Chapter XVI: By Their Fruits Ye Shall Know Them (1)

Mr. Yorke went home from that first town-meeting, and opened his Bolingbroke to look for a sedative. He found this: “The incivilities I meet with from opposite parties have been so far from rendering me 163 violent or sour to any, that I think myself obliged to them all. Some have cured me of fears, by showing me how impotent the world is; others have cured me of hope, by showing how precarious popular friendships are. All have cured me of surprise.”

Mr. Yorke readjusted his glasses, and read the passages a second time; but it was not the sedative he wanted. There was something the matter with Bolingbroke; his was a worldly and selfish philosophy; and it was, moreover, a discouraging one; for the reader wished to believe that it was possible to awaken and keep alive in the popular mind an enthusiasm for justice. Mr. Yorke was not aware that in this warfare he had drawn nearer to God, and that what he missed in his old favorite was that final, heavenly motive which, running like a golden chain through the simplest human actions, strings them into jewels, lacking which the noblest human thoughts and deeds crumble like sand on the sea-shore.

Closing his book with a feeling of disappointment, his thought glanced down to later times, and he remembered a noble sentiment uttered by one whom he admired, indeed, but half-unwillingly--one of the purest and most heroic men of our time, a man who lacks nothing but faith.

“With God, one is a majority!” said Wendell Phillips.

The thought came down on Mr. Yorke’s heart like a hammer upon an anvil, and sent sparks up into his eyes and brain.

“I take back all that I have said against that man,” he exclaimed, starting up and walking to and fro. “A man who has a vision of absolute honesty cannot help being impatient of policy. Strong conviction never is, never can be, tolerant.” He ran his fingers through his hair as he paced the room, and combed it up on end. He would have liked to go directly back to the town-hall, and perhaps would have done so but for the probability that it was now dark and empty.

“It is not pleasant to be insulted by such people,” he muttered; “but it would be still less pleasant to think that the rascals could silence me. I will be heard at the next meeting,

‘Though hell itself should gape,
And bid me hold my peace.’”

It was some time before Mr. Yorke had the opportunity he desired, though scarcely a day passed in which he did not speak some word for the truth. There was no other town-meeting that summer. The people contented themselves with the weekly scandalous battery of the _Seaton Herald_, and with a small domestic persecution. A few pious church-members were especially active. This was a kind of missionary labor which suited them well, for it gave the pretext of zeal to their bigotry and uncharitableness. If a lady could have persuaded her Irish servant-girl to eat meat on Friday, she would have gloried in the triumph.

“I will not eat of flesh on the day when the flesh of Jesus Christ was hacked and mangled for the sins of the world,” said one faithful girl.

“But nobody knows on what day of the week he died,” the mistress urged. “That is one of the lies of your priests. Now, Bridget”--laying a gold half-eagle on the table--“this money shall be yours if you will eat that piece of meat.”

The servant looked at her mistress with that dignity which a scorn of meanness can give to the lowliest. “Mrs. Blank,” she said, “you remind me of the devil tempting our Saviour when he was fasting.”

The temptation and the occasion were trivial, but they called out the 164 spirit of the martyrs.

Cold weather seemed to cool the zeal of the Know-Nothings; but with another spring it kindled again, making the Catholic school its principal point of attack. Anonymous letters were written to the teacher, threatening her if she did not give it up. The _Herald_ contained, week after week, insulting and scarcely veiled references to her; and the children could not go through the streets unmolested. But no notice was taken of these annoyances, and the school prospered in spite of them. The children came unfailingly, not, perhaps, without fear, but certainly without yielding to fear. They were deeply impressed by the position in which they found themselves. All their childish gayety deserted them. They gathered and talked quietly, instead of playing; they drew shyly away without answering when the Protestant children attacked them. “Keep out of their way, and never answer back,” was the charge constantly repeated in the ears of these little confessors of the faith, and they obeyed it perfectly. Dear children! may they never lose in later years that faith by which they suffered so early in life. Herewith, one who watched and admired their constancy sends them loving greeting.

When the first examination for prizes took place in this school, Mr. Yorke was present, and made an address; and when it was over, he and Father Rasle walked away together.

“I am obliged to go away, to be gone a month,” the priest said. “I must go to-night. But I do not like to leave my flock to the wolves. There is no help for it, though. The bishop wishes to see me at Brayon, and I must visit the Indians on Oldtown Island.”

“I advise you, sir, to go as quietly as you can, and let no one see you go or know that you are going,” Mr. Yorke said.

Father Rasle looked surprised. “Why, you do not imagine that any person would molest me?”

“I do not imagine, but I am sure that the Know-Nothings would do anything,” was the reply. “It is not safe to give them an opportunity for mischief.”

Still the priest looked incredulous.

