Chapter XI: The Mountains Whence Help Cometh (7)

In all their work a confession of faith lay embodied; and feeling themselves called to this vocation, hearing the voice and seeing in the enthusiasm of their fervor the burning bush, they purified themselves by prayer, and fasting, and long meditation upon the subject that was to grow into life under the glowing tints of the brush or the magic stroke of the chisel. This mystical spirit so elevated and ennobled the soul-work of those grand old masters that faults in mechanical execution and anachronisms in details are, even to this day, overlooked, for the sake of that _con amore_ zeal which pervades the vital treatment of their subjects. Fra Angelico, a Dominican monk, devoted his art life exclusively to the religious mysticism of his subjects. "Whenever he painted Christ upon the cross," says Jarves, "the tears would roll down his cheeks as if he were an actual eyewitness of his Saviour's agony. There is a celestial glow in all his beatified faces that seem to radiate from his own soul." Lippo Dalmasio, an early painter of Bologna, was also noted for his piety in art.

"He never painted the holy Virgin without fasting the previous
evening, and receiving absolution and the bread of angels in
the morning after; and, finally, never consented to paint for
hire, but only as a means of devotion." [Footnote 158]

[Footnote 158: Lord Lindsay's _Christian Art_.]

Add to these, Luini, of Milan; Francia, of Bologna; Gentile and John Bellini, of Venice; Fra Bartolomeo, the Florentine monk, and friend of Savonarola; Perugino, and finally, Raphael--and we have the list of those who led the vanguard in the perpetuity of those heaven-toned idealizations that yet greet the eye with their beauty and animate the heart with emotions of grateful homage.

{545}

"Such art has left us, and can never again be revived until
artists believe and pray as did those men of old; until they
can see and feel as they did at all hours, amid their
rejoicings or as they slept, holy personages, saints, and
virgins, apostles and evangelists, martyrs, and the symbolized
faith for which they died. Virtues, and not graces; angels, and
not muses; types of spiritual truths, and not expressions of
sensuous beauty or lustful passion--these were their daily
intellectual food. Amid all things--in church, shop, or
bedroom; on the roadside and by the palace; at every street
corner, and over every threshold--were the figures of the
Redeemer and his holy mother to direct their thoughts still
higher heavenward. Religion, at all events, in its external
form, and as _believed_, was confessed by all men and in
all places. Youth were taught to rely on spiritual powers for
their earthly support and sole sustenance. Charity, faith, the
due subjection of the body to the development of its perfect
strength, humanity, the succor of the oppressed, the relief of
the unfortunate, _devoir_, duty to all men--such were the
doctrines of chivalry in the middle ages." [Footnote 159]

[Footnote 159: _Art Hints_, by Jarves.]

Apart from the palm and olive, we find no mention in the New Testament of flowers, save that exquisite simile of the lilies, made by our Saviour himself; and there can be found no other instance wherein such an illustration is rendered with more beautiful pathos and force. That he appreciated these frail emblems is not only made apparent in this, but is further proved by his choice of the calm repose and soothing influence of these silent sympathizers on Gethsemane's night of woe. No human companionship, no human eye or voice, could aid him then, in that fearful contest of humanity over divinity, as did nature's voiceless comforters--the flowers that were bent down by the weight of their tears, the great shifting sky above, with the eloquent calm of its silver stars, through which floated clear and luminous the angel comforters. Our Saviour proved in all the suffering episodes of his life that lovely groves, and dim funereal forests speak more forcibly to a heart in pain than do the wilder and grander convulsions of nature.

"It is in quiet and subdued passages of unobtrusive majesty,
the deep, the calm, and the perpetual; that which must be
sought ere it can be seen, and loved ere it is understood;
things which the angels work out for us daily, and yet vary
eternally; which are never wanting, and never repeated; which
are to be found always, yet each found but once--it is through
these that her lesson of devotion is chiefly taught and the
blessing of beauty given." [Footnote 160]

[Footnote 160: Ruskin's _Modern Painters_. ]

Nowhere have these beautiful accessories in life's pilgrimage been more glowingly and successfully used, not only as an abstract religious emblem, but as a divine allegorical poem, than in the representations of the life and attributes of the blessed Virgin. To this type of all that was pure and noble in woman; to the humanity which was a link in the chain of divinity, a partaker of all human woes, and yet the chosen of the Godhead--to her were specially dedicated those early labors in revived art, and of which she was the inspiration. Herein, as elsewhere, we find the historical, mystical, and devotional treated with every conceivable adjunct that can typify a being so elevated and benign. The beauty and variety of the rose, the purity and fragrance of the lily, were devoted to her special honor, wherever her name was venerated and loved. Even before it was safe for the early Christians to make an open profession of faith, they expressed their devotion to the mother conjointly with the Son, in the darkness and solitude of the catacombs. {546} Therein it was, that the first Christian artist dared give life to his heart's belief; and therein it was, that her image with that of her divine Son and the apostles were impressed upon the walls and sarcophagi of that grand subterranean temple.

