we fail to see why every creature should not share also in God's eternity, by its existence in each successive moment of time. The objection is therefore insignificant. As to the virtual sphere itself, we must bear in mind that its power loses continually in intensity as the virtual expansion is increased, till millions of millions of elements are required to produce the least appreciable effect. Hence the virtuality of elementary powers tends continually towards zero as its limit, although it never reaches it. And as a decreasing series, though implying an infinity of terms, may have a finite value, as mathematicians know, so the virtuality of the elementary powers, although extending after its own manner beyond any finite limit, represents only a finite property of a finite being.

From what we have said in these pages the intelligent reader will realize, we hope, that the much-maligned actio in distans, as explained by us according to Faraday's conception, can bear any amount of philosophical scrutiny. The principles which have formed the basis of our preceding answers are the three following:

1st. Motive powers have no other formal ubication than that from which their exertions proceed;

2d. Motive powers are never distant from any matter;

3d. Motive powers are not merged or embedded in the matter to which they belong, but constitute a virtual sphere around it.

That actio in distans not only is possible, but is the only action possible with the material agents, has been proved in our preceding article. The embarrassment we experience in its explanation arises, not from our reason, but from our habit of relying too much on our imagination. “Imagination,” says S. Thomas, “cannot rise above space and time.” We depict to ourselves intellectual relations as local relations. The idea that a material point situated on the earth can exert its power on the polar star suggests to us the thought that the active power of that element must share the ubication of the polar star, and be locally present to it. Yet the true relation of the power to the star is not a local relation, and the exertion of the power is not terminated to the place where the star is, but to the star itself as to its proper subject; and therefore the relation is a relation of act to potency, not a relation of local presence.

There is nothing local in the principle of activity, except the central point from which its action is directed; and there is nothing local in its action, except the direction from that central point to the subject to which the action is terminated. True it is that we speak of a sphere of power, which seems to imply local relations. But such a sphere [pg 014] is not locally determined by the power, which has no ubication, but by the matter to which that power is to be applied. For the necessity of admitting a sphere of power arises from the fact that all the matter placed at equal distance from the centre of activity is equally acted on. It is only from matter to matter that distance can be conceived; and thus it is only from matter to matter, and not from matter to power, that the radius of a sphere can be traced. Abstract geometry deals with imaginary points, but physical geometry requires real points of matter.

Power is above geometry, and therefore it transcends space; hence the difficulty of understanding its nature and of explaining the mode of its operation. Nevertheless, power and matter are made for one another, and must have a mutual co-ordination, since they necessarily conspire into unity of essence. Hence whatever can be predicated potentially of the matter can be virtually predicated of the power; and, as the matter of an element, though actuated in a single point of space, is everywhere potentially—viz., can be moved to any distant place—so also the principle of activity, though formally terminated to a single point, is everywhere virtually—that is, it can impart motion to matter at any distance. Thus actio in distans might directly be inferred, as a necessary result, from the ontological correlation of the essential principles of matter. But we have no need of à priori arguments, as, in questions of fact, the best arguments are those which arise from the analysis of the facts themselves. These arguments we have already given; and, so long as they are not refuted, we maintain that nothing but actio in distans offers a philosophical explanation of natural facts.

To Be Continued.

Hope.

Youthful hope around thee lingers;

Soon its transient lines will fly:

Time and Death with frosty fingers

Touch its blossoms, and they die.

Yet rejoice while hope is keeping

Watch upon her emerald throne.

Ere thy cheek is pale with weeping,

Ere thy dreams of love have flown.

The Veil Withdrawn.

Translated, By Permission, From The French Of Madame Craven, Author Of “A Sister's Story,” “Fleurange,” Etc.

XVI.

As soon as I rose from my place I perceived the young lady who had been collecting money in the morning not far off. She was going by with her mother without observing me, and I followed in the crowd that was making its way to the door. But a pouring rain was falling from the clouds which were so threatening two hours before, and a great many who were going out suddenly stopped and came back to remain under shelter during the shower. In consequence of this I all at once found myself beside the young lady, who was diligently seeking her mother, from whom she had been separated by the crowd. She observed me this time, and with a child-like smile and a tone of mingled terror and confidence that were equally touching, said:

“Excuse me, madame, but, as you are taller than I, please tell me if you see my mother—a lady in black with a gray hat.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I see her, and she is looking for you also. I will aid you in reaching her.”

We had some trouble in opening a passage, but after some time succeeded in getting to the place where her mother had been pushed by the crowd at some distance from the door of the church. She was looking anxiously in every direction, and when she saw us her face lighted up, and she thanked me with equal simplicity and grace of manner for the service I had rendered her daughter. We conversed together for some minutes, during which I learned that though I had met them twice that day in the same church, it was not the one they usually attended, their home being in another quarter of the city. The daughter had been invited to collect money at S. Roch's that day, and wishing, for some reason, to be at home by four o'clock, they had returned for the afternoon service, which ends an hour earlier there than anywhere else. This variation from their usual custom had probably caused a misunderstanding about the carriage which should have been at the door, and they felt embarrassed about getting to the Rue St. Dominique, where they resided, as the violent rain prevented them from going on foot. Glad to be able to extricate them from their embarrassment, I at once offered to take them home in my carriage, which was at the door. They accepted the offer with gratitude. Their manners and language would have left no doubt as to their rank, even if I had not met them in society. And I soon learned more than enough to satisfy me on this point.

As soon as we were seated in the carriage the elder of the two ladies said: “I know whom I have to thank for the favor you have done me, madame, for no one can forget [pg 016] the Duchessa di Valenzano who has ever seen her, even but once, and no one can be ignorant of her name, which is in every mouth. But it is not the same with us. Allow me, therefore, to say that I am the Comtesse de Kergy, and this is my daughter Diana, ... who is very happy, I assure you, as well as surprised, at the accident that has brought her in contact with one she has talked incessantly about ever since she had the happiness of seeing you first.”

Her daughter blushed at these words, but did not turn away her eyes, which were fastened on me with a sympathetic expression of charming naïveté that inspired an irresistible attraction towards her in return. The name of Kergy was a well-known one. I had heard it more than once, and was trying to recall when and where I heard it for the first time, when, as we were crossing the Place du Carrousel, the young Diana, looking at the clock on the Tuileries, suddenly exclaimed:

“It is just going to strike four. We ought to feel greatly obliged to madame, mamma for, had it not been for her, we should have been extremely late, and Gilbert would have been surprised and anxious at our not arriving punctually.”

Gilbert!... This name refreshed my memory. Gilbert de Kergy was the name of the young traveller whom I had once seen at the large dinner-party. He must be the very person in question.... Before I had time to ask, Mme. de Kergy put an end to my uncertainty on the subject.

“My son,” said she, “has recently made an interesting tour in the Southern States of America, and it is with respect to this journey there is to be a discussion to-day which we promised to attend. I have given up my large salon for the purpose, on condition (a condition Diana proposed) that the meeting should end with a small collection in behalf of the orphan asylum for which she was soliciting contributions this morning—a work in which she is greatly interested.”

“My husband, who has also travelled a great deal,” I replied, “had, I believe, the pleasure of meeting M. de Kergy on one occasion, and conversing with him.”

“Gilbert has not forgotten the conversation,” exclaimed the young Diana with animation. “He often speaks of it. He told us about you also, madame, and described you so accurately that I knew you at once as soon as I saw you, before any one told me your name.”

I made no reply, and we remained silent till, having crossed the bridge, we approached the Rue St. Dominique, when Diana, suddenly leaning towards her mother, whispered a few words in her ear. Mme. de Kergy began to laugh.

“Really,” said she, “this child takes everything for granted; but you are so kind, I will allow her to repeat aloud what she has just said to me.”

“Well,” said the young girl, “I said the discussion would certainly be interesting, for Gilbert is to take a part in it, as well as several other good speakers, and those who attend will at the close aid in a good work. I added that I should be very much pleased, madame, if you would attend.”

I was by no means prepared for this invitation, and at first did not know what reply to make, but quickly bethought myself that there would be more than an hour before Lorenzo's return. I knew, moreover, that, even according to his ideas, I should [pg 017] be in very good society, and it could not displease him in the least if I attended a discussion at the Hôtel de Kergy under the auspices of the countess and her daughter. Besides, on my part, I felt a good deal of curiosity, never having attended anything like a public discussion. In short, I decided, without much hesitation, to accept the invitation, and the young Diana clapped her hands with joy. We were just entering the open porte-cochère of a large court, where we found quite a number of equipages and footmen. The carriage stopped before the steps and in five minutes I was seated between Diana and her mother near a platform at one end of a drawing-room large enough to contain one hundred and fifty or two hundred persons.

I cannot now give a particular account of this meeting, though it was an event in my life. The principal subject discussed was, I think, the condition of the blacks, not yet emancipated, in the Southern States of America. An American of the North, who could express himself very readily in French, first spoke, and after him a missionary priest, who considered the question from a no less elevated point of view, though quite different from that of the philanthropist, and the discussion had already grown quite animated before it became Gilbert de Kergy's turn to speak. When he rose, there was a movement in the whole assembly, and his first words excited involuntary attention, which soon grew to intense interest, and for the first time in my life I felt the power of language and the effect that eloquence can produce.

It was strange, but he began with a brief, brilliant sketch of places that seemed familiar to me; for Lorenzo had visited them, and he had such an aptness for description that I felt as if I had seen them in his company. My first thought was to regret his absence. Why was he not here with me now to listen to this discussion, to become interested in it, and perhaps take a part in it?... I had a vague feeling that this reunion was of a nature to render him as he appeared to me during the first days of our wedded life, when his extensive travels and noble traits made me admire his courage and recognize his genius, the prestige of which was only surpassed in my eyes by that of his tenderness!... But another motive intensified this desire and regret. The boldness, the intelligence, and the adventurous spirit of the young traveller were, of course, traits familiar to me, and which I was happy and proud to recognize; but, alas! the resemblance ceased when, quitting the field of observation and descriptions of nature, and all that memory and intelligence can glean, the orator soared to loftier regions, and linked these facts themselves with questions of a higher nature and wider scope than those of mere earthly interest. He did this with simplicity, earnestness, and consummate ability, and while he was speaking I felt that my mind rose without difficulty to the level of his, and expanded suddenly as if it had wings! It was a moment of keen enjoyment, but likewise of keen suffering; for I felt the difference that the greater or less elevation of the soul can produce in two minds that are equally gifted! I clearly saw what was wanting in Lorenzo's. I recognized the cause of the something lacking which had so often troubled me, and I felt more intensely and profoundly pained than I had that very morning.

While listening to Gilbert I only thought of Lorenzo, and, if I reluctantly acknowledged the superiority of the former, I felt at the same time that there was nothing to prevent the latter from becoming his equal; for, I again said to myself, Lorenzo was not merely a man of the world, leading a frivolous, aimless life, as might seem from his present habits. Love of labor and love of nature and art do not characterize such a man, and he possessed these traits in a high degree. He had therefore to be merely detached from other influences. This was my task, my duty, and it should also be my happiness; for I had no positive love for the world, whose pleasures I knew so well. No, I did not love it. I loved what was higher and better than that. I felt an immense void within that great things alone could fill. And I seemed to-day to have entered into the sphere of these great things; but I was there alone, and this was torture. All my actual impressions were therefore centred in an ardent desire to put an end to this solitude by drawing into that higher region him from whom I was at the moment doubly separated.

This was assuredly a pure and legitimate desire, but I did not believe myself capable of obtaining its realization without difficulty, and sufficiently calculating the price I must pay for such a victory and the efforts by which it must often be merited....

While these thoughts were succeeding each other in my mind I almost forgot to listen to the end of the discourse, which terminated the meeting in the midst of the applause of the entire audience. The vast hall of discussion was instantly changed into a salon again, where everybody seemed to be acquainted, and where I found the élite of those I had met in other places. But assembled together for so legitimate an object, they at once inspired me with interest, respect, and a feeling of attraction. It was Paris under quite a new aspect, and it seemed to me, if I had lived in a world like this, I should never have experienced the terrible distress which I have spoken of, and which the various emotions of the day had alone succeeded in dissipating.

The charming young Diana, light and active, had ascended the platform, and was now talking to her brother. Gilbert started with surprise at her first words, and his eyes turned towards the place where I was standing. Then I almost instantly saw them descend from the platform and come towards me. Diana looked triumphant.

“This is my brother Gilbert, madame,” said she, her eyes sparkling. “And it is I who have the honor of presenting him to you, as he seems to have waited for his little sister to do it.”

He addressed me some words of salutation, to which I responded. As he stood near me, I again observed his calm, thoughtful, intelligent face, which had struck me so much the only time I remembered to have seen him before. While speaking a few moments previous his face was animated, and his eyes flashed with a fire that added more than once to the effect of his clear, penetrating voice, which was always well modulated. His gestures also, though not numerous or studied, had a natural grace and the dignity which strength of conviction, joined to brilliant eloquence, gives to the entire form of an orator. His manner was now so simple that I felt perfectly at ease with him, and told him without any hesitation how [pg 019] happy I was at the double good-fortune that had brought me in contact with his sister, and had resulted in my coming to this meeting where I had been permitted to hear him speak.

“This day will be a memorable one for me as well as for her, madame,” he replied, “and I shall never forget it.”

There was not the least inflection in his voice to make me regard his words as anything more than mere politeness, but their evident sincerity caused me a momentary embarrassment. He seemed to attach too much importance to this meeting, but it passed away. He inspired me with almost as much confidence as if he had been a friend. I compared him with Landolfo, and wondered what effect so different an influence would have on Lorenzo, and I could not help wishing he were his friend also....

I continued silent, and he soon resumed: “The Duca di Valenzano is not here?”

“No; he will be sorry, and I regret it for his sake.”

“The presence of such a traveller would have been a great honor to us.”

“He was very happy to have an opportunity of conversing with you on one occasion.”

“It was a conversation I have never forgotten. It would have been for my advantage to renew it, but I never go into society—at Paris.”

“And elsewhere?”

“Elsewhere it is a different thing,” said he, smiling. “I am as social while travelling as I am uncivilized at my return.”

“We must not expect, then, to meet you again in Paris; but if you ever go to Italy, may we not hope you will come to see us?”

“If you will allow me to do so,” said he eagerly.

“Yes, certainly. I think I can promise that the well-known hospitality of the Neapolitans will not be wanting towards the Comte Gilbert de Kergy.”

After a moment's silence he resumed: “You must have been absent when I was at Naples. That was two years ago.”

“I was not married then, and I am not a Neapolitan.”

“And not an Italian, perhaps.”

“Do you say so on account of the color of my hair? That would be astonishing on the part of so observant a traveller, for you must have noticed that our great masters had almost as many blondes as brunettes for their models. However, I am neither English nor German, as perhaps you are tempted to think. I am a Sicilian.”

“I have never seen in Sicily or anywhere else a person who resembled you.”

These words implied a compliment, and probably such an one as I had never received; and, I need not repeat, I was not fond of compliments. But this was said without the least smile or the slightest look that indicated any desire to flatter or please me. Was not this a more subtle flattery than I had been accustomed to receive?... And did it not awaken unawares the vanity I had long thought rooted out of the bottom of my heart? I can affirm nothing positive as to this, for there is always something lacking in the knowledge of one's self, however thoroughly we may think we have acquired it. But I am certain it never occurred to me at the time to analyze the effect of this meeting on me. I was wholly absorbed in the regret and hope it awakened.

As I was on the point of leaving, Mme. de Kergy asked permission to call on me with her daughter the next day at four o'clock—a permission I joyfully granted—and Diana accompanied me to the very foot of the steps. I kissed her smiling face, as I took leave, and gave my hand to her brother, who had come with us to help me in getting into the carriage.

XVII.

All the way from the Rue St. Dominique to the Rue de Rivoli I abandoned myself to the pleasant thoughts excited by the events of the day. For within a few hours I had successively experienced the inward sweetness of prayer, the charm of congenial society, and the pleasure of enthusiasm. A new life seemed to be infused into my heart, soul, and mind, which had grown frivolous in the atmosphere of the world, and I felt, as it were, entranced. Those who have felt themselves thus die and rise again to a new life will understand the feeling of joy I experienced. In all the blessings hitherto vouchsafed me, even in the love itself that had been, so to speak, the sun of my happiness, there had been one element wanting, without which everything seemed dark, unsatisfactory, wearisome, and depressing—an element which my soul had an imperious, irresistible, undeniable need of! Yes, I realized this, and while thus taking a clearer view of my state I also felt that this need was reasonable and just, and might be supplied without much difficulty. Was not Lorenzo gifted with a noble nature, and capable of the highest things? Had he not chosen me, and loved me to such a degree as to make me an object of idolatry? Well, I would point out to him the loftier heights he ought to attain. I, in my turn, would open to him a new world!...

Such were the thoughts, aspirations, and dreams my heart was filled with on my way home. As I approached the Rue de Rivoli, however, I began to feel uneasy at being out so much later than I had anticipated, lest Lorenzo should have returned and been anxious about my absence. I was pleased to learn, therefore, on descending from the carriage, that he had not yet come home, and I joyfully ascended the staircase, perfectly satisfied with the way in which I had spent the morning.

I took off my hat, smoothed my hair, and then proceeded to arrange the salon according to his taste and my own. I arranged the flowers, as well as the books and other things, and endeavored to give the room, though in a hotel, an appearance of comfort and elegance that would entice him to remain at home; for I had formed the project of trying to induce him to spend the evening with me. I seemed to have so many things to say to him, and longed to communicate all the impressions I had received! With this object in view I took a bold step, but one that was authorized by the intimacy that existed between us and the friends whose guests we were to have been that day—I sent them an excuse, not only for myself, but my husband, hoping to find means afterwards of overcoming his displeasure, should he manifest any.

Having made these arrangements, I was beginning to wonder at his [pg 021] continued absence when a letter was brought me which served to divert my mind for a time from every other thought. It was a letter from Livia which I had been impatiently awaiting. We had corresponded regularly since our separation, and I had begun to be surprised at a silence of unusual length on her part. It was not dated at Messina, but at Naples, and I read the first page, which was in answer to the contents of my letter, without finding any explanation of this. Finally I came to what follows:

“I told you in my last letter that I had obtained my father's consent, but on one condition—that he should have the choice of the monastery I must enter on leaving home. What difference did it make? As to this I was, and am, wholly indifferent. I should make the same vows everywhere, and in them all I should go to God by the same path. In them all I should be separated from the world and united to him alone. And this was all I sought. The convent my father chose is not in Sicily. It is a house known and venerated by every one in Naples. I shall be received on the second of September. Meanwhile, I have come here under Ottavia's escort, and am staying with our aunt, Donna Clelia, who has established herself here for the winter with her daughters. So everything is arranged, Gina. The future seems plain. I see distinctly before me my life and death, my joys and sorrows, my labors and my duty. I am done with all that is called happiness in the world, as well as with its misfortunes, its trials, its conflicting troubles, its numberless disappointments, and its poignant woes.

“Therefore I cannot make use of the word sacrifice. It wounds me when I hear it used, for I blush at the little I have to give up in view of the immensity I am to receive! Yes; I blush when I remember it was suffering and humiliation that first made me raise my eyes to Him whom alone we should love, and whom alone I now feel I can love. If I had not been wholly sure of this, I should never have been so bold as to aspire to the union that waits me—the only one here below in which the Bridegroom can satisfy the boundless affection of the heart that gives itself to him!...

“But to return to you, my dear Gina. Are you as happy as I desire you to be, and as you deserve to be? Your last letter was sad; and the calmer and better satisfied I feel about my own lot, the more I think of yours. Whatever happens, my dearest sister, do not forget that we both have but one goal. Your way is longer and more perilous than mine, but the great aim of us both should be to really love God above all things, and, in him and for him, to cherish all the objects of our affection. Yes, even those whom we prefer to all other creatures on earth. I am not using the language of a religious, but simply that of truth and common sense. If this letter reaches you on your return from some gay scene, at a time when you will not feel able to enter into its meaning, you must lay it aside. But if you read it when your mind is calm, and you are at leisure to listen to your inner self, you will understand what your Livia means by writing you in this way. Whatever happens, whether we are near each other or are widely separated, we shall always [pg 022] be united in heart, my dear sister. The convent grates will not separate me from you. Death itself cannot divide us. One thing, and one alone, in the visible or invisible world, can raise a barrier between us and really separate us. And rather than behold this barrier rise, I would, as I have already told you, my beloved sister, rather see you dead. Gina, I love you as tenderly as any one ever loved another. I will pray for you on the second of September (Sunday). Probably when you read this I shall already have left the world. But I shall not have left you, dear sister. I shall be nearer you than when distance alone separated us. Besides, I am at Naples, to which you will soon return, and you will find that the grates will neither hide my face, nor my thoughts, nor my heart, nor my soul from you....

“Gina, let me once more repeat that there is only one way of attaining real happiness—there is only one object worthy of our love. Let me beseech you not to desire any other passionately. But, no; you would not understand me; you would not believe me now....”

Everything added to the effect of this letter—its date, and the day, the hour, and the moment in which it was received. The deed my sister had accomplished that very day had brought us nearer together, as she said. Had not a breath of the purer air she breathed reached me already and preserved me through the day from the aimless frivolity of my usual life?