“I cannot see why they should touch me,” he said. “I have done nothing to provoke them. They insult us, they tell lies, and I do not resent it. Do you know the stories that have been brought to me this week? I find them amusing.” He laughed pleasantly. “See how they represent the church! A Catholic man, they say, wanted to steal a hundred dollars. Now, to take so much at once would be a mortal sin; but to steal ten cents would be only a venial sin. So my brave Catholic steals ten cents, and, after a week, ten cents more, and so on, till he has the hundred dollars. By this means, he secures his money, and is guilty only of a thousand venial sins, which he gets forgiveness for by giving the priest fifty dollars. That is one of Mr. John Conway’s stories. Here is another that was published in the _Herald_, with my name and the others in full. You know that Mrs. Mary O’Conner’s husband lately died in California. Well, the _Herald_ says that the poor widow came to me, weeping and lamenting that she had not even the consolation of seeing her husband’s grave; and I told her that, for thirty dollars, I would have him buried here. She had saved thirty dollars, earned by washing, and she brought it to me. Three days after, I told her that her husband’s body had been miraculously brought, and I pointed out the spot where it was buried, down here 165 behind the church. But I warned her that she must not dig there, as it would be a sacrilege, and that, if she did, the body would disappear. Here’s another: Patrick Mulligan confesses some sin to me, and, for a penance, I tell him to give himself twenty-five blows with the discipline. Patrick goes home, gets ready for his penance, and suddenly remembers that he has no discipline. It is late at night. He puts his head out the window, and sees that Mrs. Mahony, next door, has forgotten to take in her clothes-line, and a fine new clothes-line it is. Pat blesses the saints, creeps down-stairs, steals the clothes-line, and, going back, cuts it up into a beautiful discipline. After he has piously beaten himself, he burns the cord all up, that he may not be known as a thief, goes to bed with a clear conscience, and sleeps the sleep of the just.

“Now, sir,” the priest concluded, “it is not likely that I am to be attacked for such stories as that. Of course, no sensible person believes them; or, if people should doubt, they can easily find out the truth.”

“The truth, my dear sir, is precisely what they do not wish to find out,” Mr. Yorke replied. “They want to be exasperated, and, since you will not afford them a pretext, they will welcome any lie, and no questions asked. Moreover, you are not to think that such slanders originate with the low only, and influence only the low. I came upon a book the other day written by Catherine Beecher. You have heard of the Beechers, of course? The title was _Truth Stranger than Fiction: a Narrative_, she calls it, _of Recent Transactions involving Inquiries in regard to the principles of Honor, Truth, and Justice which obtain in a distinguished American University_. That university is in Connecticut; and the affair was one which created a good deal of stir among the Protestant clergy a few years ago. Miss Beecher seems to prove clearly in her book that certain eminent doctors of divinity, and professors, with ladies of their families, ruined the reputation of a distinguished and innocent woman. But what does Miss Beecher herself do, in the preface to this very book wherein she appears as the champion of ‘honor, truth, and justice,’ spelt with capital letters? She goes out of her way to speak of the Catholic clergy, and asserts that, since their ministrations are efficacious, no matter what their characters may be, ‘there is no special necessity, on this account, to limit admissions to this office to those only who are virtuous and devout.’ Now, the sentence is artfully worded to evade the charge of slander; but almost all non-Catholics interpret it, as the writer wished they should, to mean that, in ordaining a Catholic priest, it is not considered of any consequence whether he is a man of good character or not. It has been so interpreted by every person whom I have asked to read it. I give you another instance: Doctor Martin took upon himself to send Edith some anti-Catholic books, which I returned to him without letting her see them. I glanced into one, and found it divided into paragraphs, each containing a charge against your church, illustrated by an anecdote. I read one paragraph, headed _A Church without a Holy Ghost_. Of course, you were charged with not believing in sanctification; and the anecdote was of a man who became a Protestant after having been a Catholic forty years. When his new teachers told him of the Holy Ghost, he exclaimed, ‘Holy Ghost! What is that? I have been in the Catholic Church forty years, and I never 166 heard of a Holy Ghost.’ Now, sir, this, of course, seems to you idiotic; but a Protestant doctor of divinity keeps such books, and gives them to people to read, and repeats such falsehoods in his sermons. You see what you have to expect.”

“Shall I, then, publish a card denying the truth of these stories?” Father Rasle asked, with an expression of face which showed his distaste for the task.

“No one will read it if you do,” was the reply. “You must leave all to time. At present, for you to be accused is to be condemned. Who was it--Montesquieu?--who says, ‘If you are accused of having stolen the towers of Notre Dame, bolt at once’? That is your case. Whatever they may charge you with, consider yourself convicted.”

They had by this time reached the priest’s house, a little cottage close to the corner of the two streets. Mr. Yorke declining an invitation to enter, they leaned on the gate a few minutes to finish their talk.

“You must not judge our country by what you see here,” Mr. Yorke said. “What you complain of is merely the abuse of a good gift. A priest of your church has expressed himself very well concerning these difficulties. ‘It always pains me, in such periods,’ he says, ‘to hear men express doubt concerning our institutions. As for me, I would rather suffer from the license of freedom than the oppression of authority. War is better than a false peace; riot better than servitude; heresy better than indifference. But none of these things,’ he adds, ‘is to my liking. And may the good God preserve us from them all!’ That was Father John, an American priest.”

“Ah! I know him,” Father Rasle said brightly. “I happened to travel once in his company. We were in a steamboat, and some minister entered into controversy with him. Catholic Christianity degrades the man, the minister said. The Catholic cannot hold any communication with God. If he should be cast away on a desert island, he would be without God. All must come to him through the church. He has in himself no power to reflect the divine motions. ‘You mistake,’ says Father John; ‘and I can show by a familiar figure; Suppose that every man in the world should insist that his timepiece was correct, and should refuse to regulate it by any other. Of course, the chronometers would all wag their several ways, no two alike, and there would be a ceaseless wrangling as to what was the time of day, and every man would think that he carried the sun in his pocket. To the dogs with the meridian and the almanac! my watch is right! That is Protestantism. Now, the Catholic has his spiritual dial also; but since he knows that it is a fallible instrument, he keeps it regulated by the great clock of the church. The consequence is truth and harmony. Every Catholic conscience ticks alike; and, when the meridian-gun of the great regulator is fired, every man says, ‘It’s twelve o’clock. Amen!’”