As the Annunciation was the door through which all future blessings flowed, so it became a most fruitful theme to the faith and imagination of those great religious artists whose work was a labor of love; and we find it treated from the fifth to the sixteenth century by Byzantine, Italian, Spanish, and German art with a variety, beauty, and significance that only an enshrined saint could inspire. In the earliest representations of this subject, the angel appeared holding a sceptre, but this mark of authority gradually gave way to the more symbolic lily. This was introduced universally, either held in the hand of the angel as he salutes her, or seen growing in a pot placed in some part of the room. Others again, represent an enclosed garden, upon which the Blessed Virgin is looking from a window. In all, from the crudest to the most finished, some floral adjunct gives beauty and significance to the subject. The Assumption--that fitting climacteric of a life whence sprung the Eternal Word--was likewise a theme of devotional and sublimated art-worship, which gathered pathos and beauty from the belief that her body was worthy the care of the seraphim and cherubim, who transported it with angelic harmonies into the home of her glorified Son. Here, too, we find, according to the legend, her floral emblems springing up in the tomb from whence her incorruptible body had just been raised.

In an Annibale Carracci, the apostles are seen below, one of whom is lifting, with an astonished air, a handful of roses out of the sepulchre. In another, by Rubens, one of the women exhibits the miraculous flowers held up in the folds of her dress. Dominico di Bartolo, who painted in 1430, (according to Mrs. Jameson,) omits the open tomb, but clothes the holy mother in a white robe embroidered with golden flowers.

From the time of the Nestorian heresy, when the title of _Dei genitrix_ was denied the Blessed Virgin, her votaries became even more zealous to corroborate her right to the title and privileges of mother of the man-God; and under the influence of this test of devotion and faith sprang those multitudinous representations of the woman glorified, as the enthroned Madonna. From thence the descent was natural and gradual to those characteristics which distinguished her life in its daily ministrations to her divine Son; and so touchingly natural, so beautiful in their tenderness, are many of these more human portraitures, that the coldest heart cannot withhold its homage, though it may its devotion. Even Mrs. Jameson, herself a Protestant, says, "We look, and the heart is in heaven; and it is difficult to refrain from an _Ora pro nobis_." In a large number of these inspirations of faith and love, we meet the various floral emblems that typify her beauty and purity. Some of the earliest representations are found in many of the old Gothic cathedrals, executed in sculpture. She is therein portrayed in a standing position, bearing the child on her left arm, while in the right hand she holds a flower, or sometimes a sceptre. In a holy family in the academy of Venice, by Bonifazio, "The virgin is seated in glory, with her infant on her knee, and encircled by cherubim. On one side an angel approaches with a basket of flowers on his head, and she is in the act of taking these flowers and scattering them on the saints who stand below."

{547}

The Arcadian and pastoral life, with which many of the Italian artists environ the mother and child, is certainly both poetical and natural. Mrs. Jameson gives many instances of this treatment; among them, one by Philippino Lippi, which is a beautiful idea. "Here," she says, "the mystical garden is formed of a balustrade, beyond which is seen a hedge, all in blush with roses. The virgin kneels in the midst and adores her infant; an angel scatters rose leaves over him, while the little St. John also kneels, and four angels, in attitudes of devotion, complete the group." "But a more perfect example," continues the same author, "is the Madonna of Francia in the Munich gallery, where the divine infant lies on the flowery turf, and the mother standing before him, and looking down on him, seems on the point of sinking on her knees in a transport of tenderness and devotion. With all the simplicity of the treatment, it is strictly devotional. The mother and her child are placed within the mystical garden enclosed in a _treillage_ of roses, alone with each other, and apart from all earthly associations, all earthly communions."

Those who are familiar with the Raphael series of Madonnas will recall, in this connection, his exquisite pastoral _La Jardinière_. There is also one similarly entitled by a French artist, though differently treated. The virgin is enthroned on clouds, and holds the infant, whose feet rest on a globe. Both mother and child are crowned with roses; and on each side, as if rising from the clouds, are vases filled with roses and lilies. Titian has also left many beautiful and some exaggerated works of the Arcadian school. There is an old Coptic tradition which is very beautiful, and bears somewhat on this subject of nature's aid in glorifying these two lives. Near the site of the ancient Heliopolis, there still stands a very pretty garden, in which (runs the tradition) the holy family rested in their flight into Egypt. Feeling oppressed with thirst, a spring of fresh water gushed at their feet, and on being pursued into their retreat by robbers, a sycamore-tree opened, and hid them from sight. "The spring still exists," says a recent traveller, "and the tree yet stands, and bears such unmistakable marks of antiquity as to make this tradition and faith of the present generation of Coptics at least plausible." But these floral emblematical tributes are as inexhaustible as are the sentiments of love, homage, and tender pity that fill the heart from the contemplation of the _Mater Dei Genitrix_ down to the appealing anguish of the _Dolorosa_. "Thus in highest heaven, yet not out of sight of earth; in beatitude past utterance; in blessed fruition of all that faith creates and love desires; amid angel hymns and starry glories," we will leave enthroned the "blessed amongst women," and turn to other legends, wherein the saints who followed her stand crowned with flowers celestial, awaiting a share of our praise and veneration.

Part Second.