“Happiness,” it has been said, “is Christian; pleasure is not.” Had I not profoundly realized the force of this saying for one day? Had I not experienced a happiness as different as possible from the pleasure I enjoyed in the world? And did I not feel desirous this very instant of attaining the one at the expense of the other, and not only of taking a different view of life myself, but of imparting this desire to

“Him who ne'er from me shall separate.”[9]

The day was beginning to decline, and I gradually sank into a short, profound slumber such as is usually attended by confused dreams. In mine most of those who had occupied my thoughts during the day passed successively before me—Livia first, covered with a long white veil, and next to her was the pleasant, smiling face of Diana.... Then I was once more at the Hôtel de Kergy, listening again to some parts of Gilbert's address. But when I was on the point of calling Lorenzo to hear him also, it no longer seemed to be Gilbert, but Lorenzo himself, on the platform, repeating the same words with an air of mockery, and gazing at me, in return, with the penetrating look so peculiar to him.... Then everything changed, and I found myself at twilight at the fork of a road in the country, and, while I was hesitating which path to take, I saw Gilbert beside me. He was familiar with the way, he said, and offered to be my guide; but I repulsed his arm, and made a violent effort to overtake Lorenzo, whom I suddenly perceived at a distance on the other road.... Then Livia seemed to be beside me, and give me her hand to help me along. Finally I saw Lorenzo just before me again, but he did not look like the same person; he was poorly clad, and his face was pale and altered. I recognized him, however, and sprang forward to overtake him, [pg 023] when I awoke breathless, and with the painful feeling of uneasiness that such sleep generally produces when terminated by such an awakening....

My heart throbbed.... I found it difficult at first to recall what had occupied my mind before I fell asleep. I soon came to myself, however, and was able to account for the utter darkness that surrounded me. I hastened to ring the bell and, when a light was brought, I looked at the clock with a surprise that gave way to anxiety. At that instant I heard the bell that announced Lorenzo's return at last. I heard him enter the ante-chamber, and I ran to open the drawing-room door myself. But I stopped short. It was not Lorenzo; it was Landolfo Landini, and he was alone. I drew back with a terrified look without daring to ask a question. But he smiled, as he closed the door behind him, and, taking my hand, said: “Do not be alarmed, my dear cousin, I beg. Nothing in particular has happened to Lorenzo—nothing, at least, which you are not prepared to hear after what occurred last night.”

I breathed once more.... I know not what other fear crossed my mind, but I said with tolerable calmness:

“That means he has been playing again, or at least betting at the races, and has lost?”

“Yes, cousin, frightfully. There—I ought not to have told you, but I see no reason for concealing it from you; and as I have this opportunity of speaking privately to you, I will profit by it to give you another piece of advice more serious than any I have yet given you. Immediately make use of all the influence you still have over him to persuade him to leave Paris. There is some fatality about this place, as far as he is concerned. He is more prudent everywhere else, and will become so here once more. The fever he has been seized with again must absolutely be broken up. The deuce!” continued he, “two or three more relapses like this would lead to consequences that would test all your courage, ma belle duchesse, and bring you, as well as him, to extremities you are ill fitted to bear. That is what I am most anxious about, you will allow me to say; for, without making you the shadow of a declaration, I find you so beautiful, so good, and so adorable that the mere thought of you some day....”

“Keep to the point, Lando, if you please,” said I with an impatient air. “Where is Lorenzo? Why did he not return with you, and why have you come to tell me what he would probably tell me himself?”

“Tell you himself? He will take care not to do that. I have already told you I am betraying his confidence, but it is for his good as well as yours. It is best for you to know that the sum he has lost today surpasses the resources he has on hand, and in order to make the necessary arrangements to pay at once the debt he has incurred, he is obliged to write to his agent at Naples or Sicily. He went directly to the club for this purpose, and commissioned me to tell you it was for nothing of importance, and beg you to attend the dinner-party without him, and present his excuses to your friends. He will join you in the evening.”

Everything now seemed easily arranged according to my wishes, and of itself, as it were.

“That is very fortunate,” said I eagerly, telling him of the excuse I [pg 024] had sent for us both. “Therefore, Lando, go back to the club, I beg; or rather, I will write Lorenzo myself that he can arrange his affairs at his leisure, and return when he pleases to dine with me. I shall wait till he comes.”

I hastily seized my pen to write him, but Lando resumed:

“Oh! as to that, cousin, you will only waste your trouble; for seeing how late it was, and that he could not possibly be here in season to accompany you, he accepted an invitation to dine with an acquaintance of his (and yours also, I suppose) whom he met at the races to-day.”

“An acquaintance of his?...” I repeated, my heart filling with a keen anguish that made me turn pale without knowing why.

Lando perceived it. “Do not be alarmed,” said he, smiling. “It is not Mme. de B——, though she was at the races also, and made a fruitless effort to divert Lorenzo's mind from what was going on. Really, in your place,” continued he with his usual levity, “I should regret she did not succeed. That would have been much better than ... Come, ... do not frown. I am joking. To be serious, Lorenzo is not going to dine with her to-day, but with a lady from Milan who has just arrived, and whom you doubtless know. It is Donna Faustina Reali, the Marquise de Villanera!...”

Faustina Reali!... This name seemed to justify the strange presentiment I had just had, and I was tempted to exclaim with Hamlet,

“O my prophetic soul!”

thou hast not deceived me!... I had at that moment a sudden intuition of the past, the present, and the future. I saw clearly before me a life in which I should no longer be able to influence Lorenzo, or even to guide myself!...

I controlled my agitation, however, by a powerful effort, and Lando soon left me, renewing his first injunctions, and persuaded he had fully reassured me on other points. I gave him my hand with a smile as he left the room, and as soon as I found myself alone I covered my face with my hands, and exclaimed:

“O my dreams! my pleasant dreams! Where have they vanished?”

XVIII.

Faustina Reali!... That was the never-to-be-forgotten name I had read on the card Lorenzo snatched so violently from my hands at Naples! I had never seen it again, never heard it pronounced, but I remembered only too well the expression of my husband's face when he saw it, and the way in which he tore up the card on which it was written!...

I endeavored to lead the conversation at another time back to this circumstance, but at once desisted, frightened at the manner in which he imposed silence on me, and a certain impression of both mystery and danger remained associated with the name.

As soon as I became calmer, however, I acknowledged that I really knew nothing, absolutely nothing, to cause the violent emotion I had just experienced. It had an imaginary cause, then, and might simply be owing to my mind, so recently lost in vague dreams, and perhaps a little too high-flown, being [pg 025] suddenly recalled to a painful and unpleasant, as well as very commonplace reality. I had imagined I was going to transform, as by the stroke of a wand, my husband's habits, tastes, occupations—nay, his entire life—but was brought to my senses by learning he had just lost an enormous sum at the races, and his mind, for the moment, was absorbed in the necessary complications for paying the debt. I had planned spending several hours alone with him that evening, during which, away from the bustle of the world, I would give him a minute account of my recent impressions, and tell him of all the wishes, projects, and ardent desires of which he was the object. I would rouse a nobler pride in his soul, and appeal to a thousand sentiments that were dormant, but not extinct; and I believe I expected to see them awakened at the mere sound of my voice!... Instead of this, ... I was alone, and he was with another.... And what other?... Who was this Faustina, whose name had so suddenly appeared in my life, and who, at the very hour when I was aiming at so pure and elevated an influence over him, came thus, like an evil genius, to thrust herself between us?... I reminded myself in vain that Lorenzo had no idea of the plans I had, unbeknown to him, formed for the evening, but supposed me at this very moment to be with my friends, where he had promised to join me; but nothing could calm the sudden agitation of my heart, nothing could check the flood of thoughts that sprang from my anxiety, jealousy, and misconceptions, and my excitement became more intense in proportion to the lateness of the hour. Would he never come?...

And what would he say when he should arrive?... I was sure he would try to conceal his interview with Donna Faustina, and perhaps I ought to hide my knowledge of that as well as everything else, and feign ignorance of all that had occurred, in order not to betray Lando's indiscretion.... But what should I do when his eyes, so accustomed to interpret every expression of my face, should be fastened on me? How could I practise any dissimulation with him? It was not, indeed, my place to do anything of the kind. I had no cause to blush or be intimidated. And should he discover, after all, that I was not deceived, so much the better; and should he be displeased, so much the worse for Lando.

I had arrived at this point in my reflections when I heard the bell ringing loudly in the next room. Then there was a quick step, which this time was really his, and Lorenzo entered the room. He was pale and appeared excited, but said in a sufficiently calm tone:

“I have just come from M——'s, where I supposed I should find you; but I learned that, in sending my apology, you also excused yourself, and I did not remain an instant. What is the matter, Ginevra?... Are you ill?... Why did you not go? Why did you remain at home alone in this way?”

His expression was singular. It was at once affectionate and troubled. He looked earnestly at me, as he gave me his hand, and put back my hair in order to see my face more distinctly.

My cheeks were burning. The traces of the tears I had shed were visible, and, with his scrutinizing eyes upon me, I felt it hardly possible to restrain those that still [pg 026] filled my own.... He took my head between his two hands, and held it a moment against his breast in silence. The throbbing of his heart perhaps equalled that of mine. I was touched, speechless and disarmed, and less than ever in a condition to dissimulate anything, when he suddenly said:

“Why have you been crying, Ginevra? I must know.”

Raising my still tearful eyes towards him, and looking confidingly in his face, I replied: “I have been crying, Lorenzo, because I heard Donna Faustina is here, and that you had gone to see her.”

He started, and, though accustomed to the variations of his mobile face, I was struck with the effect my words had produced. His face reddened, then turned paler than before, and for some moments he was incapable of making any reply, and even seemed to forget my proximity. He seated himself beside the table, and remained silent. I looked at him with amazement and anxiety. At length he said:

“Who has told you anything about Donna Faustina, and what do you know of her?”

“No one has told me anything about her, and all I know of her you have told me yourself by the very emotion you show at her name.”

He was again silent for a moment, and then resumed in his usual tone, as if he had triumphed over all hesitation:

“Well, Ginevra, even if you had not known of her being in Paris, or had never heard of her name or existence, I had resolved to speak to you about her this very evening. Listen to me. It is not, after all, a long story.”

He had perfectly recovered his self-control, and yet he continued with some effort:

“It is not for you to be jealous of her, Ginevra. It is she who has reason to be jealous of you. She has done you no wrong; whereas, without suspecting it, you have done her a great and irreparable injury.”

I opened my eyes with surprise.

“It is not necessary to tell you when and where I met her for the first time, but perhaps it is right I should acknowledge that I was inspired with a passion for her such as a man willingly imagines he can never feel but once in his life.”

I could not repress a start.

“Wait, Ginevra; hear me to the end. She was married and virtuous. I left her, ... but I had just learned she was free, and was about to go to see her when I was called to Sicily by the lawsuit on which my property depends. You know the rest.... The sight of you effaced the impressions of the past. I was still free—free from any promise that bound me to her, though perhaps she was expecting me to return to Milan....”

“You forgot her, and offered me your hand?...” I exclaimed with mingled pity and almost reproach.

He replied with some emotion:

“Yes, Ginevra, and without any scruple; for after passing a month in your vicinity, I felt I loved her no longer, and at that time ... I did not know she loved me.”

His brow grew dark. He stopped an instant, and then rapidly continued:

“At a later day I ascertained, ... I had reason to believe, ... beyond a doubt, that the feeling she had succeeded in hiding from me existed really, profoundly, ... and that she had suffered.... [pg 027] Ginevra! in the intoxication of my new happiness I could not feel any regret, but I acknowledge I had a moment of remorse. Yes; I never wished to hear her name again, never to see her or hear anything that would recall her.... I was almost irritated at Naples at finding her card among those left on your arrival there.... I was angry with her, poor Faustina, when I should have been grateful as well as you.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was at Naples, which she happened to be passing through, that the news of our marriage reached her. And when we arrived just after, she wished to show, by leaving her card, that she should henceforth only consider herself my friend and yours. But at that time I did not regard it in this way, and I was unjust as well as ungrateful.”

“And now, Lorenzo?” I said with many commingled feelings I could not have defined.

“Now, Ginevra, I think she was generous, and it would be well for you to be so in your turn. She wishes to know you, and I come to ask you to receive her to-morrow.... You hesitate!... I do not suppose, however,” said he a little loftily, as he frowned, “that you think me capable of making such a proposition to my wife, if the Marquise de Villanera had not a spotless reputation, and I were not certain that there is no reason why you should not grant her the favor I beg.”

Lorenzo was perfectly sincere at the moment he uttered these words. But as I write the account of that day by the light of events that followed, I do not feel the same assurance I did at the time he was talking. All he then affirmed was true; but he did not tell me everything. He did not, for instance, explain how he happened to learn, at a time when he had better have never known them, the sentiments that had hitherto been concealed from him. Still less did he tell me the effect this revelation produced on him. But with regard to this he doubtless did not deceive me any more than he did himself. Meanwhile, it was not possible to give more heed to a vague, inexplicable presentiment it would have been impossible to justify, than to what he said. I therefore consented, without any further hesitation, to the interview he proposed, and gave him my hand. He kissed it and held it lightly in his; then gave me a new proof of his confidence as well as unexpected satisfaction by the following words:

“This interview, Ginevra, will not commit you to any great extent at the most, as, for many reasons it would be useless to give you, I wish, if not too great a disappointment for you, to leave Paris—sooner than we intended. We will go in a week.”

He saw the ray of joy that flashed from my eyes, and looked at me with an air of surprise. I was afraid of compromising poor Lando by betraying my knowledge of the danger that rendered this departure so opportune. I was also afraid he would regard it as a new proof of the jealous distrust he had just allayed, and hastened to speak of Livia's letter and my desire to return to Naples, where I had just learned I should find my sister. He accepted this explanation, and the day full of so many different causes of excitement ended more tranquilly than I had anticipated two hours before. It was difficult, however, when I once more found [pg 028] myself alone, to collect my troubled thoughts. A confused crowd of new impressions had replaced those of the morning. The projects inspired by the lofty eloquence of Gilbert de Kergy all at once seemed chimerical. My hopes had fled beyond recall. And yet I could not account for my apprehension. Anxiety, a vague anxiety, persistently prevailed over everything. I only succeeded in regaining my calmness at last by two considerations: we were to leave Paris, and it was Lorenzo himself who proposed our departure.

XIX.

The following day, for some reason or other I did not explain to myself, I gave unusual attention to my toilet. I generally read while my waiting-maid was arranging my hair according to her own fancy, but that day I turned more than once towards the mirror. I observed with pleasure the golden lustre of my hair in the morning sunlight, and suggested myself the addition of a bow of ribbon of the same color as my belt. After I was dressed I gave, before leaving my room, a scrutinizing look in a large glass where I could see myself from head to foot. It seemed to me I was becomingly attired, and I felt pleased.

My satisfaction was confirmed by an exclamation that escaped Lorenzo as soon as he caught sight of me. He was already seated at the breakfast-table, which stood at one end of the room.

“You are charming this morning, Ginevra!” said he, smiling. He then grew thoughtful. After remaining silent a few moments, he resumed, perhaps to divert my mind from another thought he supposed it occupied with:

“I was sorry to leave you alone so long yesterday. How did you while away the time during the long afternoon?”

If he had asked this question the evening before at the imaginary tête-à-tête I had planned, what a minute, animated account should I have given him! How readily the thoughts which then occupied my mind would have sprung to my lips! He regarded me as a child, but I was no longer one; and beholding me all at once in the new aspect of an energetic, courageous woman, capable of aiding him with a firm hand in ascending to higher regions, he would have been surprised and touched; the passing gleam that sometimes manifested itself in his eyes would perhaps have been less transient this time, and I should have succeeded in kindling a flame of which this light was a mere emblem!... Lorenzo, if you had only been willing! If you had only listened to me then, entered into my feelings, and read my heart, what a life ours might have been!... Ah! happiness and goodness are more closely allied in this world than is usually supposed. If virtue sometimes does not escape misfortune, it is sure there is no happiness without it! But the impetus by which I hoped to attain my aim at a single bound had been suddenly checked, and I no longer remembered now what I longed to say the evening before, or the motive I then had in view. I therefore answered my husband's question with the utmost coolness without interrupting my breakfast:

“I went to S. Roch's. It rained in torrents, and, finding the Comtesse de Kergy and her daughter at [pg 029] the door without any carriage, I took them home.”

“I am glad you did. There is no family more respected, and Kergy is one of the most intelligent of travellers.”

“Yes, so I should suppose. I have heard him speak of his travels. There was a meeting at the Hôtel de Kergy yesterday at four o'clock, which I was invited to attend, and he made an address.”

“And spoke very ably, I have no doubt. I have heard him, and can judge.”

“You have heard him?”

“Yes, a fortnight ago.... Though scarcely acquainted, we are the founders and chief supporters of a review devoted to art and scientific subjects, the acting committee of which summoned a meeting of its members to draw up some resolution, and at this meeting he spoke.”

“He is very eloquent, is he not?”

“Very eloquent indeed, but, on the whole, visionary.”

“Visionary?”

“Yes, visionary, and sometimes incomprehensible even. He soars to such vague heights that no one can follow him. But in spite of this, he is a fellow of great talent, and has a noble nature, I should think.”

Lorenzo rose while speaking, and drew a memorandum-book from his pocket:

“I will write down the address of the Hôtel de Kergy, that I may not forget to leave my card.”

“Mme. de Kergy and her daughter,” said I, “are coming to see me to-day about four o'clock.”

He was silent a moment, and then said:

“And till that time?”

“Till then,” I replied, turning red, “I shall be at home and alone.”

“Very well,” rejoined he, taking up a newspaper, while I silently went to a seat near the open window.

I compared the conversation which had just taken place with the one I imagined the evening before. I remembered the effect of the very name of her whose visit I was now expecting, and I felt inclined to both laugh and cry. In a word, I was nervous and agitated, and doubtless manifested my uneasiness and irritation more than I wished.

Lorenzo raised his eyes, and looked at me a moment.

“What are you thinking of, Ginevra?”

“Are you quite sure,” said I abruptly, “that this Donna Faustina is not a jettatrice?”

He rose and somewhat impatiently threw his paper on the table. But quickly overcoming himself, he said calmly:

“Do you find any evidence in what I related last evening that she ever brought ill-luck to any one?”

“If it is not she,” I exclaimed quickly, “I hope, at least, you do not think....”

I was about to add, “that it is I,” but I stopped on seeing the cloud that came over his face.

“Come, Ginevra,” said he, “you are really too childish! You are joking, doubtless, but no one knows better than you how to point a jest. But you shall tell me yourself what you think of the Marquise de Villanera after seeing her. As for me, I am going away. It is not necessary to have a third party when she comes. I will go meanwhile to see Kergy. But,” added he, as he was leaving the room, “as you have consented to receive her, remember I depend on your doing so politely.”

He went away, leaving me in a frame of mind by no means serene. I felt angry with him, and at the same time dissatisfied with myself. Everything went contrary to what I had hoped, and I awaited my visitor with a mixture of anguish and ill-humor.

I felt a kind of uneasiness analogous to that experienced when there is thunder in the air. I tried to apply myself to something, but, finding this impossible, I ended by returning to the window, where, book in hand, I rose from time to time to see what was going on in the street or the garden of the Tuileries.

At length, about two o'clock, I saw a small coupé coming around the corner from the Rue St. Florentin. I had seen an endless number pass while I stood there, but I watched this one without a shadow of doubt as to the direction it would take. It was but a moment, indeed, before I saw it stop at the door of the hotel. We were not, to be sure, the only occupants, but it never occurred to me that the person in the carriage would ask for any one but myself. I returned to the drawing-room, therefore, and had taken the seat I usually occupied when I received callers, when the Marquise de Villanera was announced in a loud voice.

I rose to meet her. There was a moment's silence, doubtless caused by an equal degree of curiosity on both sides. It was only for an instant that passed like a flash, but nevertheless each of us had scanned the other from head to foot.

At the first glance she did not seem young. I was not twenty years old myself then, and I judged as one is apt to at that age. In reality, she was not thirty. She was tall and fine-looking. Her form was noble and graceful, her features delicate and regular, her hair and eyebrows black as jet, her complexion absolutely devoid of color, and her eyes of a lively blue. This somewhat too bright a color gave a cold, hard look to her eyes, but their expression changed as soon as she began to speak, and became sweet, caressing, beseeching, irresistible. She was dressed in black, apparently with extreme simplicity, but in reality with extreme care.

I had not time to wonder how I should break this silence. It was she who spoke first, and her very first words removed the timidity and embarrassment that rendered this interview still more painful. What she said I am really unable to remember, and I cannot comprehend now the effect of her words; but I know they wrought a complete transformation in the feelings I experienced the evening before at the very mention of her name!

Women often wonder in vain what the charm is by which other women succeed in pleasing, and, as Bossuet says, in “drawing after them captive souls.” In their eyes, at least, this charm is inexplicable. But this is not always the case; for there are some women who, while they reserve for one the absolute ascendency of their empire, like to feel able to exert it over every one. Such was Donna Faustina. However deep the strange, secret warning of my heart might be, it was beyond my power to resist her. While she was talking I felt my prejudices vanish like snow before the sun, and it could not possibly have been otherwise, perhaps; at least without a penetration I was not endowed with, a distrust I was wholly incapable of, and an experience I did not then possess.

Did she really feel a kind of attraction towards me that rendered [pg 031] her sincere at this first interview? I prefer to think so. Yes, I prefer not to believe that deceit and perfidy could disguise themselves to such a degree under an appearance of cordiality, simplicity, artlessness, and sincerity. I prefer to hope it was not wholly by consummate art she won my confidence while seeming to repose unlimited confidence in me.

She very soon learned all she wished concerning me, and in return gave me her whole history; and however singular this sudden frankness on the part of a stranger ought to have appeared to me—and, indeed, was—the grace of her manner and the charm of her language prevented any doubt or criticism from crossing my mind. Young, without position or fortune, she had married a man three times as old as herself, with whom she lived in strict retirement. Her meeting with Lorenzo (but how this happened she did not explain) had been the only ray of joy in her life. She did not hide from me either the grief his departure caused her or the extent of her disappointment when she vainly awaited his return after she was left free. But all these feelings, she said, belonged to the past. Nothing remained but a friendship which she could not give up. The death of the aged Marquis de Villanera had of course left her free again, but it had also taken away her only protector. She felt alone in the world now, and begged me, in the midst of my happiness, to consider her loneliness and take pity on her.