Mr. Yorke’s warning was well-timed, for the event proved that Father Rasle would scarcely have been allowed to leave the town without molestation had it been known that he was going. No one knew it, however, but the priest’s housekeeper, Mr. Yorke, and the man who drove him over to Brayon that night.

“I do not think that any precaution was needed,” Father Rasle said to his companion, as they drove through the dewy woods by starlight. “But since it was as easy to come away quiet, why, I have. I have no wish 167 or right to throw my life away.”

Mr. Yorke did not know what had happened till Patrick told him the next morning. The crowd had gathered in the streets, it appeared, and taken their usual promenade up Irish Lane, with the usual result. No one came out or answered them, and they could not see a face in the windows, even. But if the patience of the Irish was not worn out, that of their persecutors was. Since they could not provoke an attack, they would make one. From Irish Lane they had marched to the priest’s house, arming themselves with stones and brickbats.

“There isn’t a whole window left in the house, sir,” said Patrick; “and there’s a stone lying on Father Rasle’s bed, where it was thrown through the window, that would have killed him if he had been there, as they thought he was.”

We trust that certain expressions which Mr. Yorke made use of on hearing this story will not be remembered against him on the day of final reckoning. They were not pious expressions, nor mild, nor, indeed, very polished ones; but they were strong. He put on his hat with an emphasis which left a large dent in the crown, refused to take any breakfast, and started for the town.

“What does he mean to do?” cried his wife, wringing her hands. “I must go after him. Oh! if Carl were here. Girls, it is of no use to oppose me. I must know what goes on.”

The breakfast was left untouched, and the whole household gathered about the mother, coaxing and soothing her. Patrick should go down, they said, and keep his master in view.

“What protection would an Irish Catholic be to him?” cried the lady.

Betsey would go, she declared, standing with arms akimbo and her fierce head raised. She would like to see the man that would stand in her way when she was roused!

But, no; Betsey was too pugilistic. If Mr. Yorke were to see her, he would be irritated. Some one more conciliating and politic was wanted.

Clara cut the matter short by appearing in walking dress. She would go down and see what the trouble was, and send a messenger home immediately.

Meantime, Mr. Yorke was in no danger whatever. People were, indeed, more good-natured than usual after the success of the night before. He encountered mocking smiles, but no threats. His first visit was to one of the selectmen. “What are you going to do with the rascals who broke Father Rasle’s windows, last night?” he demanded, without any ceremony of greeting.

The man assumed an air of pompous indifference. “I do not propose to do anything,” he said. “If they were brought before me, as a justice, I should try them. But I am not called on to take any step in the matter.”

“Perhaps you were one of them,” Mr. Yorke said bitterly.

The man’s face reddened. “I shall not take any notice of your insults,” he said. “It is well known that those windows were broken by a few rowdies who cannot be found out. The town is not responsible for them. And even if they were known, the feeling of the community is such that they would not be punished. People are so much excited against the abuses of popery, and the interference of the priest in our public schools, that they are willing to see every Catholic driven 168 out of the town.”

If there was ever a moment in Mr. Yorke’s life when he regretted being a gentleman, it would be safe to say that this was that moment. To talk with such a man was folly. But if some muscular Christian had entered the scene opportunely, and applied to the town-officer’s back a score or so of such logical conclusions as he was fitted to understand, or had enlightened his cranium by propounding to it an argument from an unanswerable fist, Mr. Yorke would, doubtless, have left the office with a smile of serene satisfaction, and a conviction that the dramatic proprieties had been sustained. No such person appearing, he went away with anything but an amiable expression.

His next visit was to the Rev. John Conway. The minister had just finished his breakfast, and came into the room with a comfortable, deliberate air, rather exasperating to a man who was not only indignant, but fasting. His guarded look showed that he expected an attack.

By an effort, Mr. Yorke greeted him courteously, then began: “I come, sir,” he said, “to ask you to raise your voice and use your influence to put a stop to such outrages as were committed last night, and bring the perpetrators of that to punishment.”

Mr. Conway seated himself with dignity, cast down his eyes, puckered his mouth accurately, put the tips of his right-hand fingers to the tips of his left-hand fingers in an argumentative manner, and spoke slowly and solemnly:

“I am sorry that any violence has been done. But when a community becomes incensed by encroachments which threaten their most sacred interests, and when they find that the laws are not stringent enough to afford them security from an insidious foe, we cannot expect that they will act with that calmness and deliberation which is to be desired. I deprecate--”

“You are not in your pulpit preaching to blockheads!” Mr. Yorke burst forth. “I came here to talk common sense.”

A cold glimmer showed under the minister’s lower eyelids, and a flush went over his face; but he had more self-control than his visitor, or he had not that sense of outraged justice and decency which, to that visitor’s mind, made forbearance a vice, consequently he said nothing for a moment. There was, indeed, no more to be said. Mr. Yorke rose and went to the door, but stopped there. Though appeal was vain, warning might not be.