In Thuringia, one of the provinces of Germany, the traveller is attracted by a species of rose that is universally cultivated by the poorest peasant, as well as the richest land-owner. When the question as to its origin is asked, the answer invariably is, "Oh! that is the rose of the dear St. Elizabeth, our former queen; and was grown from one of the sprigs given to her by the angels." {548} One might as well try to turn the faith of these simple people from their belief in the sanctity of her life as from the truth of the miraculous roses. According to Montalembert and others, thus runs the substance of the legend. Elizabeth loved the poor, and was specially devoted to relieving their necessities, frequently carrying with her own hands goods of various kinds, to distribute among them. At one season, there was a great scarcity of crops throughout the land, and caution and economy in the use of the royal stores had been advised even in the palace. Elizabeth could not bear to know of unrelieved suffering among her people; so, by close economy in her own wants, she managed to furnish food for many others. On one occasion, a very pressing case of necessity reached her; and not wishing to encourage her servants in disobedience to the general command, she started alone on her errand of mercy, with some lighter articles of food concealed in the folds of her dress. Just as she reached the back steps of the chateau, however, she met her husband, with several gentlemen, returning from the chase. Astonished to see his wife alone, and thus burdened, he asked her to show him what she was carrying; but as she held her dress in terror to her breast, he gently disengaged her hands, and behold! "It was filled with white and red roses, the most beautiful he ever saw."

Wandering in thought over these scenes wherein the air is redolent with their fragrance, the form of the young and lovely Dorothea, with the radiant boy-angel at her side, rises in diaphonous light before the vision. We see her as she stands confronting her heathen judge Fabricius, who longs to possess her charms; and to his command, "Thou must serve our gods or die." she mildly answers, "Be it so; the sooner shall I stand in the presence of _Him_ I most desire to behold." Then the governor asked her, "Whom meanest thou?" She replied, "I mean the Son of God, Christ, mine espoused. His dwelling is in paradise; by his side are joys eternal, and in his garden grow celestial fruits, and roses that never fade." And resisting all temptations, all entreaties, she went forth to torture and to death. "And as she went," (continues the legend,) "a young man, a lawyer of the city, named Theophilus, who had been present when she was first brought before the governor, called to her mockingly, 'Ha! fair maiden, goest thou to join thy bridegroom? Send me, I pray thee, of the fruits and flowers of that same garden of which thou hast spoken. I would fain taste of them!' And Dorothea, looking on him, inclined her head with a gentle smile, and said, 'Thy request, O Theophilus! is granted.' Where at he laughed aloud with his companions; but she went on cheerfully to death. When she came to the place of execution, she knelt down and prayed; and suddenly at her side stood a bright and beautiful boy, with hair bright as sunbeams. In his hands, he held a basket containing three apples and three fresh-gathered fragrant roses. She said to-him, 'Carry these to Theophilus; say that Dorothea hath sent them, and that I go before him to the garden whence they came, and await him there.' With those words, she bent her neck, and received the stroke of death. Meantime, the angel went to seek Theophilus, and found him still laughing in merry mood over the idea of the promised gift. The angel placed before him the basket of celestial fruit and flowers, saying, 'Dorothea sends thee these,' and vanished." {549} Amazement filled the mind of Theophilus, and the taste of the fruit and fragrance of the roses pervaded his soul with a new life, the scales of darkness fell, and he proclaimed himself a servant of the same Lord that had won the heart of the gentle maiden. Carlo Dolci, Rubens, and Van Eyck have given the most poetical illustrations of this subject. Many other artists have also treated it, but more coldly.

With the name of St. Cecilia arise visions of angels poised in mid-air, enthralled by seraphic music, which, through the power of its voluminous sweetness, has pierced even the gates of heaven. But the flowers of paradise, as well as its celestial harmonies, are also associated with the name of this beautiful virgin--flowers that were sent to her bridal-chamber, as a reward for her angelic purity and the eloquence which had moved her young heathen husband to respect her vow of chastity. Returning from the instructions of St. Urban, to whom she had sent him, he heard the most enchanting music, and on reaching his wife's chamber he "beheld an angel, who was standing near her, and who held in his hands two crowns of roses gathered in paradise, immortal in their freshness and perfume, but invisible to the eyes of unbelievers. With these he encircled the brows of Cecilia and Valerian; and he said to Valerian, "Because thou hast followed the chaste counsel of thy wife, and hast believed her words, ask what thou wilt, it shall be granted thee."

I stood, early one morning late in the month of June, looking sadly upon the dead, white, upturned face of one who had seemed to walk, while on earth, more with angels than with men. A mystery of sadness had enveloped her life, but, like the cloud in the wilderness, it proved a power that drew her in the footprints of the "Man of sorrows." As I meditated upon the calm etherealized beauty that now absorbed the old earthly pain, and wondered what this secret of a heart-life could have been, her mother entered with tear-dimmed eyes, and placed upon her brow of auburn hair, through which glinted here and there a streak of gray--"dawn of another life that broke o'er her earthly horizon"--in her hands, and over the white fleecy robes, crowns and sprays of mingled crimson and white roses, all glistening with the morning dew.

"Red roses for the dead!" I exclaimed in surprise. "White alone can surely typify such a life and death as hers."