While thus speaking she fixed upon me her large, blue eyes bathed in tears. And as I listened to her, tears also streamed down my cheeks. I almost reproached myself for being happy. Lorenzo's inconstancy weighed on my heart like remorse, and all that was generous in my nature responded to her appeal. Consequently, before our interview was over I embraced her, calling her my dear Faustina, and she clasped me in her arms, calling me for the twentieth time “her lovely, darling Ginevra.”

My naïveté may seem astonishing. I was, indeed, naïve at that time, and it would have been surprising had I not been. People of more penetration than I would have been blinded. Lorenzo himself was at that time. When he found us together at his return, and comprehended the result of our interview from the very first words he heard, he turned towards me with eyes lit up with tenderness and gratitude.

His first, and probably his only, feeling at meeting again the woman to whom he thought he had been ungrateful and almost disloyal, had been a kind of humiliation. To get rid of this feeling, he had sought some means of repairing this wrong, and, thanks to my docility to him and my generosity towards her, he persuaded himself he had found a way.

In the state of affairs at that moment I had the advantage. I gained that day a new, but, alas! the last, triumph over my rival!

XX.

Lorenzo accompanied the marchioness to her carriage, and then returned an instant to inform me she would dine with us that evening, and that he had invited Lando to join us. He embraced me affectionately [pg 032] before he went away, looking at me with an expression that caused me a momentary joy, but which was followed by a feeling of melancholy as profound as if his kiss had been an adieu.

But though my apprehensions of the evening before were allayed, I could not get rid of a vague uneasiness impossible to overcome—perhaps the natural result of the hopes that, on the one hand, had been disappointed since the previous day, and, on the other, the fears that had been removed. But my mind was still greatly troubled, and though the atmosphere around me had apparently become calm and serene, I felt, so to speak, the earth tremble almost insensibly beneath my feet, and could hear the rumbling of thunder afar off.

My interview with Donna Faustina lasted so long that I had not been alone half an hour before Mme. de Kergy and her daughter were announced. This call, which, under any circumstances, would have given me pleasure, was particularly salutary at this moment, for it diverted my mind and effected a complete, beneficial change of impressions. After the somewhat feverish excitement I had just undergone, it was of especial benefit to see and converse with these agreeable companions of the evening before. I breathed more freely, and forgot Donna Faustina while listening to their delightful conversation. My eyes responded to Diana's smiling looks, and her mother inspired me with a mingled attraction and confidence that touched me and awakened in my soul the dearest, sweetest, and most poignant memories of the past. Mme. de Kergy perceived this, and likewise noticed, I think, the traces of recent agitation in my face. She rose, as if fearing it would be indiscreet to prolong her visit.

“Oh! do not go yet,” I said, taking hold of her hand to detain her.

“But you look fatigued or ill. I do not wish to abuse the permission you gave me.”

“You do me good, on the contrary. I have a slight headache, it is true, but it is soothing to talk with you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

“Well, then, let me propose, in my turn, a drive in my carriage. The weather is fine to-day. Come and take the air with us. It will do you good, and afford us great pleasure.”

I felt quite disposed on my part to accept the sympathy manifested by Mme. de Kergy, and at once accepted her invitation. I took a seat in her calèche, and, after an hour's drive with her and her daughter, I had not only recovered from the nervous agitation of the morning, but we had become fully acquainted, and for the first time in Paris I ceased to feel myself a stranger.

“What a pity you are going away so soon!” exclaimed Diana.

“Yes, indeed,” said her mother; “for it seems to me you would find some resources at my house you have not found elsewhere, and we might reveal Paris under a different—perhaps I may say under a more favorable—aspect than it generally appears to strangers, even in the fashionable world, which is, I imagine, nearly the same everywhere.”

I made no reply, for the regret she expressed awoke a similar feeling in my heart, and aroused all the recollections of the evening before. [pg 033] I once more felt for an instant an ardent desire to take refuge in a different sphere. I longed more earnestly than ever to escape from that in which some vague peril seemed to threaten me. We were, it is true, to leave Paris, but for what a motive!... What a pitiful aspect the life Lorenzo wished to escape from took in comparison with the one so different which Mme. de Kergy had just given me a glimpse of!... The thought of this contrast embittered the joy I felt in view of our departure.

We agreed, however, as we separated, to meet every day during this last week, and Mme. de Kergy promised to take me, before my departure, through various parts of the unknown world of charity in Paris, whose existence she had revealed to me, that I might, at least, have a less imperfect idea of it before leaving France.

On my return I found Lando as well as Lorenzo in the drawing-room, and learned that, as the weather was fine, they had decided we should dine at some café I do not now remember, in the Champs Elysées, and afterwards, instead of returning home, we should take seats under the trees, and quietly listen in the open air to the music of one of the famous orchestras. The hotel the Marquise de Villanera stopped at was on the way; we could call for her, and she would remain with us the rest of the evening.

This new programme did not displease me. I rather preferred this way of meeting the marchioness again, instead of the one I anticipated after Lorenzo told me she would dine with us. In spite of the favorable impression she produced, this prospect annoyed me. The arrangement now proposed suited me better. I unhesitatingly assented to it, but could not help thinking, as I did so, how much I should have preferred passing the evening alone with him!... I longed for solitude—but shared with him! My heart was full of things I wished to give utterance to, and it seemed as if a kind of fatality multiplied obstacles around us, and kept us absorbed in matters wholly foreign to the sentiments I found it impossible to awaken during the too brief moments in which we were together. My heart was filled with these desires and regrets while I was preparing to accompany him, and they cast a shade over the evening I am giving an account of.

Lando took a seat in front of us, and our carriage soon drew up at the door of the marchioness, who followed us in her little coupé. She descended when we arrived at our place of destination, and Lorenzo, as was proper, gave her his arm. I took Lando's, and we proceeded towards the room that had been reserved for us, traversing on our way the principal coffee-room, which was filled with people. Every eye turned towards us.

I saw that Lando's vanity was more gratified than mine by the observations that reached our ears. I looked at Lorenzo; he too seemed to be proud of the effect produced by the one leaning on his arm, and for the first time did not appear to notice the flattering murmur of which I was the object. I noticed this, and it did not increase my good-humor. But after we arrived at the little dining-room that was ours for the time, Faustina seemed wholly occupied with me. We took off our bonnets, and while I was silently admiring her [pg 034] magnificent tresses, which made her resemble some antique statue, she went into open ecstasy about my “golden hair,” my form, and my features; but while she was thus going on, evidently supposing it was not displeasing to me, Lorenzo stopped her.

“Take care, marchioness,” said he, smiling, “you do not know Ginevra. Do not take another step in that direction. No one can venture on that ground but myself alone.”

He uttered these last words with an accent that made my heart beat and rendered Faustina silent. An expression flashed from her blue eyes quicker than the sharpest lightning, and seemed to give them a terrible brilliancy. However, she soon resumed her playfulness and graceful ease of manner. Like most Italian ladies, she had that naturalness, that total absence of affectation, which often gives to their conversation an originality without parallel, and makes all wit which is less spontaneous than theirs seem factitious and almost defective. It has an inexpressible charm which fascinates, enchants, sets every one at ease, and gives to their very coquetry an appearance of artlessness.

We were full of liveliness and gayety at the table. Never was a dinner more agreeable. Donna Faustina had an uncommon talent for relating things without appearing to try to win attention. She could mimic other women without any appearance of malice, and even sound their praises with an earnestness that made her more charming than those of whom she was speaking. Sometimes, too, she would change her tone, and, after making the room ring with our laughter, she would entertain us with some serious account which displayed a powerful, cultivated mind, with all her exuberant gayety. In short, when she was present, nothing was thought of but her, and even those whom she wittingly or unwittingly threw into the shade could not deny the charm by which they were eclipsed.

It was, however, with some surprise I recalled after dinner the conversation that had affected me so strongly some hours before, and I asked myself if this was the melancholy, forsaken woman whose fate had moved me to tears.

She seemed to have almost read my thoughts; for, as we were returning to the open air, she left Lorenzo's arm, and came to take mine.

“Ginevra,” said she in a low voice, “you find me gay and happy as a child this evening. It is because I no longer feel alone. I have found, not only friends, but a sister!... I am filled with love and gratitude to you.”

The Champs Elysées were illuminated. We could see each other as distinctly as by daylight. She seemed much affected and sincere. Perhaps she spoke the truth at that moment.... Perhaps she had only looked deep enough into her own heart to feel persuaded that the romantic friendship she wished to make me believe in was real. However this may be, the illusion did not last long either for her, or Lorenzo, or myself.

The music was delightful, and I listened to it for some time in silence. Faustina had taken a seat at my right hand. Lorenzo sat next her, and Lando beside me.

“Bravo! Cousin Ginevra,” said the latter in a low tone as soon as the first piece was ended. “Thank heaven, your influence is still all [pg 035] it ought to be!... I am delighted, but not surprised!”

So many things had occupied my mind since my last conversation with him that I was at a loss to know what he referred to.

“You have persuaded Lorenzo to leave Paris?”

“No; he proposed going of his own accord.”

“Indeed! When was that?”

“Last evening.”

“And when are you to leave?”

“Next Monday.”

“A whole week! It is a long time.... In spite of my personal regret to lose you, I wish your departure could take place sooner.”

“And I also,” I murmured without knowing why, for at that moment I was not at all preoccupied with the cause of Lando's anxiety.

“Endeavor, at least, to make him pass every evening like this. Your friend is pleasing; she amuses him, and may be able to divert him from other things.”

“Lando, stop!” I exclaimed with a vehemence I could not repress. He uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and I hastily continued, lest he might have comprehended me:

“Yes, be quiet, I beg, while they are playing the Marche du Prophète. I wish to hear it undisturbed.”

But I did not listen to the Marche du Prophète. I only listened to—I only heard—the voices beside me. Lorenzo and his companion at first continued to converse in an animated manner on subjects apparently indifferent, but concerning people and places I was entirely ignorant of.... Recollections of the past were recalled which I knew nothing about. A long silence soon intervened, and when at last they resumed the conversation, it was in so low a tone I was unable to follow it.

Lorenzo and Lando returned on foot, and I took Donna Faustina home. Before separating we embraced each other once more, saying au revoir; but after leaving her I thought without any regret that before another week I should bid her a long farewell, and perhaps even then I should not have been sorry were it for ever.

XXI.

During the following week, that looked so long to Lando, and was indeed long enough to affect my whole life, what transpired?... Apparently nothing very different from the evening I have just described; nothing that did not seem the natural consequence of the intimacy so suddenly formed between Donna Faustina and myself, the recent date of which I alone seemed not to have forgotten. But little by little, I might say hour by hour, I felt a secret, powerful, subtle influence growing up around me, and the deepest instincts of my heart, for a moment repressed, were violently roused, causing me to suffer all the pangs of doubt, anxiety, and the most cruel suspicion. But as nothing new seemed to justify these feelings, I forced myself to conceal them, for fear of rendering myself odious in Lorenzo's eyes and losing the charm of my generous confidence. Moreover, did not my continuing to manifest this confidence oblige him to merit it?... And could Faustina be treacherous while I was redoubling my cordiality and affection, and confiding in her as a friend? Was I not in a certain [pg 036] manner protecting myself by obliging both of them in honor not to deceive me?

But honor, we know, in such cases—honor alone, without the holy restraints imposed by conscience—is a feeble barrier and a mere mockery. Those who imagine they have not overstepped this barrier sometimes make it recede before them, and believe themselves still within its limits when they are already far beyond the line it first marked out....

A barrier so easily changed soon trenches on the enemy's ground, and the honor that is purely human—insufficient guardian of vows the most solemn—after violating the most sacred obligations, often becomes subject to some imaginary duty, and, according to a barbarous code that keeps pace with that of the Gospel amid all our civilization, persuades him whose sole guide it is that he would be disloyal if he ceased to be a traitor!

This is a sad, commonplace occurrence in the world, which does not excite anything more than a smile or a shrug of the shoulders on the part even of those who would tremble with indignation if any one should think them capable of betraying the confidence of a friend—what do I say?—even of a stranger or an enemy!

I will not undertake to follow Lorenzo in this obscure phase of his life. Neither will I try to penetrate into the soul of Faustina. I will only speak of the influence her crossing my path had on my life; for the account I have undertaken is one of bitter trials and formidable dangers, and the extraordinary grace I derived therefrom!

During the last week of our stay in Paris my time was strangely divided between Mme. de Kergy, who came every morning to take me on the proposed rounds, and Donna Faustina, with whom I unfailingly found myself every evening. I thus daily went from one world to another exactly opposite, and seemed to undergo a periodical transformation, becoming, according to the hour, as different as the two women with whom I thus became simultaneously connected, but whom I never beheld together.

Every day I appreciated more fully the beneficial intimacy, that had commenced at the same time as the other intimacy, to which I already hesitated to give its true name, and I found more and more salutary the happy influences of the morning, which always diverted my mind from the annoying recollections of the evening before. Mme. de Kergy's simple dignity and sweetness of manner were allied with a noble mind and a large heart. Though somewhat imposing, every one felt at ease with her, because she entered into every one's feelings, criticised nobody, and only gave others the lesson of her example. I considered myself fortunate to see her so often, and wished I could always remain under her guidance.

I accompanied her in her charitable rounds through Paris, and at the sight of the misery I thus witnessed I felt I had never understood before to what an extent both misery and charity can extend. And yet poverty and humanity are to be found in all countries and in all climes. Certainly, we also have the poor amongst us, and Southern Italy is called, par excellence, the land of beggars and wretchedness. Nevertheless, when my imagination transported me to the gates of the convent where Don Placido daily distributed alms, [pg 037] without any great discernment perhaps, but accompanied with pious words, received by those to whom they were addressed as alms of almost equal value, I asked myself if this did not somewhat counter-balance the excessive poverty and the lack of a more rigid and discriminating way of alleviating it. And when I witnessed the profound misery at Paris, augmented by the climate, and often embittered by hatred; when I saw this vast number greedy for the things of this world, but without any hope of those in a better, I asked myself if any possible compensation in the world could be given the poor who are deprived of the precious faith that would console, sustain, and ennoble them. Yes, ennoble them; the word is not too strong to express the living exemplification of the Gospel I had often observed in accompanying Livia and Ottavia to the miserable habitations where they were welcomed so cordially. “Ah! signora,” these so-called wretched creatures would sometimes say, looking at us with an air of compassion, “yes, we will pray for you, and our Lord will hear us; for, after all, we poor are his favorites. He chose to take upon himself our likeness, and not that of the rich.”

A thousand expressions of the same nature crossed my mind while accompanying my noble, saintly friend to the places where she exercised, and taught her young daughter to exercise, a double mission of charity. One day in particular, seeing the charming Diana kneeling beside the bed of a poor old woman whose infirmities were incurable, but who was without religion, I recalled the words that fell from the lips of a poor woman at Naples who had implored the cure of her malady through the intercession of some saint, and had obtained it, “Ah! mia cara signora, doctors are for the rich; as for us, we have the saints.”

“You must relate all this to Gilbert,” said Mme. de Kergy, listening to me with a beaming face. “In spite of the absorbing interest he takes in discoveries and inventions of all kinds, he is not incapable of comprehending this solution—the highest and most simple of all—of the great problem repeated under so many different forms. He would readily acknowledge that, viewed in this light, the inequalities of social life assume a wonderfully different aspect.”

This was not the first time I had heard her speak in this way of Gilbert de Kergy since we had daily met. Among other things, she explained, on one occasion, the object of various associations of which he was an active member.

“He could explain all this much better than I,” she added; “but I have urged him in vain to accompany us in our explorations through what I call his domain. He absolutely refuses, and, though I am accustomed to his uncivilized ways, they afflict me, because he often yields to them to the injury of others as well as himself.”

One day, however, I found his card at my door when I returned home; but I had seen him only once since the meeting at the Hôtel de Kergy.

Saturday arrived, the day but one before our departure, and I was to take my last drive with Mme. de Kergy. I was suffering from a thousand conflicting emotions, agitated and melancholy, and sorry to be separated from her, and yet happy and impatient to leave Paris, where I now seemed to behold [pg 038] nothing but two large blue eyes following me everywhere. On the other hand, however, a strange, inexplicable regret weighed on my heart when I thought of the world into which I had not yet penetrated, except in imagination, but where I longed to be transplanted with Lorenzo, that our lives might bring forth better fruit. While conversing with Mme. de Kergy such a life seemed less chimerical. I felt my wishes might easily be realized if ... I could not wholly define my thought, but it was there, alive, actual, and poignant, and the recollection of its source added a degree of tenderness to the affectionate farewell I bade Mme. de Kergy when her carriage stopped to leave me at my door. My eyes were filled with tears. I found it difficult to tear myself away. She, on her part, pressed my hand, and, fastening her softest look on me, finally said:

“My dear Ginevra” (I had some time before begged her to call me so), “would it be indiscreet to ask you to come and dine with us to-morrow, and spend your last evening with us?”

“O madame!” I exclaimed with a joy I did not try to conceal, “how happy I should be to come!”

“Then I shall depend on seeing you—both of you; for of course my invitation extends likewise to the Duca di Valenzano.”

I felt my face turn red simply at these words. Alas! why? Because I was at once terrified at the thought of conveying an invitation to Lorenzo which, ten days before, he would have eagerly accepted. Now I felt if he replied in the affirmative, it would be a triumph for me; if in the negative, a painful defeat.

All this rapidly crossed my mind, and made me silent for a moment. Finally I replied:

“I do not know whether my husband has any engagement for to-morrow or not; but as for me, I hope nothing will prevent my coming. At all events, you shall have my reply in a few hours.”

This reply was despatched at a late hour that same evening, and was to this effect: “That important business would oblige my husband to be absent the whole day, and I alone should be able to accept Mme. de Kergy's invitation.”

What it cost me to write this note Mme. de Kergy never imagined. And yet, when I hastily wrote these lines, I had no positive reason for doubting the truth of the excuse assigned for Lorenzo's absence—no reason except the promptings of my own heart, to which I was less able than ever, within a few hours, to impose silence.

But to relate what took place from the time I left Mme. de Kergy till I wrote her the above note:

That evening, as usual, I was to meet Donna Faustina, but not her alone. Our friends were to assemble to bid us farewell, and it was at this soirée I saw her for the first time in all the éclat of a brilliant toilet. And, though I was far from foreseeing it, it was there I spoke to her for the last time!... And I was still further from foreseeing in what place and in what way I should afterwards find myself beside her for an instant!...

We both attracted much attention that evening. Which of us was the more beautiful I cannot tell. As to this, I was indifferent to the opinion of all but one. What he thought I longed to know, and I now watched him in my turn. As I have said, he had good [pg 039] reason to pride himself on his penetration; but that was a faculty by no means lacking on my part, and one, it may be remarked en passant, that Sicilians of both sexes are said to be rarely devoid of. In this respect we were well matched. I knew every line in his forehead, and understood every movement of his mouth and the slightest change in his mobile, expressive face, and during the whole evening, when for the first time I was able to observe them together without attracting his attention, I used as much art in studying him as he knew how to use in studying others. I followed them with my eyes around the room; whereas, separated from me by the crowd, he forgot my presence, and, by some phenomenon akin to that of second sight, every word they uttered seemed to resound distinctly in my ears!... It was with reluctance I gave her my hand when I left her. It was she, and not Lorenzo, who was at that moment the object of the resentment that burned in my heart.

I had doubtless overcome some of my faults at that time, but far from all. I was not so frivolous as is usually the case at my age. I loved everything great and noble. But with all this, I was impetuous, wilful, and jealous, and, though not occupied about my appearance, I was with myself. The happiness I had an indisputable right to was menaced. All means of defending my rights seemed allowable, but to use address, prudence, and management would have amounted almost to insincerity in my eyes.

Pretexts, and even excuses, are seldom wanting for yielding to the impulse of the moment. Therefore I yielded to mine when I again found myself alone with Lorenzo, breaking a long silence which he did not notice, or would not ask the reason of, with a violent outburst I afterwards regretted, but which, at the moment, it seemed impossible to repress.

“I have tried to please you, Lorenzo, and must still believe in your sincerity, which it would kill me to doubt; but I can no longer have any faith in the false, perfidious friendship of that woman.... My heart, my whole soul, revolts against her.... God forgive me, Lorenzo, I really believe I hate her, and feel as if I could never see her again!...”

Such were a few of the hasty, incoherent words that escaped from my lips. Lorenzo, with folded arms, compressed brow, and a cold, ironical look of surprise, listened without interrupting me.

As I gazed at him, I felt my impetuosity die away and give place to intolerable anguish. My heart swelled, and I should have burst out into sobs had not a certain pride hindered me from responding to the icy coldness of his smile with tears. He did not excuse himself, and by no means tried to defend her whom I thus attacked. He made neither protestations nor reproaches.

“As you please, cara mia,” said he with a calmness that seemed a thousand times more cruel than anger. “I will not attempt to oppose the furious fit of jealousy I see you are in. Indulge in it at your leisure.... Nothing is easier than to find some excuse for not spending to-morrow evening with Donna Faustina—and the day after, ma belle Ginevra,” continued he with a sarcastic look that was more marked than his words. “You seem to forget we are both going away, and very probably you will never see [pg 040] her again.... This is a reassuring circumstance, and ought to have sufficed, it seems to me, to prevent you from making so absurd a scene as this.”

His manner and words completely disconcerted me. I now felt painfully mortified at my outburst, and an earnest desire to repair it. And yet the sensation caused by his injustice still raged in my heart. But I repressed this by degrees, and when Lorenzo was on the point of leaving the room, I said in a low tone:

“Forgive me; I was too hasty. But I have suffered more than you may have supposed.”

He made no reply, and his coldness restored my self-control.

“It is not necessary to seek any pretext to avoid meeting Donna Faustina,” continued I with a sang-froid nearly equal to his own. “Mme. de Kergy has invited me, and you also, to dine there to-morrow, and pass the evening.”