“I warn you, sir,” he said--“I, a Protestant--that your course is not only dishonest, but impolitic. You are working so as to secure the final triumph of those you hate, and to bring about your own ruin. These anti-Catholic mobs are not Protestant, except as they protest against all religious restraint. They hate Catholicism most, simply because it is the strongest religion. You ministers think, perhaps, that you use them; but you mistake. They use you, and they despise you. They speak you fair now, because you stand between them and the law and give them a certain respectability. Indeed, their only power is derived from you. But when they shall have crushed Catholicism, if they ever do, they will have the same weapons you have placed in their hands against you. Do not hope that by the course you are taking you are going to make Baptist, or Congregational, or Methodist church-members; you are going to make infidels.”

A sense of the utter uselessness of his mission had restored Mr. Yorke 169 to calmness. He spoke firmly, but without any excitement, and, having ended, left the house, and walked quietly homeward. Clara, coming down East Street, and looking anxiously right and left, saw him, and dodged out of sight. With her foot propped on a door-step, she made a writing-desk of her knee, hastily pencilling a line to her mother. While she wrote, three several families peeped and wondered at her through their blinds. She looked about for an Irish boy--saw one, and sent him with her message.

“Run like the wind till you come in sight of the house,” she charged him, “but walk slowly up the avenue, or they will think that you bring bad news, and be frightened.”

“All right, mamma!” Clara had written. “Everybody I meet is as quiet and innocent-looking as a cat that has been stealing cream. I saw papa this minute; I am going up to see Hester, and will be back before dinner.”

Mrs. Yorke kissed and feasted the boy who brought the news; Melicent searched for old clothes, and sent him home with garments enough to last him a year, and both nearly cried over him, “Poor little persecuted dear!” Betsey bestowed on him a pie, and the two Pattens, having nothing of their own to give, stole each of them a cucumber, which they slyly slipped into his pocket. People who lived with the Yorkes always thought as the Yorkes did. There was never more than one party in their house. Their domestics were partisans, their dependents adorers.

Edith went out into the garden, and gathered some flowers for the lad, talking with him meanwhile. It was a calm June day--after a rain-storm. The sky had started to clear away--got so far that there was nothing left but a pearly fleck of cloud that just netted the sunshine--then had forgotten all about itself. A lovely, dreamy softness overhung the scene, and the drops of rain that lay on every leaf and flower shone, but did not flash.

The boy gazed at Edith with admiration. Her head was bare, and she wore a blue dress, with loose sleeves, and a little crisp white ruffle close around the throat. She stood on tiptoe, and stretched her arms to reach a branch of red roses. As she caught it, a shower of drops fell over her head and face. “_Asperges me!_” she whispered.

“Oh! she’s real pretty,” the boy said afterward to his mother. “She has dimples in her elbows just like baby.”

When the wreath was made, Edith hung it round the child’s neck, his arms being full, and walked down to the gate with him. “Try to be a little saint, and not be angry, no matter what may be said to you,” she said. “If you are afraid, say the ‘We fly to thy patronage, O holy Mother of God,’ and she will take care of you. Good-by, dear.”

She leaned on the gate, and looked after him. Her cheeks were as red as the roses she had gathered, and her expression was not, as formerly, one of sunny calmness. She was as quiet in manner and speech as ever, but it was the quiet of a strong and vivid nature fully awake, but not fully satisfied, perplexed, yet self-controlled. So much had happened to her in the last year! She had been called away suddenly from childhood, and study, and vague, bright dreams to confront a positive and quite unexpected reality. Unless she should make a vow never to marry, then she was to marry Dick Rowan, that was her conclusion; and having once made up her mind in that respect, she 170 thought as little about it as possible. Perhaps her only definite thought was that Dick might have waited awhile before speaking, and let her study more; for study had now become impossible. She wanted to be in continual motion, to have work and change. A deep and steady excitement burned in her cheeks, her eyes, her lips. Her piety, instead of being tender and tranquil, had grown impassioned. To die for the faith, to suffer torments for it, to be in danger, that seemed to her desirable. She almost regretted that she had home and friends to bind her. If she were still with Mrs. Rowan, in the little house that was under that clay-bank, then she would be free, and perhaps they would kill her. She had scarcely been to Mass that year without thinking how glorious it would be if a mob would break in and kill them all. Her imagination hovered ceaselessly over this subject.

Seeing her uncle coming, she waited for him. “We must make up our minds that we have not seen the worst that they will do, little girl,” he said. “There is no law.”

She smiled involuntarily.

“Why, are you pleased at that?” he exclaimed.

“There might be a worse fate than dying for one’s faith, Uncle Charles,” she said, clasping her hands over his arms.

He laughed, and patted her cheek. “Is that your notion?” he asked. “If it is, remember that I have a word to say about it. I shall fight hard before you are made a martyr of. I see what you have been reading--Crashaw’s _St. Theresa_:

‘Farewell, house, and farewell, home:
She’s for the Moors and martyrdom.’

Do I guess and quote rightly, mademoiselle?”

She only smiled in reply. But well she knew that she had been reading from a deeper book than Crashaw.

A few nights after, the Catholic school-house was blown up with gunpowder, and left a perfect wreck. “Of course!” said Mr. Yorke.