"So you think, my friend, because you with others saw only the outward calm that marked her way. But I--I who loved her so, knew and saw the thorn-crown that pressed her brow, and the hard stones and barbs that strewed every step of her way through life--I place them then here, because she loved them, and because they express, in conjunction with their sister's whiteness, the sorrow and purity of the angelic life now closed to pain and open only to joy.

"Well done of God, to halve the lot,
And give her all the sweetness;
To us, the empty room and cot;
To her, the heaven's completeness.
For her to gladden in God's view;
For us to hope and bear on.
Grow, Lily, in thy garden new
Beside the rose of Sharon."

I turned away sadly, marvelling upon the mystery of this life now closed so happily, and involuntarily arose to my mind the exquisite legend of the sultan's daughter.

{550}

I.

"Early in the morning,
The sultan's daughter
Walked in her father's garden,
Gathering the bright flowers,
All full of dew.
And as she gathered them,
She wondered more and more
Who was the master of the flowers,
And made them grow
Out of the cold, dark earth.
In my heart,' she said,
'I love him; and for him
Would leave my father's palace
To labor in his garden.'

II.

"And at midnight
As she lay upon her bed,
She heard a voice
Call to her from the garden,
And, looking forth from her window,
She saw a beautiful youth
Standing among the flowers;
And she went down to him,
And opened the door for him;
And he said to her,'O maiden!
Thou hast thought of me with love,
And for thy sake
Out of my father's kingdom
Have I come hither.
I am the master of the flowers;
My garden is in paradise,
And if thou wilt go with me,
Thy bridal garland
Shall be of bright red flowers.'
And then he took from his finger
A golden ring,
And asked the sultan's daughter
If she would be his bride.
And when she answered him with love,
His wounds began to bleed,
And she said to him,
'O Love! how red thy heart is,
And thy hands are full of roses.'
'For thy sake,' answered he,
'For thy sake is my heart so red,
For thee I bring these roses.
I gathered them at the cross
Whereon I died for thee!
Come, for my father calls,
Thou art my celestial bride!'
And the sultan's daughter
Followed him to his father's garden." [Footnote 161]

[Footnote 161: _Golden Legend_, by Longfellow.]

Throughout all the early church legends, we find whatever is pure and beautiful in sentiment and exalted in art carefully cherished, and constantly presented to the contemplation of the votary in some glowing form that could act as a counterpoise to the corrupting influence of heathen passions and pursuits.

When the holy mother stood on Calvary, her heart steeped in agony unutterable, not the least cause of her anguish was to see the waste of those precious drops of blood as they bedewed the hard insensible ground. But behold! as she gazes, and her tears fall, delicate bell-shaped crimson blossoms spring up, and absorb the human dew; and thus, through these frail beautifiers of suffering and consolers of grief, the heart of the mother was comforted, and the soul is drawn to look upward, away from the agonizing ignominy of the cross to the beatified glory to which he is translated at the price of so much woe.

Thus also, in the horrid details of the early martyrdoms, we constantly meet these compensating, suggestive metaphors of the glory won. The painful agony of the downward crucifixion of St. Peter, the waste of blood from that congested head, springs into a fountain of clear gurgling water, from which flows healing for all suffering flesh that seek its miraculous aid. As St. Grata bears the decapitated head of her friend St. Alexander to the tomb, lo! flowers spring up as the blood falls, and are gathered by the mourners to deck his grave.

Among the little band that followed Mother Seton more than fifty years ago, in her divine mission of self-abnegation and Christian love, was a delicate young woman whose life had been spent in ease, amid the devoted love and admiration of a large family circle. Dreamy and poetical by nature, her talent, then rare among American women, was revered and looked up to by seven young brothers as something marvellous; and no implement more fatiguing than the pen or needle was ever allowed to weary her dainty fingers. One day as she sat amid her flowers and books, conning a new inspiration, suddenly the open door of heaven seemed to stand before her, and she felt a voice saying, "He who would come after me must take up his cross and follow me." {551} And believing that her heavenly spouse had called, she closed her books, and turned her face steadfastly away from her weeping friends, and went cheerfully forth to privation and labor. Faithful to her new vows, religion yet did not forbid the exercise of the talent God had given her; only now her themes had become more exalted, and the love and perennial sublimity of heaven took the place of the perishable and annual blooms of time. The privations and labors spent in the service of suffering humanity soon reduced her delicate frame to patient helplessness; but the beauty and love of God in his works and ways triumphed over all her bodily infirmities, and her strength was never too frail to raise a _sursum corda_ in his praise. Whitsuntide of 1813 rose in the light of a glorious May morning, and the sufferer lay panting for breath, after a night of exhausting hemorrhage, and she knew that the angel, with palm in hand, stood by her side ready to conduct her to God. In blissful hope of the fruition that now dawned upon all those past sacrifices, labors, and sufferings, she fell, to the music of those unseen, undulating wings, into a sweet sleep. Mother Seton, who had left the sufferer's bed for a breath of the fresh morning air, just then returned from the garden, bearing in her hand the first rose of the season, knowing how refreshing and suggestive such a gift would be to the weary sufferer. Rejoiced to find her in repose, she gently laid the flower upon her bosom, above the white, folded hands, and quietly left the room. The fitful fever sleep was soon ended, and as Mary opened her eyes, first the fragrance, then the beauty of this heavenly symbol, caught her eye. Wasted and dying though the earthly tenement was, the soul, the poet's soul, yet glowed with vital power; and raising from a little table at her side a pencil and paper, she thereon breathed her last pean of poetic utterance in these lines:

"The morning was beautiful, mild, and serene,
All nature had waked from repose;
Maternal affection came silently in,
And placed on my bosom a rose.