“Very well, go; nothing could be more fortunate. As for me, I shall not go with you. I have business I am obliged to finish before my departure. To-morrow I shall be absent all the morning, and shall not return in season to accompany you.”

I knew through Lando what business he referred to. I knew he was to settle the next day the important accounts I had learned about the preceding Sunday. I recollected likewise that he was afterwards to dine with Lando....

It was not, then, an imaginary excuse I had to transmit to Mme. de Kergy, and yet, when I wrote the note before mentioned, it was with a trembling hand and a heart heavier than it had ever been in my life!

To Be Continued.

September—Sabbath Rest.

Most holy of the numbers, sacred Seven!

Which reverently the ancient sages held,

And by thy hidden charm the music swelled

Of rare old prophecies and songs of heaven,

We wonder, yet the secret have not riven

(So closely are the mysteries sentinelled),

If only by the calendar[10] compelled,

Thy sign of grace unto this month was given.

Rather, we think, a fair connection lies

Between the blessedness of Sabbath peace,

When all of labor finds divine surcease,

The while rich incense rises to the skies,

And that sweet rest from summer's burdened days,

Which makes the ripe year now yield sevenfold praise!

The Present State Of Anglicanism.

A bill for the regulation of public worship, prepared by Dr. Tait, Protestant Archbishop of Canterbury, and which after certain modifications has passed through Parliament, is causing the state church to undergo another of those feverish crises which for about thirty years past have marked with a new feature its internal as well as its external disorganization.

Before that period it had been the chief boast of that church, in every section of her members, whether “High” or “Evangelical,” to have repudiated the “blasphemous fables and dangerous deceits” of the ancient faith from which she had apostatized, the ancient unity from which she had severed herself, and the ancient doctrines which she denounced.

Since that period, however, a change has come over a portion of the Establishment, by the formation in its bosom of a new party, differing from all its predecessors, and possessing, moreover, its own scale of belief, graduated ad libitum.

The thoughtful and earnest writers of the Tracts for the Times, becoming painfully conscious of the want of consistency of belief, and also of the need of a spiritual head or centre of authority in their own communion, sought anxiously into the details of its origin and history, and also into the past and present of the ancient church, from whose venerable features they removed the veil of obloquy and misrepresentation which had been thrown over them. Their search proved that to be a merely human institution which they had regarded as divine, and the unveiling of that long-hidden countenance revealed to them the divine lineaments of the one true Mother who for three weary centuries had been to England a “Mother out of sight.”[11]

Most of those men transferred their allegiance whither alone it was due; having dug to the foundations of their edifice to find them giving way at every corner, they took refuge in the city against which so often the “hail descended, and the wind blew, but it fell not; for it was built upon a rock.” But they did not fail to leave an abiding impression upon the communion they abandoned. Many who forbore to follow their example were yet unable to deny the truth of the principles which had found their ultimate resolution in this exodus, although they persuaded themselves and others that it was their duty to remain in order to solidify and adorn that structure which they designate the “church of their baptism,” slow to believe that it is a house “built on the sand.”

Thus, during the last thirty years or so, it has been the aim of a small but increasing number of Anglicans to claim consideration for their communion on higher grounds than its founders would by any means have approved, and, becoming suddenly shy of its state parentage, to declare it to be a “Branch” and a “Sister” of that [pg 042] church which the creators of their own moved heaven and earth, or rather the gates of hell, to destroy.

In order to support their claim, they find it necessary to distort the meaning of their formularies in the vain endeavor to coax or to force them into some resemblance to the teaching of the Council of Trent, those which are hopelessly irreconcilable being left out of the account as little differences which it is inconvenient to remember. In numerous cases they are practically set aside, or contradicted, notwithstanding the fact that at their “ordination” the ministers of the Church of England solemnly bind themselves to teach in accordance with these very formularies.

Moreover, finding their own mutilated communion service insufficient, and yet claiming and professing to “say Mass,” which they were never intended to say, and which in their present position they are utterly incapable of celebrating, the ritualistic ministers are in the habit of supplementing the deficiencies of their own liturgy by private interpolations from the Roman Missal, which, in case they are questioned on the subject, they designate as “prayers from ancient sources,” a statement less honest than true. One thing after another do they imitate or claim as their own, now a doctrine, now a practice, which for three hundred years their communion has emphatically disowned: vestments, lights, prayers for the dead, confession, transubstantiation, in some “extreme” quarters intercession of the saints; here a gesture and there a decoration, which only has its fitness and meaning in the ancient church and her venerable ritual, but which with them can claim no title but that of doctrinal, disciplinary, and decorative disobedience—however great may be the pains they take to force the false to simulate the true, and however pertinaciously they may dare, as they do, to appropriate to themselves and to their chaotic schism the very name of the Catholic Church, out of whose fold they are content to remain in hereditary apostasy.

Among the four principal sections of “High,” “Low,” “Broad,” and “No” church, into which the Anglican communion is divided, the “Low” or (so-called) “Evangelical” school is the sternest opponent of the new “Extreme” or “Ritualistic” party, which it very mistakenly honors with the name of Romanizers. We say mistakenly, because, however they may imitate according to their various shades of opinion the outward ceremonial of the church, or adopt, at choice, more or less of her doctrines, yet all this in their case is but a double development of Protestantism (to say nothing of the effect it produces of making them rest satisfied with the shadow instead of seeking the substance);[12] for none are so bitter as they against the church they are so desirous to resemble, and also none are so practically disobedient to their own ecclesiastical superiors, in spite of reiterated professions to the contrary. It is this persistent disobedience which has brought about the present crisis.

In the Evangelical party there exists a society calling itself the [pg 043] “Church Association,” of which one principal object is to watch over the principles of the reformation,[13] and to keep a jealous eye upon the movements of tractarianism in all its varied developments.

Chiefly in consequence of the representations of this society, and also of the determination of the High-Church clergy not to obey the decision that has been given against various of their practices in the “Purchas judgment,” until they should have obtained a redecision from another court to which they had appealed, Dr. Tait, Archbishop of Canterbury, laid before the Houses of Parliament a bill entitled the “Public Worship Regulation Bill,” of which the object is to secure the suppression of all the illegal practices in which Ritualists habitually indulge, and also to secure obedience to their legally and ecclesiastically constituted authorities. Rightly or wrongly, all the innovations or changes that have been gradually rousing “the Protestant feeling of the country,” and which are in fact, if not in intention, imitations of Catholic ritual, were to be put down. The bill requires that in each diocese a local court should be established, before which any church-warden, or three parishioners, “having cause of complaint against the incumbent, as failing to observe the directions contained in the Book of Common Prayer, relating to the performance of the services, rites, and ceremonies of the said book, or as having made or permitted unlawful addition to, alteration of, or omission from such services,” etc., etc., shall be empowered to lay their complaint against the said incumbent, who is to be allowed the space of fourteen days in which to give his answer. Should no answer be given, it will be considered that the charges laid against him are true, and proceedings will be taken accordingly. Should an unsatisfactory answer be given, “the bishop may, if he think fit, within six months after he has received a representation in the manner aforesaid, proceed to consider the same in public, with the assistance of the chancellor of the diocese or his substitute, ... and the bishop shall, after due consideration, pronounce judgment in regard to such representation.”

To this an amendment was suggested by Lord Shaftesbury, which was adopted, namely, that instead of a local bishop, a secular judge, to be selected by the two Archbishops of Canterbury and York, should be appointed, under the title of “Judge of Public Worship,” and whose office it should be to assist the bishop of any diocese where his services might be required for the hearing of cases, after which not the bishop, but the judge, should, in conclusion, pronounce sentence according to law.

Upon this, the Spectator, a leading periodical of the Broad Church party, observes: “So far as the bill is intended to ascertain and enforce the existing law of the church in relation to public worship, the change (namely, from a bishop to a secular judge) makes the whole difference between a tribunal which Englishmen will respect and trust and one which they would hardly have taken the trouble even to consult, so deep would have been, in general, their distrust of the oracle [pg 044] consulted.... Lord Shaftesbury having provided a genuine judge, the complainant who prefers a bishop will not often get his antagonist to agree with him, and such complainants will be few.”

Of this general mistrust of the Anglican bishops we have more to say, but for the present we keep to the consideration of the bill.

Lord Shaftesbury's suggestion was followed by one from Dr. Magee, Bishop of Peterborough, which, although not adopted, is too remarkable a specimen of Episcopal counsel to be unnoticed. (The Church Times respectfully designates it as “one of the prettiest bits of log-rolling ever seen”!) Bishop Magee proposed, and his proposal was “powerfully seconded by the Lord Chancellor,” that there should be “neutral regions of ritual laid down by the bill, within which a variety of usages as practised in many churches at the present time should all be admissible, even though the actual directions of the rubric against some of them be explicit.” Whereupon the Spectator goes on to suggest that a varied selection of “concessions” should be made, suitable to the divergent or opposite tastes of Extreme, High, Low, Broad, and No Churchmen; such as, for instance, the optional reading or omission of the words as to the regeneration of the child by the act of baptism, as a concession acceptable to the Evangelicals. For its own part it would like an optional reading or omission of the Athanasian Creed, and so on, and, “to make the compromise a thoroughly sound one,” the laity of each parish, it considers, ought to be consulted as to the usage to be adopted. It is hard to imagine anything better calculated to make “confusion worse confounded” than plans like these, at a time, too, when all the Anglican parties alike confess that “in no day has there been so wide a variety of tendency, opinion, and belief in the Church of England as now.”

One of the great features in the checkered progress of this bill has been the speech of the late premier, the negative and destructive character of which it is difficult adequately to estimate, and which, upon its delivery, to quote the words of the Westminster Gazette, “produced an ecclesiastical conflagration.” Even Mr. Gladstone's late colleagues hold aloof from his propositions, and the outcry that was raised soon indisposed his humbler followers to agree with him; yet he laid bare many real difficulties and told many plain truths which might make the friends of the archbishop's bill reasonably hesitate. But as it is, this speech has only fired the zealous determination of the great majority of the House, both liberal and conservative, to strike a blow at the external manifestations of ritualism, come what may, and has set the “Protestant feeling of the country” on horseback.

The bill is doubtless peculiarly vulnerable, and Mr. Gladstone did not spare its weak points, amply demonstrating its dangerous scope and character, and the extreme probability of its leading to convulsions far more serious to the welfare of the Established Church than what he termed any panic about Ritualism. It enforces the observation of the rubrics with a rigidity dependent only upon episcopal discretion in the use of a certain dispensing power. The bishops may protect whom they please, provided they are ready with written reasons for vetoing the proceedings against the accused, which is certainly [pg 045] an adroit expedient for catching obnoxious ritualists and letting offenders of another class escape. All might work well if only bishops will be discreet.[14] Mr. Gladstone showed, however, that he entertained profound doubts of the discretion of twenty-seven or twenty-eight bishops. But, whether his fears are well grounded or not, many minds would agree with him in recoiling from such slippery legislation, although, on the other hand, he launches himself into a course of which it would be difficult to foresee the results. In his six remarkable resolutions he not only reduces the bill so that it should only effect its real objects, but he explicitly asserts the impolicy of uniformity in the matter of enforcing the rubrics. It is really little less than the repeal of the Act of Uniformity, and the six resolutions involve the abolition of that religious settlement which has prevailed in England for more than two centuries. Finding them rejected by an overwhelming majority, Mr. Gladstone withdrew them; “but they may yet furnish a fruitful contribution to the discussion of the position of the Church of England.”

But if, as we have seen, the Broad-Church section openly proclaims its deep mistrust of its ecclesiastical rulers, and one object of the Evangelical “Church Association” is declared to be “to teach them the law,” it is reserved for the organs of the extreme ritualistic party to treat their bishops, week after week, to an amount of supercilious insolence, which is occasionally varied by invective and abuse, unsurpassed in the annals of even Puritan polemics. In the Church Times for May 22 we find a lengthy monition, headed in double-sized capitals, “What the Bishops ought to do,” and which, in a tone of mock compassion, thus commences: “It has been a hard time lately for our Right Reverend Fathers-in-God.... According to their wont, their lordships have seemed, with one noble exception, to give their support to Dr. Tait's plan for stamping out ritualism.” “The gods have evidently a spite against the primate, or he would scarcely have committed such blunders, etc.” “The poor archbishop has, however, excuse enough for his peevishness.” “We have been compelled repeatedly, in the interests of truth, etc., to point out what their lordships ought not to do; unfortunately the occasions which necessarily call forth such remarks occur too frequently; it is therefore only right that we should also give the bishops the benefit of our own experience, and explain to them how they might hope to gain that respect which they certainly do not now possess.” And further on the same modest writer requests his ecclesiastical superiors to remember that they are immensely inferior to many of their clergy in natural gifts, mental culture, and parochial experience, adding: “Take, for instance, the question of confession. It is evident from their lordships' utterances respecting it that they are in the darkest ignorance both as to its principles and practice, ... and this though there are plenty of clergymen who, by [pg 046] long experience in the confessional, are well qualified to instruct their lordships about it.”

Now, this is too unreasonable! As if an Anglican bishop ought fairly to be expected to trouble himself about an obsolete custom that had practically disappeared from the Anglican Prayer-Book, of which there is no mention in the Catechism, and none in the communion service but one ambiguous phrase which may mean anything![15]

But to return to the Church Times, which with its compeers of the “extreme” school seems to do its best to expose the Babel of confusion in which it dwells, and which its own voice does its little utmost to increase. From this we learn that “it is now decided by archiepiscopal authority, and illustrated by archiepiscopal example, that truth is not one, but two.”

Why only now, we should like to know, when no true successor of the archapostate Cranmer could consistently teach otherwise—Cranmer, of whom his biographer, Alexander Knox, writes as follows:

“To form a church by any sharply defined lines was scarcely Cranmer's object.... He looked more to extension than to exactness of periphery.” And this man, “whose life was the incarnation of theological and moral contradictions, and whose creed was only consistent in its gross Erastianism, left these as his double legacy to the national Establishment, of which he was the principal contriver.”[16] The same writer (Knox) demonstrates the success of Cranmer's idea in another place, where he describes the constitution of the Anglican communion in the following remarkable words: “In England, as I have already been endeavoring to show, all is peculiar. In the Establishment, the theology common to Luther and Melanchthon was adopted in the Articles, but the unmixed piety of the primitive church was retained in the daily liturgy and occasional offices. Thus our church, by a most singular arrangement of Providence, has, as it were, a Catholic soul united to a Lutheran body of best and mildest temperament.... May we not discover traces of the All-wise Hand in these principles of liberality, which are implanted in the very bosom of our Establishment by the adoption of articles that are deemed by different men to countenance their different opinions?” And Bishop Burnet, in the Introduction to his Commentary on the Articles, declares that “when an article is conceived in such general terms that it can admit of different senses, yet even when the senses are plainly contrary one to another, both (i.e. persons of opposite opinions) may subscribe to the Articles with a good conscience, and without any equivocation.” [pg 047] Well indeed did Dr. Newman describe these articles as the “stammering lips of ambiguous formularies.” After these confessions of Anglicans themselves, what reason have they to be surprised if their present archiepiscopal authority decides that truth is not one, but two?

The same ritualistic organ we have been quoting speaks of a certain proposal as one which could only be made “by a madman or a bishop.” In the Church Times for June 12, under the title of “The Worship Bill in the Lords,” we find the following courteous, charitable, and refined observations: “The scheme devised by Archbishops Tait and Thompson for harrying the ritualists, and nearly pulling down the Church of England in order to do so, like that lord chief-justice in China who burnt down his town-house to roast a sucking-pig, is not going quite as its authors hoped,” etc. Again: “But Dr. Tait has been contented to remain to the present hour in entire ignorance of the laws, usages, and temper of the Church of England, and therefore it is impossible for the most charitable critic to give him credit for religious motives. The best that can be said of him is that he has a creed of some kind, which is Erastianism, and therefore prefers the English Establishment to the Scottish, as the wealthier and more dignified of the two. [The bishops] have collectively betrayed their trust, and convinced churchmen that the episcopal seats in the House of Lords are a weakness and not a strength to the church.” “This misconduct of the bishops will do much to destroy the unreal glamour which their official position has enabled them to throw over the eyes of the moderate High-Church clergy, who now learn that no considerations of faith, honor, and duty have the least weight with their lordships when any personal questions intervene, and therefore their wings will be clipped pretty closely when,” etc. “But there is, we are thankful to say, a deep-rooted distrust of the bishops,” and “even archiepiscopal mops and brooms cannot drive back the waters of ritualism!” With specimens such as these before us, we do not wonder that Dr. Pusey, who is a gentleman as well as a Christian, thought it advisable at the opening of his speech before the recent ritualistic meeting at S. James' Hall, against the archbishop's bill, to express his hope that the words of S. Paul would not be forgotten, “Thou shalt not speak evil of the ruler of my people.”

Before quitting this part of the subject there is one thing we wish to say. Let these men be content to settle their own quarrel with each other and with their bishops as best they may, but let them, if they will not hear S. Paul, remember a command that was given amid the thunders of Sinai: “Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor”; and let them, if they can, refrain from “evil speaking, lying, and slandering” not only against the Catholic Church in general, but also against the noble church in France in particular, whose close union and devoted filial obedience to her Head, the Vicar of Jesus Christ, they appear to regard with a peculiar and malignant envy. Would that it were a holy emulation instead!

These men dare to say that the church in France has been “brought to ruin”: that it is “Rome and its agents who have [pg 048] procured that ruin,” and by means which they “will expose on a future occasion.” They aver that there is not a canonical authority, but “an absolute despotism,” “a hateful absolutism” exercised by “the bishops over the inferior clergy” (in which statement we cannot but perceive a reflection of the perpetual episcopal nightmare which troubles the ritualistic dreams at home); the said inferior clergy being described as “veritable pariahs, who from one day to another, at the caprice of a bishop, can be reduced to become crossing-sweepers or cab-drivers”—a “reduction” which we are allowed to suppose must be very common from the additional declaration that “it is a principle with the bishops to crush the wills of their clergy,” while they themselves, “being merely the prefects of the Pope, have in their turn to submit to a tyranny no less painful,” the Pope making himself “lord and master more and more”; in fact, “the only person who is free in the Roman Church, ever since the Council of Trent, is the Pope.”[17]

Elsewhere in this same exponent of reckless ritualism we find the following singular justification of the tone so habitually adopted by that party towards their spiritual superiors: “We hear a good deal about the reverence of the elder tractarians for bishops and dignitaries, but we fail to see the merit of their conduct when we reflect that it cost us a disastrous exodus Romewards.” An apparently unconscious testimony to the inevitable tendency and final result of respect for lawful authority.

But we will no longer detain the reader over specimens of High-Anglican journalism, further than to remark the admiring sympathy expressed by this party for the self-styled “Old Catholic” movement, and especially for the apostate Reinkens—a sympathy to be expected from men who, instead of escaping from schism, seek to justify it, and, feeling themselves strengthened by the rebellion of others, applaud each fresh example of revolt.

Thus a long and laudatory notice on the new German schismatics commences as follows: “The text of the Old Catholic Declaration at Bonn, on reform in general, ... is published, and is, on the whole, extremely satisfactory. At present the movement bears a remarkable resemblance to the ideal English Reformation; and we pray that it may keep a great deal nearer to its theory than we have been able to do.”

As a pendant to the above we will mention two “resolutions” moved at a meeting of the “Society for the Reunion of Christendom,” recently held in S. George's Hall, the first of which was as follows: “That the only adequate solution for the internal distractions of the English Church, as of Christendom generally, is to be found in the restoration of corporate unity in the great Christianity commonwealth.”

The second stood thus: “That the marriage of H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh to the daughter of the Czar affords hope of such mutual understanding between the English and Russian churches as may facilitate future intercommunion.”

Alas, poor Church of England! Within the breast of many of her [pg 049] more earnest members is lovingly cherished the delusive dream of the “corporate reunion” of what they are pleased to call the “three branches of the church.” Wearied of their long isolation, they stretch out their hands—to whom? On the one side, to a schism about double the age of their own, but too free from many of their errors and too devoted to the Ever Blessed Mother of God to give easy welcome to so dubious an ally as the creation of Cranmer and his king; and, on the other side, to a schism of a few months old, to which they equally look forward to join hand in hand, and thus, by adding schism to schism, fondly expect Catholic unity as the result!

But what, then, is their attitude with regard to the ancient church? Opposition, strengthened by jealous fear. There is in the Church of England an hereditary antipathy to the Catholic Church, which is evinced in its Articles, more fully developed in its Homilies, and sustained in the writings not only of the first reformers, but of all the succession of Anglican divines, with scarcely an exception, no matter how much they may have differed among themselves in their several schools of religious opinion. Nor is the spirit dead within it now. For instance, was there ever a more gigantic commotion than that which was raised all over England, in every corner of the land, and among clergy and laity alike, than that which followed upon the simple act of Pope Pius IX., when, within the memory of the present generation, he exchanged the government of the Catholic Church in England by vicars-apostolic for that of a regular and established hierarchy?

“The same animus exists even among the less Protestant and more eminent of its champions in the present day, among whom we need only mention the names of Dr. Wordsworth, Mr. Palmer, and the Dean of Canterbury among moderate High Churchmen.” It manifests itself also quite as plainly in the Tractarian, Ritualistic, and “Extreme” schools of High-Church development; for instance, F. Harper quotes a letter published and signed by an “Old Tractarian,” in which the Catholic bishops are described as “the present managers of the Roman schism in England,” and a clergyman of the same school, well known at Oxford, on one occasion observed to the writer of the present notice: “We are the Catholics; you are simply Romanists; that is to say, Roman schismatics.”