“The teacher has taken the children into the galleries of the church,” Patrick said.

“The church will be destroyed, then,” replied his master.

It was not destroyed altogether at once, however, but every window in it was broken. This was done in broad daylight, just after a summer sunset.

Mr. Yorke put himself before the mob, entreating them to forbear, even trying to push back the foremost ones, but without avail. “Don’t listen to him! His niece is a Catholic,” they cried. “To the church!”

Two or three gentlemen drove up in their buggies, and sat at a safe distance while the work of destruction went on, and several women lingered on the outskirts of the crowd. In a neighboring street, out of sight, Edith Yorke stood with Clara, and listened to the sound of breaking glass. For a moment, natural indignation overcame piety in her heart. “Oh! if I were a thousand men on horseback,” she exclaimed. “I’d like to ride them down, and trample them under foot!” Then the next moment, “Oh! how wicked I am!”

“You are not wicked!” Clara said angrily. “I won’t have you talk such nonsense.”

Clara was in that state of mind when she must scold somebody.

Of course the authorities took no notice of this affair. The teacher had the glass reset, and continued her school. Mr. Yorke wrote to Father Rasle, advising him not to return to Seaton for a while, and a lull succeeded.

And now the Yorkes took breath, and felt not quite alone, for Carl was coming home, and Dick Rowan would soon be there, and Captain Cary was coming down.

TO BE CONTINUED.

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THE STIGMATA AND ECSTASIES OF LOUISE LATEAU OF BOIS D’HAINE. 171

Since the days of St. Francis of Assisium, whose life in the thirteenth century was one constant succession of marvels, the occasional appearance upon favored individuals of the stigmata,[45] and the occurrence of ecstatic visions, have excited the deepest interest in devout minds.

To the eye of faith, these departures from the ordinary laws of nature, like the miracles which God has vouchsafed in all ages of the church, have seemed fresh and brilliant illustrations of this divine power. To the purely scientific mind they have presented inexplicable phenomena, which, being irreconcilable with natural laws, have been either openly derided or attributed to pious fraud.

Nor can the physiologist be harshly blamed for scepticism in this direction, for history teems with the records of epidemics of religious enthusiasm, in which fanaticism had led its victims to claim repeated ecstatic visions of God, and to be the recipients of supernatural revelations. The descriptions transmitted to us of the Pietists and Illuminati in Germany, of the French and English Shakers, the Welsh Jumpers, and many others of the sects to which the Reformation gave birth, abound in instances of these ecstatic outbreaks.

The visions of Swedenborg, as related in his _Arcana Cœlestia_, and in the numerous biographies[46] of this extraordinary person, are well known; and among similar claimants to supernatural experience, Arnold’s description of John Engelbrecht[47] is one of the most curious and interesting.

In Hecker’s _Epidemics of the Middle Ages_ is given a full account of the “Convulsionnaires of St. Médard,” so-called from the cemetery of St. Médard in Paris, where a noted Jansenist deacon was buried in 1727. The fanatical excitement of his followers first showed itself in pilgrimages and reported miraculous cures at his grave, to which they gradually flocked in great numbers, many becoming convulsed with terrible contortions, jumping, shouting, rolling on the ground, spinning around with incredible velocity, running their heads against walls, while others preached fanatical harangues or pretended to be gifted with _clairvoyance_. For more than fifty years these scandalous exhibitions continued, Convulsionism growing into a distinct sect in spite of the efforts of the government to suppress it, until swept out of existence by the greater excitement of the French Revolution.

In many of these cases, the supposition of intentional fraud was doubtless well founded; in others, the ecstatics were themselves the unconscious dupes of their own fanaticism. To appreciate the cautious scrutiny with which the church, however, sifts pretensions of this nature in any of her children, the reader need only consult the lives 172 of such saints as have been thus favored.[48]

The psychological condition or state which is somewhat vaguely termed ecstasy has always possessed peculiar interest both for the theologian and the physician; and, although numerous definitions of it have been attempted, it is extremely difficult to convey to the general reader a clear idea of its distinctive nature. The word itself usually signifies a condition in which the mind and soul is transferred, or placed out of its usual state.

St. Augustine called it “a transport, by which the soul is separated and, as it were, removed to a distance from the bodily senses,” and, following this definition, Ambrose Paré, the father of French surgery, terms it “a reverie with rapture of the mind, as if the soul were parted from the body.” St. Bonaventure, the contemporary and biographer of St. Francis of Assisium, says that ecstasy “is an elevation of the soul to that source of divine love which surpasses human understanding, an elevation by which it is separated from the exterior man.” St. Thomas Aquinas, Cardinal Bona, and other theological writers give similar definitions; while among medical authorities, Briquet, J. Franck, Bérard, Thomas King Chambers, Guislain of Brussels, Clymer, Gratiolet, and many others describe its symptoms and discuss its pathological relations.

Well-marked ecstasy and the stigmata have but seldom been united in the same individual, and still more rarely have these extraordinary manifestations been subjected to the searching tests of science.

It will not, then, be amiss to present the readers of this magazine with a brief description of the most notable illustration in recent times of these marvellous phenomena, as the case has acquired a European celebrity, attracting the scrutiny of many savants, and forming the subject of an interesting memoir[49] by a professor in the Belgian University of Louvain. From his description of the facts, which he was officially appointed to investigate in their scientific bearings, we shall condense the following account.

