Chapter I (2)

"The practice of magnetism borders on that of magic; in the
former, indeed, there is no invocation of the devil, but he comes
of himself. Whoever gives himself up to it plucks from nature
something that cannot be lawfully won except in the church of
Jesus Christ, and which cannot keep its power of healing, and
sanctifying, except in her bosom. Nature, for all such as are not
in active union with Jesus Christ by true faith and sanctifying
grace, is full of satanic influences. Magnetic subjects see nothing
in its essence and in its relation of dependence upon God; they
see everything in a state of isolation and separation, as if they
were looking through a hole or crack. They see one ray of things;
and would to God this ray were pure--that is to say, holy! It is in
God's mercy that he has veiled and separated us from one another;
that he has raised a wall between us. Since we are all full of
sin, and exercise influence one upon the other, it is well that
we should be obliged to interpose some preamble before seducing
one another and reciprocating the contagious influence of the evil
spirit. But in Jesus Christ, God himself made man is given us as
our head, in union with whom we can, when purified and sanctified,
become one--one body--without bringing into this union our sins and
evil inclinations. Whoever would bring to an end in any other way
this separation which God has established is uniting himself, after
a most dangerous fashion, to fallen nature, in which he reigns with
all his allurements who drew it to its fall.

"I see that magnetism is essentially true; but in that veiled light
there crouches a thief who has broken his chain. All union amongst
sinners is dangerous, interpenetration more especially so. But when
this befalls a soul that is altogether cloudless; when a state, the
condition of whose clairvoyance is its simplicity and directness,
falls a prey to artifice and intrigue, then _one of the faculties
of man before his fall--a faculty which is not quite dead_--is in a
certain manner revived, to leave him more unarmed, more mystified,
and exposed internally to the assaults of the demon. This state
is real--it exists; but it is covered with a veil, because it is a
spring poisoned for all except the saints.

"I feel that the state of these persons follows a course in certain
respects parallel to mine, but moving in an opposite direction,
coming from elsewhere, and having other consequences. The sin of
a man with only the faculty of ordinary vision is an act wrought
by the senses or in their forum. The inward light is not thereby
darkened, but speaks in the conscience, and urges from within, like
a judge, to sensible acts of repentance and penance. It leads us
to those remedies which the church administers under a sensible
form--the sacraments. Then the sensitive part is the sinner, and
the inward light the accuser.

"But in the magnetic state, when the senses are dead, when the
inward light receives and yields impressions, then that which
is holiest in a man, the interior watcher, is exposed to deadly
influences, to contagious infection of the evil spirit, such as the
soul in the state of ordinary wakefulness can have no consciousness
of, owing to the senses, subject as these are to the laws of time
and space. At the same time, it cannot free itself of its sins by
the purifying remedies of the church. I see, indeed, that a soul
altogether pure and reconciled with God, even in the state in which
the whole interior life is open, may chance not to be wounded by
the devil. But I see that if she has previously consented to the
least temptation, as very easily happens, especially to those of
the female sex, Satan is free to play his game in the interior
of the soul, which he always manages in a way to dazzle her with
the semblance of sanctity. The visions become lies, and, if she
perchance discover some way of healing the mortal body, she pays a
costly price for it in the secret defilement of an immortal soul."

With regard to another kindred phenomenon, viz., the projection of the thinking soul in a visible envelope, there is a remarkable passage in S. Augustine (_De Civ. Dei_, lib. xviii. 18). He is speaking of a story he heard when in Italy of men being turned into asses by enchantment, and made to carry burdens:

"To say nothing of the soul, I do not believe that a man's body
could any how by demons-craft be turned into bestial limbs and
lineaments; but the fantastic part of man's nature (which, in the
processes of thinking and dreaming, is countlessly specificated,
and which, though itself no body, yet with wondrous swiftness, when
the man's bodily senses are holden in sleep or bondage, adapts to
itself the images of bodies) may be presented in some I know not
what ineffable way, under a bodily form, to the senses of others,
the while their bodies be elsewhere alive, indeed, but with their
senses much more heavily and mightily bound than in sleep. And
that fantastic part appears to the eyes of others, as it were,
incorporated in the likeness of another creature; and such the man
seems to himself to be, and to carry burdens. While burdens, if
they be real bodies and not fantastic, the demons carry to deceive
spectators, who see on the one hand the burdens, which are real; on
the other the beasts, which are mere appearances."

The phenomenon described, or rather suggested, by the saint is substantially identical with that of the wraith, or apparition of the spirit of a living person, when the soul is supposed to be projected in a visible envelope under the influence of some strong emotion, the bonds uniting soul and body being indefinitely stretched, without being broken. Fanciful as this sounds, the apparition of the wraith is perhaps the best authenticated of all ghost phenomena.