Dr. Pusey, in his recent speech before the meeting at St. James' Hall against the archbishop's bill, expresses as emphatically as ever his assured conviction of the Catholicity of his own communion, in spite of the many difficulties to be overcome before that view can be accepted by ordinary minds. After speaking of the “undivided church of Christ,” he goes on to say: “We are perfectly convinced ... that we are standing within her own recorded limits, and are exponents of her own recorded principles,” adding, “The Church of England is Catholic” (great cheering), “and no power on earth can make the Church of England to-day a Protestant society.... Her limits we claim to be those of the Catholic Church.” And, wonderful as it may seem, the venerable doctor is convinced of the truth of these affirmations, his nature being too noble and sincere wilfully to exaggerate. His speech, which is in condemnation of the archbishop's bill as being aimed against those charged with making [pg 050] unlawful additions to their church's ritual, while those who make unlawful omissions from it are likely to be left unmolested, concludes with these words: “If dark days do come, ... I mean to stand just where I am, within the Church of England” (loud and prolonged cheering).... “I mean to resist the voices from without and from within that will call on me to go to Rome; but still to endeavor, by active toil, by patient well-doing, and by fervent charity, to defend and maintain the catholic nature of the Church of England.”[18]

There is one Voice which may yet will to be heard “within,” and which may at the same time confer grace, that he who has taught so many souls the way to their true and only home may himself also find his own true Mother and his Home at last.

Meanwhile, what is the condition of this “Catholic” Church of England! Never was there a “house” more notoriously “divided against itself;” and every effort of the Tractarian party to force sound doctrine upon her or elicit it from her has resulted in a more deliberate annihilation of truth on her part, by the formal declaration that on fundamental doctrines her ministers, according to their respective tastes, are free to teach two opposite beliefs. It was thus when the “Gorham judgment” ruled that baptismal regeneration was “an open question” in the church of England. Her ministers are equally allowed to teach that it is a true doctrine or that it is a false one. Truth is made not only “two,” but antagonistic to itself. A subsequent judgment did the same thing with regard to the doctrine of the Real Presence in the Eucharist, which is taught in a variety of ways by the clergy of the Tractarian schools, sometimes as consubstantiation, and by some as transubstantiation itself, although this doctrine is explicitly repudiated by the Anglican formularies. By the decision pronounced in the case of Mr. Bennett of Froome Selwood, the Real Presence in the Eucharist was, equally with the doctrine of its opposite, which might be truly designated as the “real absence,” authorized to be believed and taught.

It thus not unfrequently happens that the adoration of the consecrated elements practised and inculcated in one parish by the Rev. Mr. A. is in the very next parish denounced as idolatry by his neighbor the Rev. Mr. B.;[19] and in cases where the one gentleman happens to be [pg 051] appointed to succeed the other in either parish, what must be the confusion of ideas produced in the minds of the hapless parishioners with regard to the only two sacraments which their catechism teaches them are “generally necessary to salvation”?

Every judgment given by the authorized tribunals of the Establishment on matters of doctrine recognizes by implication that the real strength of the Church of England lies in the indifference of the English people to dogmatic truth. We quote the words of Mr. Wilberforce: That which dishonors the Church of England in the judgment of all other Christians, whether Catholic or Protestant, is its great merit in the eyes of its own members. They want to profess their various religions, from Calvinism to semi-popery, without impediment, and the Church of England is the only community in the world in which they can do it. Even professed unbelievers desire to maintain that institution for the same reason. A church which teaches nothing is in their judgment the next best thing to no church at all; thus the Pall Mall Gazette often writes against Christianity, but never against the Church of England. What unbelievers fear is a church which claims to be divine and which teaches only one religion. “We have a regard,” says the rationalistic Saturday Review, “selfish it may be, but very sincere, for the Church of England as an eminently useful institution. If the Liberation Society chuckles over the revelation of a ‘divided church,’ the only way to check-mate it is to make all varieties of doctrine equally lawful, though they are mutually contradictory.”

Again: when such a man as Lord Selborne says that the opposition to the archbishop's bill is based on the idea that “every clergyman is to be his own pope,” and Lord Hatherley that “every one was determined to have his own way,” and the Bishop of Peterborough that “those clergymen who were so loud in crying out against the tyranny of the bishops arrogated to themselves a right to do exactly what they pleased”; “every clergyman wishing that there should be excipienda in favor of the practices in which he himself indulged, but objected to include those of his neighbor in the list,” and that “every one was equally anxious to be himself exempted from prosecution, and equally jealous of the power of prosecuting his neighbor”—the real character of the so-called “Catholic revival” in the Protestant Church of England was acknowledged by the most eminent partisans of that institution. Ritualism, they perceive, is simply Protestantism and the right of private judgment in their extremest form. How vain it is to exorcise such a spirit in a sect founded on the right of revolt, and so utterly indifferent to positive truth that, as the Bishop of Peterborough frankly confessed, the word compromise is written all over the pages of the Anglican Prayer-Book, was undesignedly admitted by Lord Salisbury. “There were,” he said, “three parties in the church, which might be described as the Sacramental, the Emotional, and the Philosophical, and the great problem to be solved was how to reconcile their views.” The problem, he knows, is insoluble. The very men who profess to revive Catholic dogma can only suggest a “considerate disagreement,” [pg 052] which in plain words is an arrangement to betray God's revealed truth by an impious compromise with error.

Before closing this rapid and imperfect notice of the present state of the Anglican Communion, a reflection suggests itself upon which we must say a few words. It may reasonably be asked, What is the authority which the ritualistic party professes to obey? They refuse the right of the state, to which their community owes its being, to rule them in matters ecclesiastical; they refuse obedience practically, whether professedly or not, to their bishops, for whom they appear to have neither affection, confidence, nor respect; and they not only refuse submission to her whom they themselves acknowledge to be the “Mother and Mistress of all churches,” but they openly express their sympathy and admiration for those who rebel against her authority, invariably taking the part of the revolted against the Catholic Church. “Is there, then, any authority upon earth to which they allow themselves responsible, and if so, where is it to be found?”

We give the answer in the words of the able writer quoted above:[20]

“Anglicans having destroyed, as far as their influence extends, the whole authority of the living church, they affect, since they must obey something, to reserve all their obedience for what they call the primitive church. The late Dean Mansel tells us that some of the worst enemies of revealed truth employed the same pretext. ‘The earlier deists,’ he says (naming five notorious ones), ‘carried on their attack under cover of a reverence for primitive Christianity;’ and he goes on to ask, ‘Has such a supposition ever been made, except by wicked men desirous to find an excuse for their transgression of the law?’ Now, this is exactly the attitude of Anglicans towards the authority of the church. They exalt her prerogatives, and admit that she is ‘infallible’; but they deny in the same breath that she has the power to teach or to ‘pass decrees,’ because that would imply the obligation of obedience, and they are resolved to obey nothing but themselves, and therefore they have invented the theory of the Christian Church which may be enunciated in the following terms:

“ ‘The church of God, though destined by her Founder to a divine life, has become by degrees a mere human thing. In spite of the promises, her decay began with her existence, since even the apostolic sees all “erred in matters of faith.”[21]She was designed to be One, but is now divided. She was intended to be universal, but ... it is far more convenient that she should be simply national. She still has a voice, but cannot use it. Her decrees would be irreformable if she had not lost the power to make any. She is theoretically infallible, but her infallibility may be corrected by any intelligent Christian who feels qualified for the task. She has a right to enjoin obedience, but everybody has a right to refuse it; for though obedience was once a Christian duty, yet, since there is no longer anything to obey, this particular virtue has lapsed, and every one is a law to himself. It is no doubt her office to correct the errors of others, but unfortunately she has not yet succeeded in detecting her own. “Every tongue that resisteth her in judgment she shall condemn,”but meanwhile it is quite lawful for every tongue to condemn her..... Unity is her essential mark, by which she was always to be recognized, but as [pg 053]it has no centre it is now purely chimerical. The great teachers of Christendom fancied the Pope was that centre, but this was evidently delusion. It was in the beginning a condition of salvation to “hear the church,” but as she has lost her voice nobody can be expected to hear her now, and the conditions of salvation are changed. It used to be her business to impose terms of communion, but it is the peculiar privilege of modern Christians to substitute others for them. The defection of millions in the earlier ages, who became Arians or Donatists, did not in the least affect her unity or impair her authority; but the rebellion of certain Englishmen—whose fathers had obeyed her for a thousand years, or of Russians, who have invented a local religion and do not even aspire to an universal one—is quite fatal to both. Of all former apostates it was rightly said, “They went out from us because they were not of us,” but no one would think of saying this of men who live under the British Constitution, because they have a clear right to “go out” whenever they please.’ ”

Such is the Anglican theory, ... in the face of which the Anglican prophets go to their temples, and loudly proclaim, “I believe in One, Holy, Catholic Church.” The natural result of such teaching is that a majority of Englishmen have long ceased to believe in anything of the kind.

Nor is the Anglican theory about the Catholic Church a more impossible absurdity than what they profess to believe, and apparently do believe, about their own, although they do not state their belief in the bare and unambiguous manner in which we will state it for them.

That sect “existed,” they tell us, “before the so-called Reformation, which was only a trivial episode in its history. It left the Church of England exactly what it was before, and only made it a little more Catholic. If its founders called the Mass a ‘blasphemous fable,’ they must have intended that it was the most sacred rite of the Christian religion. If, whenever they altered their new Prayer-Book (which they did very often), it was always to make it less Catholic, this was probably in the hope that its doctrine would improve in quality as it lessened in quantity. If its bishops for many generations persecuted Catholics to death or tortured them as ‘idolaters’ this was only a quarrel of brothers, and they were as deeply enamored of the Catholic faith as those whom they murdered for professing it. If for more than a hundred years they gave the highest dignities to men who had never received episcopal ordination, that fact proved nothing against their reverence for the apostolic succession, or their conviction that they possessed it themselves. In like manner their casting down altars (in some cases making them into paving-stones), and substituting a ‘wooden table,’ in no way affect our constant declaration that the doctrine of the Christian sacrifice was always most firmly held and taught in the Anglican Church. That they allowed their clergy every variety of creed may have been one way of testifying their conviction that truth is one. Their constant execration of the Catholic faith must be interpreted as meaning something quite opposite; in the same way, if you suppress the Homilies and reverse the Articles, which for some sagacious reason were written as they are, you will find the genuine theology of our founders.

“Finally, if the Church of England pretended to be fiercely Protestant for three centuries, this was only to take the world by surprise about the year 1870, and thus secure the ‘Catholic revival’ which will hasten the time when Dr. Tait [pg 054] will be universally recognized as the legitimate successor of S. Anselm—particularly in his religious views—and the Anglican reformation justly appreciated as a noble protest against the noxious errors of Protestantism, with which it accidentally coincided in point of time, but had nothing in common in point of doctrine.”

But of what avail is all this? Ritualists succeed in revealing the disorganization of their sect, only to show that it is incurable, and yet are able to persuade themselves that such a sect as this, which exists only to “neutralize” the revelation of the Most High, is an integral part of that majestic and inflexible “Church of the living God,” upon which he has lavished all the highest gifts which even divine munificence could bestow.

Speaking of some recent conversions to the Catholic Church, the Church Herald says: “From what we hear from quarters which are well informed, there can be little doubt that another large and influential exodus in the same direction is imminent.” If Anglicans are not converted now, the case does indeed seem hopeless. But they need more than ever at this moment a solemn warning. They may begin to desire reconciliation, and to flee from the house of bondage; but, if they think they can criticise the church as they have been in the habit of criticising their own sect; if they propose to teach instead of to learn; to command instead of to obey; if they do not seek her pardon and blessing in the loving spirit of penance, humility, and submission, let them remember that the church of God is no home for the lawless and self-sufficient.

But to all those who in humility and sincerity are seeking the truth, We would say with all possible intensity of entreaty: “Let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely,” for “the Spirit and the Bride say, Come.”

Antar And Zara; Or, “The Only True Lovers.”

An Eastern Romance Narrated In SONGS.

By Aubrey De Vere.

Part VI.

They Sang.

I.

The people met me at the rescued gate,

On streaming in the immeasurable joy,

Warriors with wounds, gray priests, old men sedate,

The wife, the child, the maiden, and the boy.

Then followed others—some as from a tomb,

Their face a blank, and vacant; blinded some;

Some that had whitened in the dungeon's gloom;

Some, from long years of lonely silence, dumb.

Anatomies of children with wild glare,

Like beasts new caught; and man-like spectres pale;

And shapes like women, fair, or one time fair

(Unhappiest these), that would not lift the veil.

Then saw I what is wrought on man by men:

Then saw I woman's glory and her shame:

Then learned I that which freedom is—till then

The soldier, not of her, but of her name.

The meaning then of Country, Virtue, Faith,

Flashed on me, lightning-like: I pressed my brow

Down on the wayside dust, and vowed till death

My life to these. That was my bridal vow.

II.

A dream was mine that not for long

Our joy should have its home on earth;

That love, by anguish winged, and wrong,

Should early seek its place of birth;

That all thy hand hath done and dared

Should scantlier serve our country's need

Than some strange suffering 'twixt us shared

Her last great harvest's sanguine seed.

I saw false friends their treaties snap

Like osiers in a giant's hand;

Saw sudden flames our cities wrap;

Saw, drowned in blood, our Christian land.

I saw from far the nations come

To avenge the lives they scorned to save,

Till, ransomed by our martyrdom

Our country carolled o'er our grave!

III.

Still to protect the lowly in their place,

The power unjust to meet, defiant still,

Is ours; and ours to subjugate the base

In our own hearts to God's triumphant will.

We, playmates once amid the flowers and rills,

Are now two hunters chasing hart and hind,

Two shepherds guarding flocks on holy hills,

Two eaglets launched along a single wind.

What next? Two souls—a husband and a wife—

Bearing one cross o'er heights the Saviour trod;—

What last? Two spirits in the life of life

Singing God's love-song under eyes of God.

IV.

I dreamed a dream when six years old:—

Against my mother's knee one day,

Protected by her mantle's fold,

All weary, weak, and wan I lay.

Then seemed it that in caverns drear

I roamed forlorn. The weeks went by

From month to month, from year to year:

At last I laid me down to die.

An angel by me stood, and smiled;

He wrapt me round; aloft he bore;

He wafted me o'er wood and wild;

He laid me at my mother's door.

How oft in sleep with heart that yearned

Have I not seen that face! Ah! me,

How slowly, seeing, I discerned

That likeness strange it bears to thee!

V.

If some great angel thus bespake,

“Near, and thy nearest, he shall be,

Yet thou—a dreamer though awake—

But thine own thought in him shalt see”;

If some great angel thus bespake,

“Near, and his nearest, thou shalt be,

Yet still his fancy shall mistake

That beauty he but dreams, for thee”;

If, last, some pitying angel spake,

“Through life unsevered ye shall be,

And fancy's dreams suffice to slake

Your thirst for immortality”;

Then would I cry for love's great sake,

“O Death! since truth but dwells with thee,

Come quick, and semblance substance make—

In heaven abides Reality.”

VI.

Upon my gladness fell a gloom:

Thee saw I—on some far-off day—

My husband, by thy loved one's tomb:

I could not help thee where I lay.

Ah! traitress I, to die the first!

Ah! hapless thou, to mourn alone!

Sudden that truth upon me burst,

Confessed so oft; till then unknown.

There lives Who loves him!—loves and loved

Better a million-fold than I!

That Love with countenance unremoved

Looked on him from eternity.

That Love, all Wisdom and all Power,

Though I were dust, would guard him still,

And, faithful at the last dread hour,

Stand near him, whispering, “Fear no ill!”

VII.

“Fear not to love; nor deem thy soul too slight

To walk in human love's heroic ways:

Great Love shall teach thee how to love aright,

Though few the elect of earth who win his praise.

“Fear not, O maid! nor doubt lest wedded life

Thy childhood's heavenward yearnings blot or blur;

There needs the vestal heart to make the wife;

The best that once it hoped survives in her.

“All love is Sacrifice—a flame that still

Illumes, yet cleanses as with fire, the breast:

It frees and lifts the holier heart and will;

A heap of ashes pale it leaves the rest.”

Thus spake the hermit from his stony chair;

Then long time watched her speeding towards her home,

As when a dove through sunset's roseate air

Sails to her nest o'er crag and ocean's foam.

VIII.

“We knew thee from thy childhood, princely maid;

We watched thy growing greatness hour by hour:

Palm-like thy Faith uprose: beneath its shade

Successive every virtue came to flower.

“Good-will was thine, like fount that overflows

Its marge, and clothes with green the thirsty sod:

Good thoughts, like angels, from thy bosom rose,

And winged through golden airs their way to God.

“To Goodness, Reverence, Honor, from the first

Thy soul was vowed. It was that spiritual troth

That fitted maid for wife, and in her nursed

The woman's heart—not years nor outward growth.

“Walk with the holy women praised of old

Who served their God and sons heroic bore:—”

Thus sang the minstrels, touching harps of gold

While maidens wreathed with flowers the bridal door.

IX.

“Holy was love at first, all true, all fair,

Virtue's bright crown, and Honor's mystic feast,

Purer than snows, more sweet than morning air,

More rich than roses in the kindling east.

“Then were the hearts of lovers blithe and glad,

And steeped in freshness like a dew-drenched fleece:

Then glittered marriage like a cloud sun-clad

Or flood that feeds the vale with boon increase

“Then in its innocence great love was strong—

Love that with innocence renews the earth:

Then Faith was sovran, Right supreme o'er wrong:

Then sacred as the altar was the hearth.

“With hope's clear anthem then the valleys rang;

With songs celestial thrilled the household bowers:—”

Thus to the newly wed the minstrels sang

As home they paced, while children scattered flowers.

X.

Circling in upper airs we met,

Singing God's praise, and spring-tide new:—

On two glad spirits fell one net

Inwoven of sunbeams and of dew.

One song we sang; at first I thought

Thy voice the echo of mine own;

We looked for nought; we met unsought:

We met, ascending toward the Throne.

XI.

Life of my better life! this day with thee

I stand on earthly life's supremest tower;

Heavenward across the far infinity

With thee I gaze in awe, yet gaze in power.

Love first, then Fame, illumed that bygone night:

How little knew I then of God or man!

Now breaks the morn eternal, broad and bright;

My spirit, franchised, bursts its narrow span.

Sweet, we must suffer! Joys, thou said'st, like these

Make way for holy suffering. Let it come.

Shall that be suffering named which crowns and frees?

The happiest death man dies is martyrdom.

Never were bridal rites more deeply dear

Than when of old to bridegroom and to bride

That Pagan Empire cried, “False gods revere!”—

They turned; they kissed each other; and they died.

XII.

Fair is this land through which we ride

To that far keep, our bridal bower:

A sacred land of strength and pride,

A land of beauty and of power.

A mountain land through virtue bold,

High built, and bordering on the sun;

A prophet-trodden land, and old;

Our own unvanquished Lebanon!

The hermit's grot her gorges guard—

The patriarch's tomb. There snowy dome

And granite ridges sweet with nard

O'er-gaze and fence the patriot's home.

No realm of river-mouth and pelf;

No traffic realm of corn and wine;

God keeps, and lifts her, to Himself:—

His bride she is, as I am thine.

When down that Moslem deluge rolled,

The Faith, enthroned 'mid ruins, sat

Here, in her Lebanonian hold,

Firm as the ark on Ararat.

War still is hers, though loving peace;

War—not for empire, but her Lord;—

A lion land of slow increase;

For trenchant is the Moslem sword.

XIII.

Alas! that sufferer weak and wan

Whom, yester-eve, our journey o'er,

Deserted by the caravan,

We found upon our gallery floor!

How long she gasped upon my breast!

We bathed her brows in wine and myrrh;—

How death-like sank at last to rest

While rose the sun! I feared to stir.

All night I heard our bridal bells

That chimed so late o'er springing corn:

Half changed they seemed to funeral knells—

She, too, had had her bridal morn!

Revived she woke. The pang was past:

She woke to live, to smile, to breathe:

Oh! what a look was that she cast,

Awaking, on my nuptial wreath

XIV.

High on the hills the nuptial feast was spread:

Descending, choir to choir the maidens sang,

“Safe to her home our beauteous bride is led,”

While, each to each, the darkening ledges rang.

From vale and plain came up the revellers' shout:

Maidens with maidens danced, and men with men;

Till, one by one, the festal fires burned out

By lonely waters. There was silence then.

Keen flashed the stars, with breath that came and went,

Through mountain chasms:—around, beneath, above,

They whispered, glancing through the bridal tent,

“We too are lovers: heaven is naught but love!”

Assunta Howard. III. In Extremis.

How slowly and drearily the time drags on, through all the weary length of hours and days, in a household where one has suddenly been stricken down from full life and health to the unconscious delirium of fever—when in hushed silence and with folded hands the watchers surround the sufferer with a loving anxiety; whose agony is in their helplessness to stay for one moment the progress of the disease, which seems possessed of a fiend-like consciousness of its own fatal power to destroy; when life and death hang in the balance, and at any moment the scale may turn, and in its turning may gladden loving hearts or break them; and, oh! above and beyond all, when through the clouding of the intellect no ray from the clear light of faith penetrates the soul, and the prostrate body, stretched upon its cross, fails to discern the nearness of that other cross upon this Calvary of suffering, from which flows in perennial streams the fountain of salvation! Oh! if in the ears, heedless of earthly sounds and words, there could be whispered those blessed words from Divine lips, “This day thou shalt be with me,” what heart that loves would not rejoice even in its anguish, and unselfishly exclaim, “Depart, O Christian soul! I will even crush down my poor human love, lest its great longing should turn thy happy soul away from the contemplation of its reward, exceeding great—to be in Paradise, to be with Christ”? But, alas! there were two crucified within reach of those precious, saving drops, and one alone said, “Lord, remember me.”

When the family of Mr. Carlisle first realized that the master of the house had indeed been prostrated by the fever which had proved so fatal in its ravages, they were stunned with surprise and grief. It was just the calamity, of all others the least expected, the heaviest to endure.