In the rich and industrial province of Hainault, in Belgium, is situated the village of Bois d’Haine, about midway between the towns of Charleroi and Mons. It is mainly composed of cottages occupied by workmen in the neighboring manufactories; and in one of the poorest of these Louise Lateau, the subject of this notice, was born January 30, 1850.

She is the youngest of three children, all daughters; and their parents were poor working people, strong and ordinarily healthy, and never subject to any nervous hæmorrhagic disease. The mother is still living and in good health; the father died during an epidemic of small-pox at the age of twenty-eight. Louise, then two and a half months old, contracted this disease from her father, but made a rapid recovery. The family continued to struggle on in poverty, the children’s food being poor and scant--“plusque frugal,” says Dr. Lefebvre--but they nevertheless grew up robust and healthy. When only eight, Louise was placed in the temporary care of a poor old woman in the neighborhood, while the latter’s son was engaged in outdoor work. A little later she was sent to school for five months, learning her 173 catechism and a little reading and writing. In her twelfth year, having made her first communion, she entered the service of her great-aunt, who lived at Manage, near Bois d’Haine, in a certain degree of comfort. In this position she displayed great activity and devotion to her duties, giving herself up day and night to the service of her relative, who died in a year or two. She then entered the service of a respectable lady in Brussels, where she remained only seven months on account of an illness, the nature of which is not described; after this she obtained another place in Manage, where, as before, she left behind her the reputation of devoted courage, of patient toil, humble and quiet piety, and charity for the poor.

About the beginning of 1867, she became more feeble in health without being exactly ill or obliged to suspend her customary work. She lost appetite and color, suffered from severe neuralgic pains in the head, and her skin assumed the greenish-white hue that always indicates impoverishment of the blood. This had been aggravated by a severe attack of quinsy; and on several occasions, during the early part of April of this year, she spat blood, the source of which (whether from lungs or stomach) could not be decided.

For an entire month she now became constantly weaker, taking almost nothing during this time but water and the medicines prescribed for her. The exhaustion increased to such a degree that her death was thought imminent, and on the 15th of April the last sacraments were administered. She now suddenly improved, and so rapidly that, on the 21st of April, she was able to walk to Mass at the parish church, three-quarters of a mile distant. This apparently remarkable cure was the first incident that attracted public notice to her case; crowds of people coming to see her as an object of curiosity.

This period may be viewed as her turning point from girlhood into a woman; and, at her then age of eighteen, she is described as being slightly below the middle height, with full face, very little color, a fine delicate skin, light hair, clear, soft blue eyes, a small mouth, and very white well-shaped teeth.

Her expression is intelligent and agreeable, and her general health is good, and free from any scrofulous or other constitutional taint. She has always worked hard, and exhibited considerable physical endurance. Mentally she is represented as unemotional, lacking in imagination, by no means bright, but of good, strong common sense, artless, straightforward, and devoid of enthusiasm. Her education is limited, although she has improved the elementary instruction received during her brief school term, speaking French with ease and some degree of purity, reading with difficulty, and writing very little, and incorrectly at that. Her moral character is honest, simple, transparent. Dr. Lefebvre and others, who questioned her about her ecstatic visions, repeatedly tried to test her sincerity, but never succeeded in making her contradict herself or tend in the least degree to exaggeration: nor could she ever be induced by her young friends to discuss her stigmata or visions, upon which she was equally reticent with her friends and her family. Of a naturally gay and happy disposition, she has shown in various circumstances much patience, determination, and courage. Amidst many domestic anxieties and troubles, often losing her rest day and night during the illness of 174 her relatives, and falsely accused by her mother (who seems to have been a person of difficult temper) of being the cause of all the family’s misfortunes, she remained invariably calm and cheerful. Another of her most striking traits was her charity for the poor; “poor herself, she loved to relieve the poor,” and many instances are narrated of her devotion to the sick and helpless during the cholera that raged at Bois d’Haine in 1866. From her infancy almost she was exceptionally devout, and her piety was always practical, and devoid of affectation and display. In her interior and religious life, as in her domestic duties, she was simple, earnest, and discreet.

A recollection of these details of her character and antecedents is necessary for the proper appreciation of the phenomena now to be described. These are of two distinct kinds, having no connection but their accidental association in the same individual; and that they may be more clearly understood, they will be considered separately, first the stigmata, then the ecstatic trances, and, thirdly, the nature of the evidence upon which the extraordinary facts rest.

I.--THE STIGMATA.

The first occurrence of the bleeding was noticed by Louise on Friday, the 24th of April, 1868, when she saw blood issuing from a spot on the left side of the chest. With her habitual reserve, she mentioned it to no one. The next day it recurred at the same spot; and she, then also observed blood on the top of each foot. She now confided it to her director, who, although thinking the circumstance extraordinary, reassured her and bade her keep the facts to herself. During the night preceding the second Friday following, May 8, blood oozed from the left side and from both feet, and toward nine o’clock in the morning it flowed freely from the back and palm of each hand. At this juncture it seemed impossible longer to keep the matter secret, and her confessor directed Louise to consult a physician.