"Poor nature was weak, and had almost prevailed,
The weary eyelids were closed;
But the soul rose in triumph, and joyfully hailed
The sweet queen of flowers--the rose.

"Whitsuntide was the time, the season of love:
Methought the blest spirit had chose
To leave for awhile the mild form of a dove,
And come in the blush of a rose.

"Come, Heavenly Spirit, descend on each breast,
And there let thy blessing repose,
As thou once didst on Mary, thy temple of rest;
For Mary's our mystical rose.

"Oh! may every rose that blooms forth evermore,
Enkindle the spirit of those
Who see it, or wear it, to bless and adore
The hand that created the rose."

When Mother Seton returned, she found the lines with the rose still lying on her bosom; and looking into the sweet upturned face, she saw the signet of death stamped upon the luminous eyes, and knew by her short, heavy breathing that ere long she would be singing her songs in the rose-gardens of paradise.

Suggestive of peace and lowliness as are these creations, yet even they have been perverted by the passions of man into insignia of blood and shame. The thirty years' war of the houses of York and Lancaster make the white and red rose ever associated with the sorrows and humiliations, the heroic endurance, and true womanly nobility of Margaret of Anjou. We see her as she stands under her rose-banner, on the heights of Tewksbury, with dauntless courage in her heart, and a mother's wild prayer upon her lips; standing there, amid the wild havoc, unflinchingly, until the wailing, weird blast of the trumpeters tells her that her beautiful white rose is broken at the stem, and its leaves scattered, trampled, and bathed in the life-blood of her only son.

{552}

Tracing, then, these exquisite adumbrations throughout the spiritual aspect of life, is it strange that we have learned to look upon these frail children of the beautiful as one of the connecting links with heaven? Of such every heart has its conservatory; every home its storehouse of withered, scentless mementoes, that recall, when the gates of the sanctuary are unbarred, memories deep and voiceless, and faces whose beauty has paled, like them, in dust. Here is the remnant of a cross of white _immortelles_. It was taken from the breast of a loved one who died far away in a foreign land, among strangers. It was sent with the last spoken words to comfort and uplift the heart of the mourners; and as we lift it from the sacred casket, the echo of those words seems to take form in the rustle of its blighted leaves, and the old, subdued sorrow breaks out afresh before the multitudinous memories and images evoked by a withered flower.

Here lie together a sprig of orange blossom and a white rosebud, double memorial of a happy bridal and an early grave. Ere the perfume of the orange blossom had faded from her brow, the white rose lay on her pulseless heart. Ere the echo of the wedding march had died on the air, it was merged into a requiem dirge of woe.

Ah this spray of brown leaves! what memories lie folded in its veins! A picture of a lone, far away grave rises, and by its side kneel a wife and daughter, come from a great distance to pay some tribute to a beloved one's last resting-spot in a land of strangers. Desolate looked the bare, uncultivated mound; but at the head some tender stranger's hand had placed a plain wooden cross to mark the spot for the absent ones, and planted a wild rose which twined its arms over and around the cross in graceful beauty, as if to offer a poor substitute for the visits of loving friends. How warmly the prayers of the widow went forth for that unknown one who had thus filled the place and thoughtfulness of the absent!

A prisoner walks rapidly up and down the parapet of the Capitol prison in Washington, the wild throbbings of his heart keeping time to the tramp, tramp of his restless feet, which long for space, for liberty, and the sound of the brother voices that send their wild echo from the other side of the Potomac. Suddenly the laughter of a child's voice sounds above him, and, as he in surprise raises his eyes, lo! a cherub head looks from a window down upon him, and the little hands drop at his feet a half-blown rose.

"War's wild alarum call" suddenly dies out, and the soldier's dream of glory gives place to the man's warm love. The wide blue sea no longer rolls between him and home, and over and above the din of battle floats the voice of mother and sister in loving prayer for the absent one, who, impelled by a noble people's cry for aid, hastened to the rescue, and found instead of the _élan_ of battle the cold, dark walls of a prison home. Lo! the power and pathos of a little child and a fragile flower within the walls of a dungeon.

A father kneels in grief unutterable by the soulless body of a little daughter. In the agony of his rebellious grief, he prays to God to send him one ray of comfort, one gleam of light, to see and know that the transition is at least well for her. As he raises his head, his eyes fall upon the family Bible, and with the prayer still in his heart he opens its leaves, and his finger, as if guided by an angel, falls upon these lines, "And he took the damsel by her hand, and said unto her, I say unto thee, arise." {553} With the sacred verse, there came shining down into his heart a clear, sweet perception of the fact that at that very moment our Lord Jesus Christ, who alone is the resurrection and the life, was raising up out of her cold and lifeless form that beautiful, spiritual body in which little Lucy will exist as an angel for ever. He plucked some white and green leaves from the flowers which lay in the dead child's hands, and placed them on that verse of the sacred volume.