Mrs. Grey's affection for her brother was the deepest sentiment of her superficial nature, and for the time she was bowed down with sorrow; which, however, constantly found vent in words and tears. She would rise from it soon, but not until the emergency had passed. She lived only in the sunshine; she lost herself when the clouds gathered. Assunta was the first to recover her calmness and presence of mind. Necessity made her strong; not so much for the sake of the sick man—that might come by and by—but for his sister, who clung to the young girl as to the last plank from the shipwreck of her bright, happy life. The physician was in constant attendance, and at the first he had proposed sending a nurse. But the faithful Giovanni had pleaded with so much earnestness to be allowed the [pg 063] privilege of attending his master that he was installed in the sick-room. And truly no better choice could have been made, for he combined the physical strength of the man with the gentleness of woman, and every service was rendered with the tenderness of that love which Mr. Carlisle had the rare power of inspiring and retaining in dependents. But only Assunta was able to quiet his wandering mind, and control the wild vagaries of delirium. It was a painful duty to strive to still the ringing of those bells, once so full of harmony, now “jangled, out of tune, and harsh.” But, once recognizing where her duty lay, she would have performed it at any cost to herself.

Her good and devoted friend, F. du Pont, came to see her the second day of the illness, and brought sympathy and consolation in his very presence. She had so longed for him that his coming seemed an echo of her earnest wish—his words of comfort an answer to her prayers.

“Father,” she said at length, “you know all—the past and the present circumstances. May I not, in the present necessity, and in spite of the past, forget all but the debt of gratitude I owe, and devote myself to my dear friend and guardian? You know,” she added, as if there were pain in the remembrance, “it was Mr. Carlisle's care for me that exposed him to the fever. I would nurse him as a sister, if I might.”

“My dear child,” replied the priest, “I do not see how you could do less. From my knowledge of Mrs. Grey, I should consider her entirely unfit for the services of a sick-room. It seems, therefore, your plain duty to perform this act of charity. I think, my child, that the possible nearness of death will calm all merely human emotion. Give that obedient little heart of yours into God's keeping, and then go to your duty as in his sight, and I am not afraid. The world will probably look upon what it may consider a breach of propriety with much less leniency than the angels. But human respect, always bad enough as a motive, is never so wholly bad as when it destroys the purity of our intention, and consequently the merit of our charity, at a time when, bending beneath the burden of some heavy trial, we are the more closely surrounded by God's love and protection. Follow the pillar of the cloud, my child. It is leading you away from the world.”

“Father,” said Assunta, and her voice trembled, while tears filled her eyes, “do you think he will die? Indeed, it is not for my own sake that I plead for his life. He is not prepared to go. Will you not pray for him, father? Oh! how gladly would I give my life as the price of his soul, and trust myself to the mercy of God!”

“And it is to that mercy you must trust him, my poor child. Do you, then, think that his soul is dearer to you than to Him who died to save it? You must have more confidence. But I have not yet told you the condition I must impose upon your position as nurse. It is implicit obedience to the physician, and a faithful use of all the precautions he recommends. While charity does sometimes demand the risk or even the sacrifice of life, we have no right to take the matter into our own hands. I do not apprehend any danger for you, if you will follow the good doctor's directions. I will try to see him on my way home. Do you promise?”

“Yes, father,” said Assunta, with a faint smile; “you leave me no alternative.”

“But I have not yet put a limit to your obedience. You are excited and worn out this afternoon, and I will give you a prescription. It is a lovely day, almost spring-like; and you are now, this very moment, to go down into the garden for half an hour—and the time must be measured by your watch, and not by your feelings. Take your rosary with you, and as you walk up and down the orange avenue let no more serious thoughts enter your mind than the sweet companionship of the Blessed Mother may suggest. You will come back stronger, I promise you.”

“You are so kind, father,” said Assunta gratefully. “If you knew what a blessing you bring with you, you would take compassion on me, and come soon again.”

“I shall come very soon, my child; and meanwhile I shall pray for you, and for all, most fervently. But, come, we will walk together as far as the garden.” And summoning the priest who had accompanied him, and who had been looking at the books in the library during this conversation, they were about to descend the stairs, when Mrs. Grey came forward to meet them.

“O F. du Pont!” she exclaimed impetuously, “will you not come and look at my poor brother, and tell me what you think of him? They say priests know so much.” And then she burst into tears.

F. Joseph tried to soothe her with hopeful words, and, when they reached the door of the darkened chamber, she was again calm. The good priest's face expressed the sympathy he felt as they entered softly, and stood where they would not attract the attention of those restless eyes. Mr. Carlisle was wakeful and watchful, but comparatively quiet. It was pitiful to see with what rapid strides the fever was undermining that manly strength, and hurrying on towards the terrible moment of suspense when life and death confront each other in momentary combat. With an earnest prayer to God, the priest again raised the heavy damask curtain, and softly retired, followed by Mrs. Grey.

“Will he recover?” was her eager question.

“Dear madam,” replied he, “I think there is much room for hope, though I cannot deny that he is a very sick man. For your encouragement, I can tell you that I have seen many patients recover in such cases when it seemed little short of miraculous. It will be many days yet before you must think of giving up good hope. And remember that all your strength will be needed.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Grey impulsively, “I could not live if it were not for Assunta. She is an angel.”

“Yes, she is a good child,” said the priest kindly; “and she is now going to obey some orders that I have given her, that she may return to you more angelic than ever. Dear madam, you have my deepest sympathy. I wish that I could serve you otherwise than by words.”

The two priests bade Assunta good-by at the garden gate. F. Joseph's heart was full of pity for the young girl, whose act of sacrifice in surrendering human happiness for conscience' sake had been followed by so severe a trial. But, remembering the blessed mission [pg 065] of suffering to a soul like hers, he prayed—not that her chalice might be less bitter, but that strength might be given her to accept it as from the hand of a loving Father.

And so Assunta, putting aside every thought of self, took her place in the sick-room. She had a double motive in hanging her picture of St. Catherine, from which she was never separated, at the foot of the bed. It was a favorite with Mr. Carlisle, and often in his delirium his eyes would rest upon it, in almost conscious recognition; while to Assunta it was a talisman—a constant reminder of her mother, and of those dying words which now seemed stamped in burning letters on her heart and brain.

Mrs. Grey often visited the room; but she controlled her own agitation so little, and was so unreasonable in the number of her suggestions, that she generally left the patient worse than she found him. Assunta recognized her right to come and go as she pleased, but she could not regret her absence when her presence was almost invariably productive of evil consequences.

The first Sunday, Assunta thought she might venture to assist at Mass at the nearest church; it would be strength to her body as well as her soul. She was not absent from the house an hour, yet she was met on her return by Clara, in a state of great excitement.

“Assunta, we have had a dreadful time,” she said. “Severn woke up just after you left, and literally screamed for help, because, he said, a great black cross had fallen on you, and you would be crushed to death unless some one would assist him to raise it. In his efforts, he was almost out of bed. I reasoned with him, and told him it was all nonsense; that there was no cross, and that you had gone to church. But the more I talked and explained, the worse he got; until I was perfectly disheartened, and came to meet you.” And with the ready tears streaming down her pretty face, she did look the very picture of discouragement.

“Poor Clara,” said Assunta, gently embracing her, “it is hard for you to bear all this, you are so little accustomed to sickness. But you ought not to contradict Mr. Carlisle, for it is all real to him, and opposition only excites him. I can never soothe him except by agreeing with him.”

“But where does he get such strange ideas?” asked the sobbing Clara.

“Where do our dreams come from?” said Assunta. “I think, however, that this fancy can be traced to the night when we visited the Colosseum, and sat for a long time on the steps of the cross in the centre. You know it is a black one,” she added, smiling, to reassure her friend. “And now, Clara, I really think you ought to order the close carriage, and take a drive this morning. It would do you good, and you will not be needed at all for the next two or three hours.”

Mrs. Grey's face brightened perceptibly. It was the very thing for which she was longing, but she would not propose it herself for fear it would seem heartless. To seem, and not to be, was her motto.

“But would not people think it very strange,” she asked, “and Severn so sick?”

“I do not believe that people will know or think anything about it,” answered Assunta patiently. “You can take Amalie with you for company, and drive out on the Campagna.” And having lightened one [pg 066] load, she turned towards her guardian's room.

“Are you not coming to breakfast?” said Mrs. Grey.

“Presently.” And Assunta hastened to the bedside. Giovanni had been entirely unable to control the panic which seemed to have taken possession of Mr. Carlisle. He continued his cries for assistance, and the suffering he evidently endured showed how real the fancy was to him.

“Dear friend,” said the young girl, pushing back the hair from his burning forehead, “look at me. Do you not see that I am safe?”

Mr. Carlisle turned towards her, and, in sudden revulsion of feeling, burst into a wild laugh.

“I knew,” he said, “that, if they would only come and help me, I should succeed. But it was very heavy; it has made me very tired.”

“Yes, you have had hard work, and it was very kind in you to undertake it for me. But now you must rest. It would make me very unhappy if I thought that my safety had caused any injury to you.”

And while she was talking, Assunta had motioned to Giovanni to bring the soothing medicine the doctor had left, and she succeeded in administering it to her patient, almost without his knowledge, so engrossed was he in his present vagary.

“But there was a cross?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, in a meaning tone, “a very heavy one; but it did not crush me.”

“Who lifted it?” he asked eagerly.

“A powerful hand raised its weight from my shoulders, and I have the promise of His help always, if I should ever be in trouble again, and only will cry to Him.”

“Well, whoever he is,” said Mr. Carlisle, “he did not hurry much when I called—and now I am so tired. And Clara said there was no cross; that I was mistaken. I am never mistaken,” he answered, in something of his old, proud voice. “She ought to know that.”

Assunta did not answer, but she sat patiently soothing her guardian into quiet at least, if not sleep. Once he looked at her, and said, “My precious child is safe;” but, as she smiled, he laughed aloud, and then shut his eyes again.

An hour she remained beside the bed, and then she crept softly from the room, to take what little breakfast she could find an appetite for, and to assist Mrs. Grey in preparing for her drive.

With such constant demands upon her sympathy and strength, it is not strange that Assunta's courage sometimes failed. But, when the physician assured her that her guardian's life was, humanly speaking, in her hands, she determined that no thought or care for herself should interfere with the performance of her duty.

Mrs. Grey's drive having proved an excellent tonic, she was tempted to repeat it often—always with a protest and with some misgivings of conscience, which were, however, set aside without difficulty.

It was a singular coincidence that Mr. Sinclair should so often be found riding on horseback in the same direction. A few words only would be exchanged—of enquiry for the sufferer, of sympathy for his sister. But somehow, as the days went by, the tone in which the words of sympathy were expressed grew more tender, and conveyed the impression of something held back out of respect and by an effort. The manner, too—which [pg 067] showed so little, and yet seemed to repress so much—began to have the effect of heightening the color in Mrs. Grey's pretty face, and softening a little the innocent piquancy of her youthful ways. It was no wonder that, loving the brightness and sunshine of life, and regarding with a sort of dread the hush and solemnity which pervade the house of sickness, and which may at any moment become the house of mourning, she should have allowed her anxiety for her brother to diminish a little under the influence of the new thought and feeling which were gaining possession now, in the absence of all other excitement. And yet she loved her brother as much as such hearts can love—as deeply as any love can penetrate in which there is no spirit of sacrifice—love's foundation and its crown. If the illness had lasted but a day, or at the most two, she could have devoted herself with apparent unselfishness and tender assiduity to the duties of nursing. But, as day after day went on without much perceptible change in Mr. Carlisle, her first emotion subsided into a sort of graceful perplexity at finding herself out of her element. And by the time the second week was drawing towards its close—with the new influence of Mr. Sinclair's sympathy seconding the demands of her own nature—she began to act like any other sunflower, when it “turns to the god that it loves.” And yet she continued to be very regular in her visits to the sick-room, and very affectionate to Assunta; but it may be greatly doubted whether she lost many hours' sleep. Surely it would be most unjust to judge Clara Grey and Assunta Howard by the same standard. Undine, before and after the possession of a human soul, could hardly have been more dissimilar.

It was the fifteenth day of Mr. Carlisle's illness when Assunta was summoned from his bedside by Mrs. Grey, who desired to see her for a few moments in her own room. As the young girl entered, she found her sitting before a bright wood-fire; on her lap was an exquisite bouquet fresh from fairy-land, or—what is almost the same thing—an Italian garden. In her hand she held a card, at which she was looking with a somewhat perturbed expression.

“Assunta, love,” she exclaimed, “I want you to tell me what to do. See these lovely flowers that Mr. Sinclair has just sent me, with this card. Read it.” And as she handed her the dainty card, whose perfume seemed to rival that of the flowers, the color mounted becomingly into her cheeks. There were only these words written:

“I have brought a close carriage, and hope to persuade you to drive a little while this afternoon. I will anxiously await your reply in the garden. Yours, S——.”

“Well?” questioned Clara, a little impatiently, for Assunta's face was very grave.

“Dear Clara,” she replied, “I have no right to advise you, and I certainly shall not question the propriety of anything you do. I was only thinking whether I had not better tell you that I see a change in your brother this afternoon, and I fear it is for the worse. I am longing for the doctor's visit.”

“Do you really think he is worse?” exclaimed Clara. “He looks to me just the same. But perhaps I had better not go out. I had a little headache, and thought a drive might do me good. But, [pg 068] poor Severn! of course I ought not to leave him.”

“You must not be influenced by what I say,” said Assunta. “I may be entirely mistaken, and so I should not alarm you. God knows, I hope it may be so!”

“Then you think I might go for an hour or two, just to get a breath of air,” said Mrs. Grey. “Mr. Sinclair will certainly think I have found it necessary to call a papal consistory, if I keep him much longer on the promenade.”

Poor Assunta, worn out with her two weeks of watching and anxiety, looked for a moment with a sort of incredulous wonder at the incarnation of unconscious selfishness before her. For one moment she looked “upon this picture and on that”—the noble, devoted brother, sick unto death; and that man, the acquaintance of a few days, now walking impatiently up and down the orange avenue. The flush of indignation changed her pale cheeks to scarlet, and an almost pharisaical thanksgiving to God that she was not like some women swept across her heart, while a most unwonted sarcasm trembled on her lips. She instantly checked the unworthy feeling and its expression; but she was so unstrung by care and fatigue that she could not so easily control her emotion, and, before the object of unusual indignation had time to wonder at the delay of her reply, she had thrown herself upon the sofa, and was sobbing violently. Mrs. Grey was really alarmed, so much so that she dropped both card and flowers upon the floor, and forgot entirely her waiting cavalier, as she knelt beside the excited girl, and put her arms about her.

“Assunta dear, what is the matter? Are you ill? Oh! what have I done?” she exclaimed.

“My poor guardian—my dear, kind friend, he is dying! May God have mercy on him and on me!” were the words that escaped Assunta's lips between the sobs.

A shudder passed through Mrs. Grey at this unexpected putting into words of the one thought she had so carefully kept from her mind; and her own tears began to flow. Just at this moment the physician's step sounded in the hall, and she went hastily to summon him. He took in the whole scene at a glance, and, seating himself at once upon the sofa beside Assunta, he put his hand gently and soothingly upon her head, as a father might have done.

“Poor child!” said he kindly, “I have been expecting this.”

The action expressing sympathy just when she needed it so much caused her tears to flow afresh, but less tumultuously than before. The remains of Mrs. Grey's lunch were standing on a side-table, and the good doctor poured out a glass of wine, which Assunta took obediently. Then, making an effort at self-control, she said:

“Please do not waste a moment on me. Do go to Mr. Carlisle; he seems very ill. I have been weak and foolish, but I will control myself better next time.”

“I have just left Mr. Carlisle's room,” replied the doctor. “I will not deceive you. He is, as you say, very ill; but I hope we may save him yet. You must call up all your courage, for you will be much needed to-night.”

He knew by the effect that he had touched the right chord, so he continued: “And now, Miss Howard, I am going to ask of you the favor to send one of your servants [pg 069] to my house, to notify my wife that I shall not return to-night. I will not leave you until the crisis is passed—successfully, I hope,” he added with a smile.

Assunta went at once to give the desired order, relieved and grateful that they would have the support of the physician's presence and skill; and yet the very fact of his remaining discouraged the hope he had tried to inspire. When she had gone, he turned to address a few comforting words to Mrs. Grey, when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said:

“By the way, Mrs. Grey, I forgot to tell you that I met Mr. Sinclair down-stairs, and he begged me to inquire if you had received a message from him. Can I be of service in taking him your reply?”

“O poor man! I quite forgot him,” exclaimed the easily diverted Clara, as she stooped to pick up the neglected flowers. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I had better run down myself, and apologize for my apparent rudeness.” And, hastily wiping her eyes, she threw a shawl over her shoulders and a becoming white rigolette about her head, and with a graceful bow of apology she left the room.

“Extraordinary woman!” thought the doctor. “One would suppose that a dying brother would be an excuse, even to that puppy Sinclair. I wish he had had to wait longer—it wouldn't have hurt him a bit—he has never had half enough of it to do. And what the devil is he coming here for now, anyhow?” he added to his former charitable reflections, as he went to join Assunta in her faithful vigil beside the unconscious and apparently dying man.

Mr. Sinclair met Mrs. Grey at the foot of the stairs with an assumption of interest and anxiety which successfully concealed his inward impatience. But truly it would have been difficult to resist that appealing face, with its traces of recent tears and the flush caused by excited feeling.

As a general thing, with all due deference to poetic opinion, “love is (not) loveliest when embalmed in tears.” But Mrs. Grey was an exception to many rules. Her emotion was usually of the April-shower sort, gentle, refreshing, even beautifying. Very little she knew of the storm of suffering which desolates the heart, and whose ravages leave a lasting impression upon the features. Such emotions also sometimes, but rarely, leave a beauty behind them; but it is a beauty not of this world, the beauty of holiness; not of Mrs. Grey's kind, for it never would have touched Mr. Sinclair as hers did now.

“My dear Mrs. Grey,” he said, taking her hand in both his, “how grieved I am to see you showing so plainly the results of care and watching! Privileged as he must be who is the recipient of such angelic ministrations, I must yet protest—as a friend, I trust I have a right to do so—against such over-exertion on your part. You will be ill yourself; and then who or what will console me?”

Mr. Sinclair knew this was a fiction. He knew well enough that Mrs. Grey had never looked fresher or prettier in her life. But the rôle he had assigned to himself was the dangerously tender one of sympathy; and where a sufficient occasion for displaying his part was not supplied, he must needs invent one.

Clara was not altogether deceived, for, as she put her lace-bordered [pg 070] handkerchief to her eyes, from which the tears began again to flow, she replied:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Sinclair. I am quite well, and not at all fatigued; while dear Assunta is thin and pale, and thoroughly worn out with all she has done. I can never be grateful enough to her.”

Had the lady raised her eyes, she might have been astonished at the expression of contempt which curled Mr. Sinclair's somewhat hard mouth, as he rejoined:

“Yes; I quite understand Miss Howard's motive in her devotion to her guardian, and it is not strange that she should be pale. How do you suppose I should look and feel if the dearest friend I have in the world were at this moment lying in her brother's place?”

Mrs. Grey might have received a new light about the young girl had she not been rendered obtuse to the first part of this speech by the very pointed allusion to herself afterwards, that was accompanied by a searching look, which she would not see, for she still kept her handkerchief before her eyes. Mr. Sinclair placed her disengaged hand upon his arm, and gently drew her towards the garden. Had she been able to look down into the heart of the man who walked so protectingly beside her, she would doubtless have been surprised to find a disappointment lurking in the place where she had begun to feel her image was enshrined. She would have seen that Assunta's face had occupied a niche in the inner sanctuary of the heart of this man of the world, before which he would have been content to bow; that pique at her entire indifference to his pretensions, and the reserve behind which she always retreated in his presence, had led him to transfer his attentions to the older lady and the smaller fortune; and that his jealous observation had brought to his notice, what was apparent to no one else, the relations between Assunta and her guardian.

All this would not have been very flattering to Mrs. Grey, so it was perhaps as well that the gift of clairvoyance was not hers; though it is a sad thought for men and angels how few hearts there are that would bear to have thrown on them the clear light of unveiled truth. The day is to come when the secrets of all hearts are to be revealed. But Mr. Sinclair, even if he knew this startling fact, would not have considered it worth while to anticipate that dread hour by revealing to the lovely lady at his side any of those uncomfortable circumstances which would inevitably stand in the way of the consummation of his present wish. So he bravely undertook the noble enterprise of deceiving a trusting heart into believing in a love which did not exist, but which it was not so very difficult to imagine just at that moment, with the little hand resting confidingly on his arm, and the tearful eyes raised to meet his.

In a broken voice, Mrs. Grey said: “Mr. Sinclair, I came down myself to thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent me, and to excuse myself from driving with you this afternoon. Poor Severn is worse, they think. Oh! if he should not recover, what will become of me?” And as she spoke, she burst into renewed weeping, and threw herself upon a seat beneath a group of orange-trees, whose perfume stole upon the senses with a subtle yet bewildering influence. Mr. Sinclair sat down beside her, saying gently:

“I hope, dear Mrs. Grey, it is not so serious as that. I am confident that you have been needlessly alarmed.”

The world will, no doubt, pardon him—seeing that Mammon was his chosen master—if the thought was not altogether unpleasing that, should Mr. Carlisle die now, before Assunta could have a claim upon him, it would make an almost princely addition to the dowry of his sister. Nor on this account were his words less tender as he added:

“But, even so, do you not know of one heart waiting, longing to devote itself to you, and only with difficulty restrained from placing itself at your feet by the iron fetters of propriety? Tell me, Clara, may I break these odious chains, and say what is in my heart?”