Recognizing the medical character of the case, the periodical bleeding, and the ecstatic trances which subsequently occurred, the religious authorities felt constrained to place its investigation in the hands of a medical expert, and for this purpose called in the aid of Dr. Lefebvre. A more judicious choice could not have been made, as this gentleman had long devoted himself to the study of nervous affections, and had passed fifteen years in medical charge of two hospitals for the insane, and in lecturing upon mental diseases in the University of Louvain.

Of the minuteness of his examination, and of his credibility as a witness, each reader can judge for himself.

If, during the course of the week, from Saturday to Thursday morning, the hands and feet be examined, the following facts are revealed: On the back of each hand there is an oval patch about half an inch (two and a half centimetres) long, of a more rosy hue than the rest of the skin, dry and glistening on the surface. On the palm of each hand a similar oval patch was seen, equally red, and corresponding exactly with the site of that on the back. On the sole and back of each foot are found similar marks, having the form of a parallelogram with rounded angles, nearly three-quarters of an inch (three centimetres) in length.

On examining these spots with a magnifying-glass of twenty diameters, the epidermis (or superficial layer of the skin) is found to be thin 175 but unbroken, and through it the cutis (or true skin) can readily be seen.

The latter looks perfectly natural, except that the papillæ, or little elevations in which terminate the nerves of touch, are slightly atrophied and flattened, this giving rise to the glistening appearance of the surface. When any one of the stigmata has not bled for a week or two, the reddish discoloration disappears, and the papillæ resume their normal appearance. No permanent marks remain upon the forehead; and, except on Friday, the bleeding points cannot there be distinguished. From a natural feeling of delicacy, the chest was only examined during the ecstasy.

The first symptoms announcing the approaching bleeding usually appear about noon on Thursday. Upon each of the rosy spots on the hands and feet, a _bleb_, or little bladder, is seen to rise and slowly develop. This exactly corresponds, when fully formed, with the size of the patch; and is filled with a transparent serous fluid, sometimes of a reddish tint in those on the soles of the feet and the palms of the hands. The bleb consists of the epidermis detached and elevated from the true skin by the accumulating serous fluid. No swelling or redness is seen in the zone of skin immediately surrounding the bleb.

The bleeding nearly always begins between midnight and one A.M. on Friday, and it does not occur in all the stigmata at once, but in each successively and in no regular order. Most commonly the flow begins from the side of the chest, then in succession from the stigmata on the hands, feet, and forehead. A rent occurs in the raised cuticle, which is sometimes longitudinal, sometimes crucial or triangular: the serous fluid then escapes, and is immediately followed by blood, which oozes from the exposed papillæ. Usually the flow of blood detaches and washes away the shreds of epidermis, and the bleeding surface is left uncovered; but sometimes on the palms of the hands and the soles of the feet, where the epidermis is thicker, the blood collects and clots in the bleb.

At each of his Friday visits, Dr. Lefebvre examined the stigma on the chest, which lay in the space between the fifth and sixth ribs, external to and a little below the centre of the left breast.[50]

At the first examination, which was made August 30, 1868, the bleeding point showed no trace of a previous vesicle; the cuticle was not detached, nor was the skin discolored, and the blood was seen to ooze from three little points almost imperceptible to the naked eye, and about one centimetre apart. In three subsequent examinations a vesicle had formed like those on the hands and feet; it had burst, and the blood oozed from a circular spot of the raw skin nearly a quarter of an inch in diameter.

Upon four different occasions, blood was observed to be flowing from the head. It was difficult to ascertain the condition of the skin under the hair; but on the forehead no vesicle appeared, nor was there any apparent change in the color of the skin. The blood was seen to issue from twelve or fifteen minute points arranged in circular form upon the forehead. A bandage, of the breadth of two fingers, passing around the head equidistant from the eyebrows and the roots of the hair, would include the bleeding zone, which is slightly puffy and painful upon pressure. On examining these points with a magnifying 176 lens, most of them looked like minute cuts in the skin, of triangular shape, as if made by the bite of microscopic leeches: others were semilunar in shape, and some quite irregular.

The quantity of blood that flows through the stigmata each Friday is variable. During the first months of the flow and before the commencement of the ecstatic attack, it was abundant, and often lasted twenty-four hours--from midnight to midnight--and it was estimated that as much as one litre, or seven-eighths of a quart, was discharged from the nine wounds. An exact estimate of the amount was difficult, from the fact that most of the blood was absorbed by the cloths about the chest and limbs. But, as the result of his personal observations, Dr. Lefebvre states that at his first visit, August 30, 1868, both the duration and the quantity of the flow had already begun to diminish: beginning at midnight, it stopped about four or five o’clock the next afternoon; yet he counted on that day fourteen large linen cloths (the largest being twenty inches by eight, and the smallest twenty inches by six) completely saturated. Besides this, the left foot was still enveloped during the ecstasy, and there was a pool of blood on the floor as large as two hands. He thinks he rather understates the amount of blood then lost if he estimates it at two hundred and fifty grammes (a half-pint). This, however, he gives as the mean quantity lost, it being sometimes more and sometimes less.

Sometimes the bleeding ceased about midday, and two Fridays passed without any hæmorrhage, the ecstasy occurring as usual. On one of these occasions the stigmata remained unchanged, but on the other the usual vesicle formed, yielding a serous discharge of a delicate rose tint, but no blood. After this the usual bleeding resumed its regular course every Friday, and the bloody chaplet on the forehead, which at first appeared exceptionally, was now displayed each week.