Plutarch (_De Gen. Soc._ p. 266) would seem to indicate the same phenomenon. The Neoplatonic interlocutor, having distinguished the intelligence (νοῦς) from the soul (ψυχή), inasmuch as the former is not properly the body at all, except by reflection, as light in a mirror, but floats above the man's head, bound to the incorporated soul and yielding light for its conduct, says, in respect to the case of one Hermodorus, whose soul was supposed periodically to leave his body: "But this is not true, for his soul did not go forth from his body, but, slackening and loosing the reins to the intelligence (the δαίμων, as the wise call it, regarding it as something external), allowed it circumgyration and circum-frequentation (περιδρομὴν καὶ περιφίτησιν), and, when it had seen or heard anything, to bear in the tidings."

Catholic theologians, although commonly denying that the soul can be separated from the body in natural or diabolical ecstasy, admit generally that, in the case of the divine _raptus_, this separation, or rather projection--for death is supposed not to ensue--may take place; although many of them--amongst others Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib. iii. cap. 49)--deny that, in fact, such separation ever does occur. On this question, Cardinal Bona (_De Discret. Spir._, cap. 14) says: "Whether the soul, in the higher or more vehement rapt, sometimes leaves the body, or can leave it, is a doubtful and difficult question; for the apostle, caught up into the third heaven, professed that he knew not whether this was in the body or out of the body; and what so great a man did not know it is not for us to define. 'For who,' saith Augustine, most learnedly disputing of the rapt of Paul, 'would dare to say he knew what the apostle said he did not know?' The same ignorance possessed S. Teresa's mind; for, describing the effects of rapture in _The Castle of the Soul_, mans. 6 c. 5, she says: 'Whether in the body or out of the body these things take place, I cannot tell: I certainly dare not affirm on my oath either that the soul is then in the body, or that the body can, in the meanwhile, live without the soul.' Then, making use of some similitude to explain the matter, she ends by saying she knows not what to say. But S. Catherine of Sienna, herself a divine patient (_Epist. xii. ad P. Raym._), does not hesitate to affirm for certain that her soul sometimes left her body and tasted the sweets of immortality; which occasional separation of the soul and body it is manifest could take place, not by the powers of nature, but by the omnipotence of God." I would suggest that separation or projection would seem to admit of degrees, some of which may be possible to other powers short of omnipotence.

To this phenomenon of projection I should be inclined to reduce the majority, if not all, the cases of replication or bilocation recorded in the lives of the saints. Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib. iv. pars. i. cap. 32), when discussing the apparitions of living saints, is careful to explain that he is not pretending to entertain the question of the possibility of "one and the same body of a living man being at the same time in two places, which philosophers call replication." Both S. Thomas and S. Bonaventure insist upon the intrinsic impossibility of the presence of a body "extensive"--_i.e._ clothed in its dimensions--at the same time in more than one place. That this is so, De Lugo, whilst advocating against Vasquez the contrary opinion, intrepidly admits. We may add that the fact of trilocation being unheard of is, so far, an argument against the possibility of replication; for once admit that replication is possible, and there is no reason for limiting to duality of presence.

It would seem to be essential to the phenomenon of projection that the body remain in a trance during the process. When simultaneous intelligent activity has been proved, the hypothesis is shown to be insufficient. The best authenticated cases, however, of so-called bilocation seem to me to fail precisely in this proof of simultaneity. Take, for instance, the wonderful miracles of this kind related of S. Alphonso Liguori, such as his preaching in the church and hearing confessions in the house at the same time; the possibility either of his having passed, with miraculous rapidity of course, from the one place to the other, or, again, of the projection of his soul, does not seem to me to have been fairly disproved.

Setting aside the hypothesis of replication, the apparitions of saints simultaneously existing elsewhere need not be the result of projection, as it is quite conceivable that they may be represented by their angels. This seems to be suggested by S. Augustine (_De Cura Gerenda pro Mortuis_, cap. 10). Such representation would cover simultaneous activity should this be proved. For the perfection of the phenomenon of projection, we require the patient's own testimony that he and no other has been consciously acting in some place where his body was not, and, in default of witnesses, some proof that he has been there. For obvious reasons, such self-testimony is very rare in the lives of the saints. The most remarkable I have met with is the following from the _Life of S. Alphonso Liguori_ (vol. iii. p. 417, Orat. Series). It is unfortunately defective in there having been no witnesses at the term of projection:

"In the morning of the 21st of September, 1774, after Alphonso
had ended Mass, contrary to custom, he threw himself into his
arm-chair; he was cast down and silent, he made no movement of any
sort, never articulated a word, and said nothing to any one. He
remained in this state all that day and all the following night;
and, during all this time, he took no nourishment, and did not
attempt to undress. The servants, on seeing the state he was in,
did not know what was going to happen, and remained up and at his
room door, but no one dared to enter it.