"Years have passed away, and they are there still, pale and
withered, sacred little mementoes of the consolation which came
like a voice from heaven in his hour of need. When he is
haunted by sorrowful memories, and falls into states of
desolation and despair, he opens that holy book, and kisses
those faded leaves, and his spirit is sometimes elevated into
that mount which the three disciples ascended with their Lord,
and there, by the permission of the same Redeemer who makes
every child an image of himself, he sees the body of his little
daughter transfigured in glory!" [Footnote 162]

[Footnote 162: _Our Children in Heaven_, by W. H.
Holcombe, M.D. ]

In a white alabaster box, yellowed by the mould of years, are lying, side by side, a crisp, golden curl, a sprig of lily of the valley, and a tuberose. Through the mist of tears that fill the eye rise the angelic features of a little girl, the first-born of her mother. The joyous laughter, the music of the little feet, the endless activity of the waxen fingers, ere they closed lifelessly over those tender lily sprays, all take form and life in presence of these mute memorials. Other children God sent to console the mother for the loss of this little one, and long, long years have ripened them into men and women, and sent them forth to fill the various missions of life that separate them from mother and home. But to the long and early lost, the maternal heart now yearningly turns, as still, above all others, the child of her love. No stronger earthly ties stand between them even now; the _mother_ holds her place supreme _here_, and feels that for her, above all others on earth, those little hands are folded in prayer, and that sweet-toned voice raised in songs of supplication.

"Yet still, in all the singing,
Thinks haply of her song,
Which in that life's first springing
Sang to her all night long."

Comforted by such memories, she kisses the mute and withered mementoes, and, as she folds them again reverently, lovingly away in their casket, she prays that

"When her dying couch about
The natural mists shall gather,
Some smiling angel close shall stand
In old Correggio's fashion,
And bear a _lily_ in his hand
For death's annunciation."

-------

{554}

Catholicity And Pantheism.

Number Seven.

The Finite.--Continued.

We pass to the next question: What is the end of the exterior action of God?

God is infinite intelligence. An agent who acts by understanding must always act for a reason, which is as the lever of the intelligence. This reason is called the end of the action. Therefore, the external act, being the act of an infinite intelligence, must have an end, an object, a reason. So far everything is evident; but a very difficult question here arises: What can the end of the exterior action be? In the first place, it cannot be an end necessarily to be attained; for the necessity of the end would imply also the necessity of the means, and the external act in that supposition would become necessary. But suppose the end not necessary. God, in that case, would be free to accept it; and in that supposition he would either act without a reason, or have another reason or object for accepting an end not necessary to be attained; which second reason would, in its turn, be either necessary or not necessary. If the former, the same inconvenience would exist which we have pointed out before; if the latter, it would require a third reason to account for the second; and so on _ad infinitum_. The answer to this difficulty consists in the following doctrine. The reason by which an agent acts may be twofold: one, efficient or determining; the other, qualifying the action without determining it. Ontologically speaking, every intelligent agent must act for a reason, but not always be determined to act by the reason. This is eminently true when the agent or efficient cause is the first and universal agent. In this case there would be a contradiction, if the first and universal agent were to act by a reason determining him to the act. For then the predicate would destroy the subject; that is, if the first and universal agent were to act by a determining reason, he would no longer be first, but second agent; no longer universal, but particular. Because in that case the final cause would move him, and thus he would neither be the first nor the cause of everything. This theory resolves the question of the end of the external act. There exists neither an intrinsic reason on the part of the agent to determine him to act outside himself, nor an exterior reason on the part of the term to impel him to act, as we have already demonstrated. Consequently, there can be no determining reason for the external act, and the act must determine itself. The efficient or determining reason of the external act is the choice of the act which is absolute master of itself; it lies in its liberty: and here applies with strict truth that saying, "Stat pro ratione voluntas." And necessarily so, since the first agent either determines himself without any efficient reason, or he is determined by the reason; and in that case he is no longer first, but second. But then God acts outside himself without any reason? Without any efficient and determining reason, independent of his own act, it is granted; without a sufficient reason to make the act rational, it is denied. {555} If there be a reason which qualifies the act, it is sufficient and rational. Now, for instance, to create finite substances is to create substantial good; hence the act of creating them must be good, and therefore rational. And since every finite being, or its perfection, is good, inasmuch as it resembles the infinite goodness and perfection of God, it follows that, as St. Thomas says, the goodness of God is the end of the external act. _Divina bonitas est finis omnium rerum_.

The determination of the end of the exterior act, which is the goodness of God, as we have explained it, gives rise to another question, which has occupied the highest intellects among philosophers and theologians, and of which we must speak, to pave our way to lay down the whole plan of the exterior action of God, as proclaimed by the Catholic Church.