The blood, which was carefully examined, had neither the scarlet tint of arterial nor the dark purple hue of venous blood, but was of a violet red color, like that of the capillaries or minute vessels which unite the veins and arteries. It was of natural consistence, and clotted readily upon the cloths and upon the edges of the wound. With two of his colleagues who were expert in microscopy, Dr. Hairion, professor of hygiene and dermatology (the theory of skin diseases), and Dr. Van Kempen, professor of anatomy, Dr. Lefebvre made several careful microscopic examinations of the blood, which showed a perfectly transparent plasma or blood fluid, with the red and white corpuscles of ordinary blood in proper proportion.

The stigmata are manifestly painful; for, although the girl was extremely reluctant to speak of it, Dr. Lefebvre was satisfied, by careful observation of her attitudes and expression before the ecstasies began, that she suffered acutely.

The bleeding stopped at different hours, as has been stated. On the following day--Saturday--the stigmata were quite dry, with little scales of dried blood here and there on their surface. Not a trace of suppuration ever occurred from the wounds; and the girl, who a few hours ago had much difficulty in using her hands or in standing on her feet, is busily engaged with her morning household duties, or walking a mile and a half to her devotions at the parish church.

II.--THE ECSTATIC TRANCES. 177

The weekly ecstasies of Louise Lateau began on Friday, July 17, 1868, thirteen weeks after the bleeding was first noticed, although the curate of Bois d’Haine, M. Niels, had noticed before this some fugitive attacks of unconsciousness. He discreetly avoided speaking of them, however, and was careful not to discuss them even with Louise herself. No details of these transient attacks, which generally occurred during some of the great religious festivals of the previous year, are given by Dr. Lefebvre, as he had no satisfactory evidence of them, and was unwilling to trust the observations of others. The marked ecstatic trances recurred every Friday after the date mentioned, generally about eight or nine o’clock in the morning, and ended about six in the afternoon, although sometimes lasting an hour longer. Their duration is therefore from ten to eleven hours without interruption; and they generally begin while the subject is occupied with her devotions, although sometimes when she is in the midst of conversation, and occasionally while engaged at her work.

On Friday morning, Louise is accustomed to pass the time in prayer, the tender and bleeding condition of the wounds on her hands rendering work impossible. Her prayers are of the simplest character, consisting generally of the rosary. Seated on her chair, her hands wrapped in the cloths, and her manner calm and serene, suddenly her eyes become fixed, immovable, and the trance has begun. From his notes made on the spot, upon one of these occasions, Dr. Lefebvre transcribes the following description: “It is half-past seven in the morning. I have been talking to Louise upon common topics, about her occupations, her education, her health. She has answered my questions simply, precisely, laconically. Her appearance is quiet and tranquil, her color natural, her skin cool, and the pulse seventy-two in the minute. After a while her conversation flags, and she answers more slowly. I suddenly notice that she has become immovable, her eyes fixed and turned upward, and a little toward the right. The ecstasy has begun.” It is worth observing that the instant the eyes become fixed in contemplation, the ecstatic state has commenced; after this the girl answers no questions, and is quite insensible to external influences.

Dr. Imbert-Goubeyre, professor in the medical school of Clermont-Ferrand, has also witnessed the commencement of the ecstasy under like circumstances. His description is unnecessary.

Lastly, the ecstasy may begin while she is at her daily work. On August 13, 1869, Mgr. d’Herbomez, the venerable Bishop of British Columbia, went to see Louise Lateau, reaching her house about eight o’clock in the morning. She was at work on her sewing-machine, although her hands and feet were bleeding freely, and the blood trickled down from her forehead, cheeks, and neck upon the machine, which she evidently worked with the utmost pain. While the prelate was speaking to her, the noise of the machine suddenly stopped, for she had at once passed into the trance. A number of distinguished ecclesiastics, among them Professor Hallez of the Seminary of Tournay, have witnessed a similar onset of the attacks.

When once established, the course of the attack is thus described. During most of the trance, the girl sits on the edge of her chair, as motionless as a statue, with the body bent slightly forward; the 178 bleeding hands enveloped in cloths and resting upon her knees, the eyes wide open and rigidly fixed as described. The expression of the face is that of rapt attention, and she seems lost in the contemplation of some distant object. Her expression and attitude frequently change, the features sometimes relaxing, the eyes becoming moist, and a smile of happiness lighting up the mouth. Sometimes the lids droop and nearly veil the eyes, the brow contracts, and tears roll slowly down the cheeks: at times again she grows pale, her face wears an expression of the greatest terror, while she starts up with a suppressed cry. The body sometimes slowly rotates, and the eyes move, as if following some invisible procession. At other times she rises and moves forward, standing on tiptoe with her hands stretched out, and either clasped or hanging open like the figures of the _Orantes_ of the catacombs; while her lips move, her breathing is rapid and panting, her features light up, and her face, which before the ecstasy is quite plain, is transfigured with an ideal beauty. If to this be added the sight of her stigmata: her head encircled with its bloody chaplet, whence the red current drops along her temples and cheeks, her small white hands stamped with a mysterious wound from which bloody lines emerge like rays--and this strange spectacle surrounded by people of all conditions, who are absorbed in respectful attention and interest--some idea may be gained of what Dr. Lefebvre often witnessed at Bois d’Haine.