“Mr. Sinclair, you must not speak such words to me now, and my poor brother so ill. Indeed, I cannot stay to hear you. Thank you very much for your kind sympathy, but I must leave you now.”

“Without one word of hope? Do I deserve this?” And truly the pathos he put into his voice was calculated to melt a heart of stone; and Clara's was much more impressible. She paused beside him, and, allowing him still to retain in his the hand he had taken, continued:

“I think you take an unfair advantage of my lonely position. I cannot give you a favorable answer this afternoon, for I am so bewildered. I begin to think that I ought not to have come down at all; but I wanted to tell you how much I appreciated the bouquet.”

“I hope you read its meaning,” said Mr. Sinclair, rising. “And do you not see a happy omen in your present position, under a bower of orange blossoms? It needs but little imagination to lower them until they encircle the head of the most lovely of brides. Will you accept this as a pledge of that bright future which I have dared to picture to myself?” And as he spoke he put up his hand to break off a cluster of the white blossoms and dark-green leaves, when Giovanni appeared at the gate.

“Signora,” he said, “will you please to come up-stairs? The Signorina is very anxious to see you.”

“I am coming,” she replied. “Pardon me, Mr. Sinclair, and forget what has been said.” And she walked towards the house.

“Do you refuse the pledge?” he asked, placing the flowers in her hand, after raising them to his lips.

“Really,” answered Clara, almost petulantly, “I am so perplexed, I do not know what to say. Yes, I will take the flowers, if that will please you.” Saying which, she began to ascend the stairs.

“And I take hope with me,” said Mr. Sinclair, in a tender tone. But as he turned to go he mentally cursed Giovanni for the interruption; “for,” thought he, “in one minute more I would have had her promise, and who knows but now that brother of hers may recover and interfere?”

Assunta met Mrs. Grey just outside the door of Mr. Carlisle's room, and drew her into the library, where she sat down beside her on the sofa, and, putting her arm affectionately about her, began to speak to her with a calmness which, under the circumstances, could only come from the presence of God.

“I thought, dear Clara, that I had better ask you to come here, while I talk to you a little about your brother, and what the doctor says. We must both of us try to [pg 072] prepare.” Here her voice broke, and Mrs. Grey interrupted her with,

“Tell me, Assunta, quickly, is he worse?”

“I fear so, dear,” replied Assunta; “but we must help each other to keep up what courage and hope we may. It is a common sorrow, Clara, for he has been more than a brother to me.”

“But, Assunta, I do not understand. You are so calm, and yet you say such dreadful things. Does the doctor think he will die?” And once again she shuddered at that word, to her so fearful and so incomprehensible.

“I dare not deceive you, dear—I dare not deceive myself. The crisis has come, and he seems to be sinking fast. O Clara, pray for him!”

“I cannot pray; I do not know how. I have never prayed in my life. But let me go to him—my poor, dear Severn!” And Mrs. Grey was rushing from the room, when Assunta begged her to wait one moment, while she besought her to be calm. Life hung upon a thread, which the least agitation might snap in a moment. She could not give up that one last hope. Mrs. Grey of course promised; but the instant she approached the bed, and saw the change that a few hours had made, she shrieked aloud; and Assunta, in answer to the doctor's look of despair, summoned her maid, and she was carried to her own room in violent hysterics, the orange blossoms still in her hand. Truly they seemed an omen of death rather than of a bridal. The doctor followed to administer an opiate, and then Assunta and himself again took up their watch by Mr. Carlisle. Hour after hour passed.

Everything that skill could suggest was done. Once only Assunta left the room for a moment to inquire for Mrs. Grey, and, finding that she was sleeping under the influence of the anodyne, she instantly returned. She dared not trust herself to think how different was this death from that other she remembered. She could not have borne to entertain for one moment the thought that this soul was going forth without prayer, without sacrament, to meet its God. She did everything the doctor wished, quietly and calmly. The hours did not seem long, for she had almost lost her sense of time, so near the confines of eternity. She did not even feel now—she only waited.

It was nearly twelve when the doctor said in a low voice:

“We can do nothing more now; we must leave the rest to nature.”

“And to God,” whispered Assunta, as she sank on her knees beside the bed; and, taking in both hers her guardian's thin, out-stretched hand, she bowed her head, and from the very depths of her soul went up a prayer for his life—if it might be—followed by a fervent but agonized act of resignation to the sweet will of God.

She was so absorbed that she did not notice a sudden brightening of the doctor's face as he bent over his patient. But in a moment more she felt a motion, and the slightest possible pressure of her hand. She raised her head, and her eyes met those of her guardian, while a faint smile—one of his own peculiar, winning smiles—told her that he was conscious of her presence. At last, rousing himself a little more, he said:

“Petite, no matter where I am, it is so sweet to have you here.” And, with an expression of entire [pg 073] content, he closed his eyes again, and fell into a refreshing sleep.

“Thank God!” murmured Assunta, and her head dropped upon her folded hands.

The doctor came to her, and whispered the joyful words, “He will live!” but, receiving no answer, he tried to lift the young girl from her knees, and found that she had fainted. Poor child! like Mary, the Blessed Mother of Sorrows, she had stood beneath her cross until it was lightened of its burden, She had nerved herself to bear her sorrow; she had not counted on the strength which would be needed for the reaction of joy.

“Better so,” said the doctor, as he placed her upon the couch, “She would never have taken rest in any other way.”

To Be Continued.

A Discussion With An Infidel.

XI. Primeval Generation.

Reader. I should like to hear, doctor, how “primeval generation” can afford you an argument against the Mosaic history of creation, and against the necessity of a Creator.

Büchner. “There was a time when the earth—a fiery globe—was not merely incapable of producing living beings, but was hostile to the existence of vegetable and animal organisms” (p. 63).

Reader. Granted.

Büchner. “As soon as the temperature permitted it, organic life developed itself” (ibid.)

Reader. Not too much haste, doctor. The assertion that “life developed itself” presupposes that life already existed somewhere, though undeveloped. How do you account for this assumption?

Büchner. “It is certain, says Burmeister, that the appearance of animal bodies upon the surface of the earth is a function which results with mathematical certainty from existing relations of forces” (ibid.)

Reader. It is impossible to believe Burmeister on his word. You know that he is a short-sighted philosopher. A man who says that “the earth and the world are eternal,” that “eternity belongs to the essence of matter,” and that matter nevertheless “is not unchangeable,” forfeits all claim to be trusted in speculative questions. I, therefore, cannot yield to his simple assertion; and if what he says is true, as you believe, I think that you are ready to assign some reason for it, which will convince me also.

Büchner. Nothing is easier, sir. For “there is exhibited (in the terrestrial strata) a constant relation of the external conditions of the surface of the earth to the existence of organic beings, and a necessary dependence of the latter on the condition of the earth” (p. 64). “It was only with the present existing differences of climate that the endless variety of organic forms appeared [pg 074] which we now behold.... Of man the highest organic being of creation, not a trace was found in the primary strata; only in the uppermost, the so-called alluvial layer, in which human life could exist, he appears on the stage—the climax of gradual development” (p. 65).

Reader. How does this show that “organic life developed itself” and was a mere result of the development of the earth? It seems to me that your answer has no bearing on the question, and that it is, on your lips, even illogical. For you say somewhere: “It is certain that no permanent transmutation of one species of animals into another has as yet been observed; nor any of the higher organisms was produced by the union of inorganic substances and forces without a previously existing germ produced by homogeneous parents” (p. 68). This being certain, as you own, I ask: If every organism is produced by parents, whence did the parents come? Could they have arisen from the merely accidental concurrence of external circumstances and conditions, or were they created by an external power? In your theory, they must have arisen from external circumstances, and therefore they had no parents; whilst you affirm that without homogeneous parents they could not naturally be produced. Moreover, if the first parents arose from a concurrence of external conditions, why does not the same happen today?

Büchner. “This question has ever occupied philosophers and naturalists, and has given rise to a variety of conflicting opinions. Before entering upon this question, we must limit the axiom Omne vivum ex ovo to that extent that, though applicable to the infinite majority of organisms, it does not appear to be universally valid” (p. 69).

Reader. Then you evidently contradict yourself.

Büchner. “At any rate, the question of spontaneous generations is not yet settled” (ibid.)

Reader. Do you mean that living organisms can be produced without previously existing homogeneous parents, or germs, merely by the concurrence of inorganic elements and natural forces?

Büchner. Yes, sir; and “although modern investigations tend to show that this kind of generation, to which formerly was ascribed an extended sphere of action, does not exactly possess a scientific basis, it is still not improbable that it exists even now in the production of minute and imperfect organisms” (p. 70).

Reader. You are cutting your own throat, doctor. For you own that your theory has no scientific basis; and what you say about the non-improbability of some spontaneous generations has no weight whatever with a philosophical mind.

Büchner. Indeed “the question of the first origin of all highly organized plants and animals appears at first sight incapable of solution without the assumption of a higher power, which has created the first organisms, and endowed them with the faculty of propagation” (p. 71).

Reader. “At first sight,” you say. Very well. I accept this confession, which, on your lips, has a peculiarly suggestive meaning.

Büchner. “Believing naturalists point to this fact with satisfaction. They remind us, at the same time, of the wonderful structure of the organic world, and recognize in it [pg 075] the prevalence of an immediate and personal creative power, which, full of design, has produced this world. ‘The origin of organic beings,’ says B. Cotta, ‘is, like that of the earth, an insoluble problem, leaving us only the appeal to an unfathomable power of a Creator’ ” (ibid.)

Reader. Cotta is more affirmative than you. He recognizes that the problem is incapable of solution without a Creator, and does not add “at first sight.” What do you reply?

Büchner. “We might answer these believers, that the germs of all living beings had from eternity existed in universal space, or in the chaotic vapors from which the earth was formed; and these germs, deposited upon the earth, have there and then become developed, according to external necessary conditions. The facts of these successive organic generations would thus be sufficiently explained; and such an explanation is at least less odd and far-fetched than the assumption of a creative power, which amused itself in producing, in every particular period, genera of plants and animals, as preliminary studies for the creation of man—a thought quite unworthy of the conception of a perfect Creator” (ibid.)

Reader. I am afraid, doctor, that all this nonsense proceeds from cold-hearted maliciousness more than from ignorance. For how can you be ignorant that, if there be anything odd and far-fetched in any theory of cosmogony, it is not the recognition of a creative power, but the assumption of eternal germs wandering about from eternity amid chaotic vapors? Your preference for this last assumption is an insult to reason, which has no parallel but the act of passionate folly by which the Jews preferred Barabbas to Christ. The Creator, as you well know, had no need of “preliminary studies”: yet he might have “amused himself,” if he so wished,[22] in making different genera of plants and animals, just as noblemen and princes amuse themselves, without disgracing their rank, in planting gardens, and petting dogs, horses, and birds. But this is not the question. You pretend that the germs of all living beings had from eternity existed in universal space. This you cannot prove either philosophically or scientifically; and we have already established in a preceding discussion that nothing changeable can have existed from eternity.

Büchner. “But we stand in need of no such arguments” (p. 72).

Reader. Why, then, do you bring them forward?

Büchner. “The facts of science prove with considerable certainty that the organic beings which people the earth owe their origin and propagation solely to the conjoined action of natural forces and materials, and that the gradual change and development of the surface of the earth is the sole, or at least the chief, cause of the gradual increase of the living world” (p. 72).

Reader. This is another of your vain assertions. For you confess that “it is impossible at present to demonstrate with scientific exactness” the gradual development of organic beings from mere material forces; and you had previously affirmed that “there must have existed individuals of the same species, to produce others of the same kind” (p. 68). Where are, then, to be found the facts of science which “prove with considerable [pg 076] certainty” the contrary of what you acknowledge to be the fact? Is your method of reasoning a mere oscillation between contradictories?

Büchner. “We may hope that future investigations will throw more light on the subject” (ibid.)

Reader. Very well. But, if this is the case, surely no “fact of science” proves, as yet, the spontaneous evolution of life from inorganic matter. And you may be certain that the future investigations of science will not give the lie to the investigations of the past.

Büchner. “Our present knowledge is, however, sufficient to render it highly probable, nay, perhaps morally certain, that a spontaneous generation exists, and that higher forms have gradually and slowly become developed from previously existing lower forms, always determined by the state of the earth, but without the immediate influence of a higher power” (ibid.)

Reader. All this I have already answered; and I am rather tired, doctor, of repeating the same remarks over and over again. Why should you make these empty assertions, if you had real arguments to produce? And, if you have no arguments, what is the use of saying and gainsaying at random, as you do, the same things? Why do you assert that “the immediate influence of a higher power” has nothing to do with the origin of life, when you know that your assertion must remain unproved and can easily be refuted? If “our present knowledge renders it highly probable, nay, perhaps, morally certain, that a spontaneous generation exists,” why did you say the contrary just a few lines before? It is inconceivable that a thinking man should be satisfied with such a suicidal process of arguing.

Büchner. “The law of a gradual development of primeval times is impressed upon the present living organic world” (p. 75). “All animal forms are originally so much alike, that it is often impossible to distinguish the embryo of a sheep from that of a man, whose future genius may perhaps revolutionize the world” (p. 76).

Reader. What does it matter if it is impossible for us to distinguish the embryo of a sheep from that of a man? Is it necessary to see with our eyes what distinguishes the one from the other in order to know that they are different? If we are reasonable, we must be satisfied that their different development proves very conclusively their different constitution.

But let this pass. Your line of argument requires you to show that the first eggs and the first seeds are spontaneous products of blind inorganic forces, without any immediate interference or influence of a higher power. While this is not proved, nothing that you may say can help you out of your false position. You may well allege with Vogt “the general law prevalent through the whole animal world, that the resemblance of a common plan of structure which connects various animals is more striking the nearer they are to their origin, and that these resemblances become fainter in proportion to the progress of their development and their subjection to the elements from which they draw their nourishment” (p. 76). We know this; but what of it? The question is not about the development of life from a germ, but about the development of a germ from inorganic forces; and this is what you try [pg 077] constantly to forget. You say: “The younger the earth was, the more definite and powerful must the influence of external conditions have been; and it is by no means impossible to imagine that the same germs might, by very different external circumstances, have conduced to very heterogeneous developments” (p. 77). Were this as true as it is false, it would not advance your cause by one step; for you here assume the germs as already existing.

Büchner. “The comparatively greater force of nature in former periods is manifested in the singular forms of antediluvian animals as well as in their enormous size” (p. 78).

Reader. Were those animals the product of merely inorganic forces?

Büchner. So it is believed.

Reader. On what ground?

Büchner. “If the contemplation of surrounding nature strikes us so much by its grandeur that we cannot divest ourselves of the idea of a direct creative cause, the origin of this feeling is owing to the fact that we contemplate as a whole the united effects of natural forces through a period of millions of years; and, thinking only of the present, and not of the past, cannot imagine that nature has produced all this out of itself. The law of analogies; the formation of prototypes; the necessary dependence upon external circumstances which organic bodies exhibit in their origin and form; the gradual development of higher organic forms from lower organisms; the circumstance that the origin of organic beings was not a momentary process, but continued through all geological periods; that each period is characterized by creatures peculiar to it, of which some individuals only are continued in the next period—all these relations rest upon incontrovertible facts, and are perfectly irreconcilable with the idea of a personal almighty creative power, which could not have adopted such a slow and gradual labor, and have rendered itself dependent upon the natural phases of the development of the earth” (pp. 84, 85).

Reader. If this is your ground for asserting the origin of organic beings from the mere forces of matter, all I can say is that you should learn a little philosophy before you venture again to write a book for the public. Were you a philosopher, you would know that, independently of “the united effects of natural forces through a period of millions of years,” every grain of dust that floats in the air affords us a sufficient proof of the existence of “a personal almighty creative power”; your “law of analogies” would suggest to you the thought of a primitive source of life; “the formation of prototypes” would compel you to ask, Who formed them? and how could they be formed without an archetypal idea, which matter could not possess? You would see that nothing can be gained by asserting, as you do, that “the gradual development of the higher organic forms from lower organisms rests upon incontrovertible facts,” while you cannot cite a single one in support of your assertion. You would take care not to attribute to the Creator an imaginary waste of time in “the slow and gradual labor” of peopling the earth with organic beings, nor entertain the absurd notion that he would have rendered himself “dependent upon the natural phases of the development of the earth,” merely because his action [pg 078] harmonized with the order of things he had created. Lastly, you would have kept in view that the fact of which you were bound to give an explanation was not the development of new organisms from existing organisms, but the origin of the first organisms themselves from inorganic matter. Why did you leave aside this last point, than which no other had a greater need of demonstration?

Büchner. I may not be a philosopher; but certain it is that “science has never obtained a greater victory over those who assume an extramundane or supernatural principle to explain the problem of existence, than by means of geology and petrifaction. Never has the human mind more decisively saved the rights of nature. Nature knows neither a supernatural beginning nor a supernatural continuance” (p. 88).

Reader. How stupid indeed! Your Masonic science cannot stand on its legs, and you boast of victories! Do you not see, doctor, the absurdity of your pretension? When did science attack religion, and was not defeated? I speak of your infidel science, mind you; for true science has no need of attacking religion. Your science tries “to explain the problem of existence by means of geology and petrifaction” without a supernatural principle. But is the origin of existence a problem? and can it be solved by geology and petrifaction? Historical facts are no problems. You may blot out history, it is true, as you might also put out the light, and remain in the dark to your full satisfaction. Thus everything might become a problem. But can you call this a scientific process? Why do you not appeal to geology and petrifaction to explain, say, the origin of Rome, and thus obtain “a great victory” over history? Yet it would be less absurd to believe that Rome is a work of nature than to believe that life originated in dead inorganic matter. The origin of life and of all other things is a primitive fact, which lies outside the province of geology altogether. Philosophy alone can account for it; and philosophy proclaims that your infidel theory of primeval generation is a shameless imposture.

Büchner. This is a severe remark, sir.

Reader. I will take it back when you shall have proved that the first organic germs originated in inorganic matter without supernatural intervention.

XII. Design In Nature.

Reader. Everything in nature speaks of God; but you, doctor, seem quite insensible to the eloquence of creation.

Büchner. I deny the eloquence of creation. Indeed, “design in nature has ever been, and is still, one of the chief arguments in favor of the theory which ascribes the origin and preservation of the world to a ruling and organizing creative power. Every flower which unfolds its blossoms, every gust of wind which agitates the air, every star which shines by night, every wound which heals, every sound, everything in nature, affords to the believing teleologist an opportunity for admiring the unfathomable wisdom of that higher power. Modern science has pretty much emancipated itself from such empty notions, and abandons these innocent studies to such as delight in contemplating nature rather with the [pg 079] eyes of the feeling than with those of the intellect” (p. 89).

Reader. This is no reason why you should blind yourself to the evidence of the facts. Every one knows that Masonic science hates teleology. No wonder at that. This science emancipates itself, not from empty notions, as you say, but from the very laws of reasoning. Free thought would cease to be free, if it did not emancipate itself from logic. Yet, since free-thinkers “abandon to us the innocent study” of teleology, would it not be prudent in them to avoid talking on what they are unwilling to study? How can they know that we contemplate nature “rather with the eyes of the feeling than with those of the intellect”? Do they suppose that order and design are objects of the feeling rather than of the intellect?

Büchner. I will tell you what our conviction is. “The combination of natural materials and forces must, in giving rise to the variety of existing forms, have at the same time become mutually limited and determined, and must have produced corresponding contrivances, which, superficially considered, appear to have been caused by an external power.” Our reflecting reason is the sole cause of this apparent design, which is nothing but the necessary consequence of the combination of natural materials and forces. Thus, as Kant says, “our intellect admires a wonder which it has created itself” (p. 90).

Reader. Beware of blunders, doctor! You have just said that our notion of design in nature was caused by our feeling, not by our intellect; but you now say that the sole cause of that notion is our reflecting reason, and maintain, on Kant's authority, that the same notion is a creation of our intellect. Can contradiction be more evident?

Again, if our reflecting reason is the sole cause of our perception of design in nature, surely we are right in admitting that there is design in nature, and you are wrong in denying it. For, if the design were only apparent, as you pretend, imagination might be fascinated by it, but “reflecting reason” would never cause us to perceive it. On the other hand, if you distrust “reflecting reason,” what else will you trust in its stead?

Moreover, how did you not observe that Kant's proposition, “Our intellect admires a wonder which it has created itself,” contains a false supposition? The intellect cannot create to itself any notion of design; it can only perceive it in the things themselves: and it would never affirm the existence of design in nature, unless it perceived its objective reality. Hence our intellect admires a wonder which it perceives, not a wonder which it creates.

Furthermore, you wish us to believe that what we term design “is nothing but a necessary consequence of some combinations.” But why did you omit that all such combinations presuppose definite conditions, and that these conditions originally depend on the will of the Creator? Your book on Force and Matter is nothing but a necessary consequence of a combination of types, ink, and paper. Does it follow that the book is not the work of a designing doctor? You see how defective your reasoning is. You have nearly succeeded in proving the contrary of what you intended.

Büchner. But “how can we speak of design, knowing the objects only in one form and shape, and having [pg 080] no idea how they would appear to us in any other? What natural contrivance is there which might not be imagined to be rendered more perfect in design? We admire natural objects without considering what an infinite variety of other contrivances and forms has slumbered, and is still dormant, in the lap of nature. It depends on an accident whether or not they will enter into existence” (p. 90).

Reader. I apprehend, doctor, that your notion of design is neither clear nor correct. The “form and shape” of the objects is not what we call design. Design, in nature, is the ordination of all things to an end. It is therefore the natural aptitude of things to a definite end, and not their form or shape, that reveals the existence of design in nature. It is not even the absolute perfection of a thing that reveals design: it is only its relative perfection, that is, its proportion to the end for which it is created. Hence we have the right to admire natural objects for their adaptation to certain ends, without considering the infinite variety of other contrivances slumbering in the lap of nature. For, if the existing contrivances are proportionate to their ends, there is design, whatever we may say of the possibility of other contrivances, and even of other words.