Finite beings are capable of indefinite perfection. An assemblage of finite beings would form a cosmos, or universe; and as they are capable of indefinite perfections, we may suppose an indefinite number of these, one more perfect than the other, all arrayed in beautiful order in the intelligence of the Creator, in which the intelligibility of all possible things resides. The question arises here, suppose God has determined to act outside himself, which of the whole series of the ideal worlds residing in his intelligence shall he choose? Can he choose any of them? Is he bound to choose the best?

The reader will remark that this question is different from that of the end of creation. The one establishes that God cannot be forced by any reason to act outside himself, else he would not be the first and universal cause. The other question that is proposed now, supposes that God has determined freely and independently of any reason to act outside himself, and asks whether God can choose any of the possible ideal worlds residing in his intellect, or is he forced to choose the best in the series?

Some philosophers, among whom are Leibnitz and Malebranche, contend that God is absolutely free to create or not to create; but once he has determined to create, he is bound to choose the best possible cosmos in the series. We shall let them expound their system in their own words.

"God," says Leibnitz, "is the supreme reason of things, because
those which are limited, like everything which comes under our
vision and experience, are contingent and have nothing in them
which may render their existence necessary; it being manifest
that time, space, and matter, united and uniform in themselves,
and indifferent to everything, may receive every other movement
and figure and be in another order. We must, therefore, seek
for a reason for the existence of the world, which is the whole
assemblage of contingent beings, and seek it in that substance
which carries within itself the reason of its own existence,
and which is consequently necessary and eternal.

"It is necessary also that this cause should be intelligent,
because the world which exists now, being contingent, and an
infinity of other worlds being equally possible, and equally
claiming existence, so to speak, it is necessary that the cause
of this world should have looked into all such possible worlds
to determine upon one.
{556}
This look or relation of an existing substance to simple
possibilities can only be the intelligence which possesses
their ideas; and to determine upon one, can only be the act of
a will which chooses. The power of such substance renders its
will efficacious. Power has relation to being; intelligence,
to truth; the will, to good. This cause, moreover, must be
infinite in every possible manner, and absolutely perfect in
power, in wisdom, in goodness; because it reaches all
possibility. And as all this goes together, we can only admit
one such substance. Its intelligence is the source of
metaphysical essences; its will, the origin of existences.
Behold, in a few words, the proof of one God with all his
perfections, and of the origin of things by him!

"Now, this supreme wisdom, allied to a goodness no less
infinite, could not fail to choose the best. For as a lesser
evil is a kind of good, so a lesser good is a kind of evil; and
there would be something to correct in the action of God, if
there were a means to do better. And as in mathematics when
there is neither a maximum nor a minimum--in fact, no
difference at all--all is done equally, or, when this is
impossible, nothing is done, [Footnote 163] so we may say the
same in respect to perfect wisdom, which is no less regulated
than mathematics, that if there had not been a best one among
all possible worlds God would not have created any. I call
world the whole series and collection of all existing things,
that none may say that several worlds might exist in different
times and places. For in that case they would be counted
together as one world, or, if you prefer, universe. And
although one might fill all time and space, it would always be
true that they could be filled in an infinity of manners, and
that there is an infinity of worlds possible; among which it is
necessary that God should have selected the best, because he
does nothing without acting according to supreme reason."
[Footnote 164]

[Footnote 163: If it is required, for instance, to draw the
shortest possible line from the centre to the circumference
of a circle, you may draw a line to every point of the
circumference, and there is no reason why a line should be
drawn to any one point rather than to another. Or, if an
object at the centre is attracted equally to every point in
the circumference, it cannot move in any direction, but
remains at rest.--ED.]

[Footnote 164: Leibnitz. Theod. P. I., par 8.]

Malebranche, in his ninth metaphysical conversation, after
having laid down the principle that the end of creation is the
glory of God, concludes that God must choose the best possible
cosmos, because thereby he would gain greater glory than if he
chose any of the series. "That which God wishes solely,
directly, and absolutely in his designs, is to act in the most
divine manner possible; it is to impress upon his conduct, as
well as upon his work, the character of his attributes; it is
to act exactly according to what, and to all he is. God has
seen from all eternity all possible works, and all possible
ways of producing them; and as he does not act but for his own
glory and according to what he is, he has determined to will
that work which could be effected and maintained by ways which
must honor him more than any other work produced in a
different manner."