Büchner. “Numbers of arrangements in nature, apparently full of design, are nothing but the result of the influence of external natural conditions” (p. 90).

Reader. Yes; but these natural conditions are themselves the result of design, since they are all controlled by a superior mind.

Büchner. “Animals inhabiting the north have a thicker fur than those of the south; and likewise the hair and feathers of animals become thicker in winter and fall out in summer. Is it not more natural to consider these phenomena as the effect of changes in the temperature, than to imagine a heavenly tailor who takes care of the summer and winter wardrobes of the various animals? The stag was not endowed with long legs to enable him to run fast, but he runs fast because his legs are long” (p. 91).

Reader. These remarks are puerile, doctor, and I might dispense with answering them; yet I observe that, as cold does not foster vegetation, it is not in the north, but in the south, that the fur of animals should grow thicker. At any rate, the “heavenly tailor,” who clothes the lilies of the field, does not forget the wardrobe of animals, whether in the north or in the south, in summer or in winter; for his is the world, and from his hand the needs of every creature are supplied. As to the stag, you are likewise mistaken. “He runs fast because his legs are long”; but how does it follow from this that he was not endowed with long legs to enable him to run fast? Does the one exclude the other? Would you say that your works are known because they have been published, and therefore they have not been published to make them known? Your blunder is evident.

Büchner. “Things are just as they are, and we should not have found them less full of design had they been different” (p. 91).

Reader. This, if true, would prove that our “reflecting reason” cannot exclude design from creation. If things had been different, the design would have been different. Even conflicting arrangements may be full of design; even the destruction of the best works of nature may be [pg 081] full of design: for the Author of nature is at liberty to do with it as he pleases. If, for instance, all the new-born babies were hereafter to be males, we could not escape the consequence that the Author of nature designed to put an end to human generation. Whatever may be the order of things, we cannot deny design without insulting the wisdom of our Maker and Lord.

This consideration suffices to answer all your queries and objections. “Nature,” you say, “has produced a number of beings and contrivances in which no design can be detected” (p. 94). What of that? Can you deny that men act with some design, only because you cannot detect it? There are beings, you add, “which are frequently more apt to disturb than to promote the natural order of things” (ibid.) This merely shows that the natural order of things is changeable—a truth which you had the courage to deny when speaking of miracles.

“The existence of dangerous animals has ever been a thorn in the side of theologians, and the most comical arguments have been used to justify their existence” (ibid.) This is not true. No theologian has ever denied that dangerous animals fulfil some design in nature. And as to “comical arguments,” I think, doctor, that it is in your pages that we can best find them. “We know, on the other hand, that very innocent, or even useful, animals have become extinct, without nature taking any means to preserve their existence” (p. 95). This proves nothing at all. If God's design could be fulfilled with their extinction, why should they have been preserved? “For what purpose are the hosts of diseases and of physical evils in general? Why that mass of cruelties and horrors which nature daily and hourly practises on her creatures? Could a being acting from goodness and benevolence endow the cat, the spider, and man with a nature capable of these horrors and cruelties?” (p. 96). This is the dark side of the picture; and yet there is design in all this. If I wished to make a “comical argument,” I might say that “the hosts of diseases” are, after all, very profitable to the M.D., who cannot live without them. But the true answer is, that the present order of things, as even the pagan philosophers recognized, is designed as a period of probation preparatory to a better life. We now live on a field of battle, amid trials calculated to stir up our energies and to mend or improve our character. We sow in tears, that we may reap in joy. Such is the design of a Being “acting from goodness and benevolence.” You do not understand this; but such is the truth. As to cats and spiders, you must bear in mind that they are not worse than the wolf, the tiger, or other animals providing for their own subsistence by the destruction of other living beings. If this be “cruelty,” how can you countenance it yourself by allowing the appearance at your table of killed animals?

Your other remarks are scarcely worthy of being quoted, as they prove nothing but your impertinence and presumption. You seem to put to God the dilemma: “Either let Büchner know all the secrets of your providence, or he will rebel against you, and even deny your existence.” You ask, Why this and why that? And because your weak brain fails to suggest the answer, you immediately conclude that things happen to be what they are, [pg 082] without a superior mind controlling their course. This is nice logic indeed! “Why should the vertebral column of man terminate in an appendage perfectly useless to him?” “Why should certain animals possess the organs of both sexes?” “Why are certain other animals so prolific that in a few years they might fill the seas and cover the earth, and find no more space or materials for their offspring?” “Why does nature produce monsters?” These questions may or may not be answered; but our ignorance is not the measure of things, and the existence of design in nature remains an unquestionable fact. Is not the very structure of our own bodies a masterpiece of design? A physician, like you, cannot plead ignorance on the subject.

Büchner. Yet nature cannot have a design in producing monstrosities. “I saw in a veterinary cabinet a goat fully developed in every part, but born without a head. Can we imagine anything more absurd than the development of an animal the existence of which is impossible from the beginning? Prof. Lotze of Göttingen surpasses himself in the following remarks on monstrosities: ‘If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be but judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action, as this deficiency cannot be compensated. But, inasmuch as the formative forces continue their action, that such a miserable and purposeless creature may exist for a time, appears to us strikingly to prove that the final result always depends upon the disposition of purely mechanical definite forces, which, once set in motion, proceed straight on, according to the law of inertia, until they meet with an obstruction.’ This is plain language” (p. 99). Again, monstrosities “may be produced artificially by injuries done to the fœtus or to the ovum. Nature has no means of remedying such an injury. The impulse once given is, on the contrary, followed in a false direction, and in due time a monstrosity is produced. The purely mechanical process, in such cases, can be easily recognized. Can the idea of a conscious power acting with design be reconciled with such a result? And is it possible that the hand of the Creator should thus be bound by the arbitrary act of man?” (pp. 101, 102).

Reader. That nature “cannot have a design in producing monstrosities” is a groundless assertion, as nature tends always to produce perfect beings, though sometimes its work is marred by obstacles which it has no power to remove. You saw “a goat fully developed in every part, but born without a head.” Here the design is evident. Nature wished to produce a perfect goat as usual, but failed. “If the fœtus is without a brain, it would be judicious, in a force having a free choice, to suspend its action.” This is another groundless assertion; for, if by force you mean the forces of matter, they have no free choice, and cannot suspend their action; and if by force you mean God, you presume too much, as you do not know his design. A fœtus without a brain, like a goat without a head, proclaims the imperfection of natural causes; and this very imperfection proclaims their contingency and the existence of a Creator. Thus, a fœtus without a brain may be the work of design; for God's design is not to raise nature above all deficiencies, but to show his infinite perfection in the [pg 083] works of an imperfect nature. That “the hand of the Creator should be bound by the arbitrary act of men” is a third groundless assertion. Man may injure the fœtus, and God can restore it to a healthy condition; but nothing obliges him to do so. If he did it, it would be a miracle; and miracles are not in the order of nature. It follows that, when monstrosities are produced, they are not merely the result of mechanical forces, but also of God's action, without which no causation is possible.

But you ask, “Can the idea of a conscious power acting with design be reconciled with such a result?” I answer that it can be reconciled very well. In fact, those effects which proceed directly from God alone, must indeed be perfect according to their own kind, inasmuch as God's working is never exposed to failure; but those effects which do not proceed directly from God alone, but are produced by creatures with God's assistance, may be imperfect, ugly, and monstrous. You may have a beautiful hand; but, if you write with a bad pen, your writing will not be beautiful. You may be a great pianist; but, if your instrument is out of tune, your music will be detestable. Whenever two causes, of which the one is instrumental to the other, concur to the production of the same effect, the imperfection of the instrumental cause naturally entails the imperfection of the effect. God's action is perfect; but the action of his instruments may be imperfect; and it is owing to such an imperfection that the result may be a monstrosity.

But, to complete this explanation, it is necessary to add that, in the production of their natural effects, creatures are more than instrumental. The primary cause, God, and the secondary causes, creatures, are both principal causes of natural effects; though the latter are subordinate to the influence of the former. Both God and the creature are total causes; that is, the effect entirely depends on the secondary, as it entirely depends on the primary cause, though in a different manner; for the influx of the primary cause is general, while that of the secondary cause is particular. Hence these two causes bear to the effect produced by them the same relation as two premises bear to their conclusion. God's influence is to the effect produced what a general principle or a major proposition is to the conclusion; whilst the creature's influence is to the same effect what a minor proposition or the application of the general principle is to the conclusion. Take, for instance, the general truth, “Virtue is a rational good,” as a major proposition. This general truth may be applied in different manners, and lead to different conclusions, good or bad, according as the application is right or wrong. If you subsume, “Temperance is a virtue,” you will immediately obtain the good conclusion that “Temperance is a rational good.” But, if you subsume, “Pride is a virtue,” you will reach the monstrous conclusion that “Pride is a rational good.” Now, this conclusion, however monstrous, could not be drawn without the general principle; and yet its monstrosity does not arise from the general principle, but only from its wrong application. Thus the general principle remains good and true in spite of the bad and false conclusion. And in the same manner the influence of the first cause on natural effects remains good and perfect, though the effects [pg 084] themselves, owing to the influence of the secondary causes, are imperfect and monstrous.

You now understand, I hope, how the exceptional production of monstrosities can be reconciled with the idea of a conscious power acting with design.

XIII. Brain And Soul.

Reader. And now, doctor, please tell me what is your doctrine on the human soul.

Büchner. The human soul is “a product of matter” (p. 132)—“a product of the development of the brain” (p. 197).

Reader. Indeed?

Büchner. “The brain is the seat and organ of thought; its size, shape, and structure are in exact proportion to the magnitude and power of its intellectual functions” (p. 107).

Reader. What do you mean by thought?

Büchner. Need I explain a term so universally known?

Reader. The term is known, but it is used more or less properly by different persons. Our minds may deal with either sensible or intellectual objects. When we have seen a mountain, we may think of it, because we have received from it an impression in our senses which leaves a vestige of itself in our organism, and enables us to represent to ourselves the object we have perceived. In this case our thought is an exercise of our imagination. When, on the contrary, we think of some abstract notion or relation which does not strike our senses, and of which no image has been pictured in our organic potencies, then our thought is an exercise of intellectual power. In both cases our brain has something to do with the thought. For in the first case our thought is an act of the sensitive faculty, which reaches its object as it is pictured, or otherwise impressed, in our organic potencies, of which the headquarters are in the brain. In the second case our thought is an act of the intellectual faculty, which detects the intelligible relations existing between the objects already perceived, or between notions deduced from previous perceptions; and this act, inasmuch as it implies the consideration of objects furnished to the mind by sensible apprehension, cannot but be accompanied by some act of the imaginative power making use of the images pictured in the organic potencies. Now, doctor, when you say that “the brain is the seat and organ of thought,” do you mean that both the intellectual and the imaginative thought reside in the brain and are worked out by the brain?

Büchner. Of course. For “comparative anatomy shows that through all classes of animals, up to man, the intellectual energy is in proportion to the size and material quality of the brain” (p. 107).

Reader. You are quite mistaken. The brain is an organ of the imagination, not of the intellect. And even as an organ of imagination it is incompetent to think or imagine, as it is only the instrument of a higher power—that is, of a soul. To say that the brain is the organ of intellectual thought is to assume that intellectual relations are pictured on the brain; which is evidently absurd, since intellectual relations cannot be pictured on material organs. Every impression made on our brain is a definite impression, corresponding to the definite objects from which it proceeds. [pg 085] If our intellectual thought were a function of the brain, we could not think, except of those same definite objects from which we have received our definite impressions. How do you, then, reconcile this evident inference with the fact that we conceive intellectually innumerable things from which we have never received a physical impression? We think of justice, of humanity, of truth, of causality, etc., though none of these abstractions has the power to picture itself on our brain. It is therefore impossible to admit that the intellectual thought is a function of the brain. With regard to the working of the imagination, I concede that the brain plays the part of an instrument; but how can you explain such a working without a higher principle? If our soul is nothing but “a product of matter,” since matter is inert, our soul must be inert, and since matter has only mechanical powers, our soul must be limited to mechanical action, that is, to the production of local movement. Now, can you conceive imagination as a merely mechanical power, or thought as the production of local movement?

Büchner. Yes. “Thought,” says Moleschott, “is a motion of matter” (p. 135).

Reader. It is perfectly useless, doctor, to make assertions which cannot be proved. Moleschott is no authority; he is a juggler like yourself, and works for the furtherance of the same Masonic aims. Let him say what he likes. We cannot but laugh at a thinker who can mistake his thought for local motion.

Büchner. You, however, cannot deny that, while we are thinking, our brain is doing work. But how can it do work without motion?

Reader. I do not deny that, while we are thinking, our brain is doing work. I merely deny that the movements of the brain are thoughts. As long as we live, soul and body work together, and we cannot think without some organic movements accompanying the operation. This every one admits. But you suppress the thinking principle, and retain only the organic movements. How is this possible? If thought consists merely of organic movements of the brain, how does the motion begin? The brain cannot give to itself a new mode of being. To account for its movements you must point out a distinct moving power, either intrinsic or extrinsic, either a sensible object or the thinking principle itself. When the motion is received from a sensible object, the movements of the brain determine the immediate perception of the object; and when the motion results from the operation of the thinking principle, the movements of the brain determine the phantasm corresponding to the object of the actual thought. Thus immediate perception, and thought, or recollection, are both rationally explained; whilst, if the thinking subject were the brain itself, how could we recollect our past ideas? When the movement caused by an object has been superseded by the movement caused by a different object, how can it spontaneously revive? Matter is inert; and nothing but a power distinct from it can account for the spontaneous awakening of long-forgotten thoughts.

Büchner. Matter is inert, but is endowed with forces, and wherever there are many particles of matter they can communicate movement to one another. Hence, “in the same manner as the steam-engine [pg 086] produces motion, so does the organic complication of force-endowed materials produce in the animal body a sum of effects so interwoven as to become a unit; and is then by us called spirit, soul, thought” (p. 136).

Reader. Pshaw! Are spirit, soul, and thought synonymous? Do thoughts think? When you perceive that two and two make four, is this thought the thinking principle? And if the soul is “a sum of mechanical effects so interwoven as to become a unit,” how can you avoid the consequence that the soul consists of nothing but local movement? But if the soul is local movement, it has no causality, and cannot be the principle of life; for local movement is only a change of place, and has nothing to do with perception, judgment, reasoning, or any other operation of the thinking principle. Can local movement say, I am? I will? I doubt? Can local movement recollect the past, take in the present, foresee the possible and the future? Can local movement deliberate, love, hate, say yes or no? To these and such like questions science, reason, and experience give an unequivocal answer, which the president of a medical association should have carefully meditated before venturing to write on the subject.

Büchner. Yet “the mental capacity of man is enlarged in proportion to the material growth of his brain, and is diminished according to the diminution of its substance in old age” (p. 110). “It is a fact known to everybody, that the intelligence diminishes with increasing age, and that old people become childish.... The soul of the child becomes developed in the same degree as the material organization of its brain becomes more perfect” (p. 111). “Pathology furnishes us with an abundance of striking facts, and teaches us that no part of the brain exercising the function of thought can be materially injured without producing a corresponding mental disturbance” (p. 119). “The law that brain and soul are necessarily connected, and that the material expansion, shape, and quality of the former stands in exact proportion to the intensity of the mental functions, is strict and irrefutable, and the mind, again, exercises an essential influence on the growth and development of its organ, so that it increases in size and power just in the same manner as any muscle is strengthened by exercise” (p. 122). “The whole science of man is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the verbiage of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate existence of the soul, and its independence of its material organ, is without the least value in opposition to the power of facts. We can find no exaggeration in what Friedreich, a well-known writer on psychology, says on this point: ‘The exhibition of power cannot be imagined without a material substratum. The vital power of man can only manifest its activity by means of its material organs. In proportion as the organs are manifold, so will be the phenomena of vital power, and they will vary according to the varied construction of the material substratum. Hence, mental function is a peculiar manifestation of vital power, determined by the peculiar construction of cerebral matter. The same power which digests by means of the stomach, thinks by means of the brain’ ” (pp. 124, 125).

Reader. Your manner of reasoning, [pg 087] doctor, is not calculated to bring conviction, as every one of your arguments contains a fallacy. Your first argument is: The brain is the measure of the thinking power; and therefore the thinking power, or the soul, is a result of organic development. The second is: Brain and mind are necessarily connected; and therefore the soul cannot have a separate existence. The third is: The vital power of man can only manifest its activity by means of its material organs; and therefore the soul needs to be supported by a material substratum. Such substantially is the drift of your argumentation. Now, I maintain that the three arguments are merely three sophisms.

First, the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. The mental capacity of man, and the thinking power of the soul, are not exactly the same thing. The first implies both soul and body, the second regards the soul alone; the first presents to us the musician with his instrument, the second exhibits only the musician himself. The brain is the organ, the soul is the organist. You cannot reasonably pretend that the musical talent, genius, and skill of an organist increase and decrease with the number and quality of the pipes which happen to be in the organ. All you can say is that the musical talent of the organist will have a better chance of a favorable show with a rich rather than with a poor instrument. The organ, therefore, is not the measure of the ability of the organist, and the brain is not the measure of the thinking power. Hence from the fact that the mental capacity of man is enlarged, as you say, in proportion to the material growth of his brain, we have no right to conclude that the thinking principle, the soul, grows with the brain; the right conclusion is that the soul, being in possession of a better instrument, finds itself in better conditions for the exercise of its intrinsic power. The organ is improved and the music is better; but the organist is the same.

Secondly, brain and mind are at present necessarily connected. Does it follow that therefore the soul cannot have a separate existence? By no means. If this conclusion were logical, you might on the same ground affirm also that the body cannot have a separate existence; for the body is as necessarily connected with the soul as the soul is with the body. The reason why your conclusion cannot hold is that the connection of body and soul is necessary only inasmuch as both are indispensable for the constitution of the human nature. But the human nature is not immortal; the soul must quit the body when the organism becomes unfit for the operations of animal life; and therefore the connection of the soul with the body is not absolutely, but only hypothetically, necessary. The soul has its own existence distinct from the existence of the body, for the soul is a substance no less than the body; and therefore it is no less competent to have a separate existence. You deny, I know, that the soul is a substance distinct from the body; but what is the weight of such a denial? What you speculatively deny in your book, you practically admit in the secret of your conscience whenever you say I am. It is not the body that says I; it is the soul: and it is not an accident that perceives self; it is a substance.

Thirdly, the vital power of man, [pg 088] as you say, can manifest its activity only by means of its material organs. This is true; for, so long as the soul is in the body, it must work together with it, according to the axiom, “Every agent acts according as it is in act.” But does the work of the vital power in the material organs warrant your conclusion that the soul needs to be supported by a material substratum? Quite the contrary. For, what needs a material substratum is an accident, and no accident is active; and therefore the vital power, whose activity is manifested in the material organs, is no accident, and therefore needs no material substratum, and, while existing in the material organs, exists no less in itself. Had you considered that the soul, which manifests its activity by means of its material organs, exercises the same activity within itself also, you would have easily discovered that the soul has a being independent of its material organs, and that these organs are the organs of sensibility, not of intelligence.

But I am not going to make a dissertation on the soul, as my object is only to show the inconclusiveness of your reasoning. Your chapter on “Brain and Soul,” with its twenty-eight pages of medical and physiological erudition, offers no proof of your assumption beyond the three sophisms I have refuted. All the rest consists of facts which have not the least bearing on the question. “The whole science of man,” as you say, “is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind.” This is what your facts demonstrate; but your object was to show that “the soul is a product of the development of the brain”; and this your facts do not demonstrate, as is evident from your need of resorting to fallacies to make them lie to truth. It is on the strength of such fallacies that you make bold to despise your opponents, forgetting all your shortcomings, and committing a new blunder in the very act of assailing the spiritualistic philosophers. According to you, “the whole science of man is a continuous proof in favor of the connection of brain and mind; and all the verbiage of philosophical psychologists in regard to the separate existence of the soul and its independence of its material organ is without the least value in opposition to the power of facts.” You should be ashamed, doctor, of this style of reasoning.

Büchner. Why, if you please?

Reader. Because, first, the connection of brain and mind, as proved by “the whole science of man,” does not authorize you to deny the separate existence of the soul and its substantial independence of the material organs. Secondly, because to call “verbiage” those reasonings which all the great men of all times have, after careful scrutiny, considered as unanswerable, to which they gave their fullest assent, and against which you are incapable of advancing a single argument which has not already been answered by philosophers, is on your part an implicit confession of philosophical ignorance. Thirdly, because it is extremely mean to proclaim your own victory, while you have carefully avoided the combat. You have, in fact, prudently dissembled all the reasons by which the substantiality and spirituality of the human soul are usually proved in psychology; and, to give yourself the appearance of a champion, you have set up a few ridiculous sophisms—as, “the material simplicity of the organs of thought” (p. 125)—to [pg 089] figure as philosophical objections, which they have never been, and never will be; thus reminding us of the great Don Quixote fighting against the wind-mill. Fourthly, because, while boasting of the support which some physiological facts seem to lend to your materialistic theory, you have entirely ignored all those other facts of the intellectual life which were calculated to expose your sophistry and overthrow your conclusions. This is dishonest, doctor; for you cannot plead ignorance in excuse.

Büchner. We proceed from opposite principles, sir; hence we must disagree in our conclusions. It is a law “that mind and brain necessarily determine each other, and that they stand to each other in inseparable causal relations” (p. 139).

Reader. This goes against you; for, if the mind determines the brain, the mind must be a special substance.

Büchner. “As there is no bile without liver, no urine without kidneys, so is there no thought with out a brain. Mental activity is a function of the cerebral substance. This truth is simple, clear, easily supported by facts, and indisputable” (ibid.)