The principles of this theory are two. One is to admit a necessity on the part of God to choose the best possible world in the series; the other is to suppose from reason that there is a best possible cosmos, as Leibnitz does; in other words, it is to limit the question only to the creative moment, and not to the whole external action of God. Now, we think that both propositions are false. As regards the first, why should God choose the best? For three reasons, according to the German philosopher. {557} The first is as follows: A lesser good is a kind of evil, if it be opposed to a greater good. But if God chose any world of the series in preference to the best, he would prefer a lesser good to a greater; hence, he would prefer a kind of evil to good, and the world chosen would be a kind of evil. The major of the syllogism might be granted, though not perfectly correct, if a lesser good were opposed to a greater which must necessarily be effected, but not otherwise. Suppose, among a number of actions, one more perfect than the other, of which I am not bound to perform any, I choose to perform any of the series, rejecting all others; how would the action which I choose to perform be a kind of evil? If I was bound to perform the best, and preferred one which is less so, in a certain sense we might grant that the one I select is a kind of evil. But when I am not bound to perform any, the one I choose, though not the most perfect, cannot change its nature of good because I might, if I preferred, perform a more perfect one. The argument, therefore, of Leibnitz, supposes what is to be proved, that God _was_ bound to effect the best possible cosmos; for only in that case it might be said that he preferred a certain kind of evil to good. His second reason is not more solid than the first: If God did not choose the best, we might find something to correct in his action, because there would be a means to do better. We might find something to correct in the action of God, if, in the world he chose in preference to the best, there was something wanting in the attributes and properties required by its nature. But if the world that God chooses is endowed with all its essential attributes and proper elements, certainly there would be nothing at all to correct in it. When that great Italian artist drew a fly upon the picture of his master, so true to nature that the master on coming home went right up to the canvas to chase it away, if any one holding the opinion of Leibnitz had told him, "There is something to correct in your fly, because you could have painted a madonna or a saint," the painter would certainly have been astonished, and his answer would have been, "I might do a greater and better work; but you cannot discover any defect in my fly, because you cannot deny that, though a fly, it is a masterpiece of art." The same reason holds good with regard to the subject in question. God might certainly do better; but if he prefers not to create the best possible cosmos, and selects any of the series, if the one selected is endowed with all the elements its nature requires, it is perfect in its own order; and no one could discover any flaw or defect in it, but every one would be obliged to call it a masterpiece. The last reason of Leibnitz has much less foundation, and savors very strongly of pantheism: If there had not been a best possible world in the series of all the possible ones, God would not have created any. This means neither more nor less than that the world, or the aggregate of all contingent beings, unless it had a kind of absolute perfection, would be impossible. It is tantamount to denying the very possibility of creation. Because a best possible world cannot be had; for the nature of all contingent beings is like number, which progresses indefinitely, without ever reaching to a number beyond which you cannot go. Consequently, the nature of contingent things, though capable of indefinite progress, is altogether incapable, ontologically speaking, of absolute perfection; a perfection which would be required to effect a world truly the best. {558} If, therefore, such ultimate perfection is required in order that God may create, it is evident that creation is impossible, and that optimism runs into pantheism. The argument drawn from the sufficient reason also fails. If God were to choose a cosmos less perfect in preference to one more perfect, he would have no sufficient reason for the preference. This argument fails, first, because a cosmos, the very best and most perfect, cannot be had, as we have hinted just now. Therefore, there is no necessity for any sufficient reason for choice. Suppose a series of worlds, one more perfect than the other, arrayed in the mind of God according to numerical order. If God were to choose the tenth in the series, there would be no sufficient reason for his preferring it to the eleventh; and if he were to select this last, there would be no sufficient reason for his preferring it to the twelfth, and so on indefinitely; and as we cannot reach to a cosmos which would be the last and the highest in perfection, so there never could be a sufficient reason for the preference of any. Consequently; there being no sufficient reason for preferring any cosmos of the series, God is free to choose any.

In the second place, even if there could be a best possible cosmos, the reason alleged by Leibnitz would not, on that account, oblige God to choose it. For a reason may be objectively or subjectively sufficient; that is, its sufficiency may emerge from the object to be created, or from the agent. Now, granting the principle of the German philosopher, God might have a subjective reason to make him act according to the requirements of wisdom, even in preferring any cosmos of the series and rejecting the best. This subjective reason might be to show and to put beyond any possibility of doubt his absolute freedom and independence in the creative act. No optimist can deny that this may have been a sufficient reason for the creative act. Consequently, even granting the possibility of a best possible world, God was not bound to create it.

The reason of Malebranche is not more conclusive than those we have just refuted. God must prefer the best possible cosmos, because this alone would manifest his glory in the best possible manner. The argument would be conclusive if it were proven that God does wish to, or must manifest his glory in the best possible manner. But this the French philosopher does not and cannot prove. Because the best possible manner for God to manifest his infinite excellence is, to cause an infinite effect. Now, this is a contradiction in terms.

The second position of the optimists to which we object is, to assume the possibility of a best possible cosmos, as Leibnitz does, from _reason_. Now, we contend that reason alone, unaided by revelation, proves decidedly the contrary; it proves that, ontologically speaking, a best possible cosmos cannot exist, and that if there be a way by which to raise the cosmos to a certain ultimate perfection, or perfection beyond which it could not be supposed to go, this is altogether outside and beyond the province of reason alone, and must be determined by revelation. We have already alluded to this in the examination of the third argument of Leibnitz. The best possible cosmos implies a certain ultimate and absolute perfection. Now, ontologically speaking, this is impossible in finite beings. For the question here is between two extremes, the finite and the infinite. Between the two lies the indefinite. {559} The first extreme, or the finite, may be supposed to ascend the ladder of perfection, or quantity of being, indefinitely, without ever reaching the infinite; because its nature is essentially immutable, as every other essence. Hence, suppose it as great in perfection as you can, it will be always finite, and consequently you may always suppose a greater still. Hence, admitting a series of numberless worlds one ontologically more perfect than the other, and you can never arrive at one of which you may say this is the best, because you can always suppose a better still.