"On the morning of the 22d, he had not changed his position; and
no one knew what to think about it. The fact was that he was in a
prolonged ecstasy. However, when the day became further advanced,
he rang the bell to announce that he intended to celebrate Mass.
This signal was not only answered by Brother Francis Anthony,
according to custom, but all the people in the house hurried to him
with eagerness. On seeing so many people, his lordship asked what
was the matter, with an air of surprise. 'What is the matter?' they
replied. 'You have neither spoken nor eaten anything for two days,
and you ceased to give any signs of life.' 'That is true,' replied
Alphonso; 'but you do not know that I have been with the Pope, who
has just died.'... Ere long, the tidings of the death of the Pope
Clement were received; he passed to a better life on the 22d of
September, at seven o'clock in the morning, at the very moment when
Alphonso came to himself."

To all appearances, precisely the same phenomenon is to be found both in the diabolical and the natural order. Innumerable instances are recorded of diabolical projection. Here is one quoted by Görres from Senert (_De Morbis Occultis_): "A woman, accused of being a were-wolf, anointed her body in the presence of the magistrate, who promised her her life if she would give him a specimen of her art. Immediately after the anointing, she fell on the ground, and slept profoundly. She awoke three hours after, and, on being asked where she had been, answered that she had been changed into a wolf, and had torn to pieces a sheep and a cow close to a little village, which she named, and which was situated a few miles off. They sent to this village, and, on inquiry, found that the mischief she claimed to have perpetrated was a reality."

The following narrative of presumably natural projection is characterized by Görres (_Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 267, French Trans.) as "very noteworthy and perfectly authentic":

"Mary, the wife of John Goffe, of Rochester, was attacked by a
lingering illness, and was removed ten miles from her home to
her father's house at West Malling, at which place she died June
4, 1691. On the eve of her death, she was possessed with a great
longing to see her children, whom she had left at home with their
nurse. She besought her husband to hire a horse, that she might
go to Rochester and die with her children. They pointed out to
her that she was not in a condition to leave her bed and mount on
horseback. She insisted that anyhow she would make the attempt. 'If
I cannot sit upright,' said she, 'I will lie down on the horse; for
I must see my dear little ones.' The clergyman visited her about
ten o'clock at night. She seemed perfectly resigned to die, and
full of confidence in the divine mercy. 'All that troubles me,'
said she, 'is that I am not to see my children any more.' Between
one and two in the morning, she had a kind of ecstasy. According to
the statement of Widow Turner, who was watching beside her during
the night, her eyes were open and fixed, and her mouth shut. The
nurse put her hand to her mouth and nostrils, and felt no breath;
she therefore supposed that the sick woman had fainted, and,
indeed, was not clear whether she was alive or dead. When she came
to herself, she told her mother that she had been to Rochester, and
had seen her children. 'Impossible,' replied the mother; 'you have
never for a moment left your bed.' 'For all that,' rejoined the
other, 'I went to-night and saw my children during my sleep.' The
Widow Alexander, the children's nurse, declared on her side that,
a little before two o'clock in the morning, she saw Mary Goffe
come out of the room next to hers, where one of the children was
sleeping by itself, with the door open between them, and enter her
room; and that she remained about a quarter of an hour close to the
bed where she was lying with the youngest child. Her eyes moved and
her lips looked as if they were speaking; but she said nothing. The
nurse professed herself willing to affirm on oath in the presence
of the authorities all that she had said, and to take the sacrament
upon it. She added that she was perfectly awake, and that the dawn
was beginning to break, as it was one of the shortest nights of the
year. She sat up in bed, and watched the apparition attentively.
She heard the clock on the bridge strike two. After a few moments
had passed, she said, 'In the name of the Father, and the Son,
and the Holy Ghost, who are you?' At these words, the apparition
vanished."

Here is another example from Mr. Varley's evidence (_Report on Spiritualism_):

"My sister-in-law had heart disease. Mrs. Varley and I went into
the country to see her, as we feared, for the last time. I had a
nightmare, and could not move a muscle. While in this state, I
saw the spirit of my sister-in-law in the room. I knew that she
was confined to her bed-room. She said, 'If you do not move, you
will die,' but I could not move; and she said, 'If you submit
yourself to me, I will frighten you, and you will then be able
to move.' At first I objected, wishing to ascertain more about
her spirit-presence. When at last I consented, my heart had
ceased beating. I think at first her efforts to terrify me did
not succeed; but when she suddenly exclaimed, 'O Cromwell! I am
dying,' that frightened me exceedingly, and threw me out of the
torpid state, and I awoke in the ordinary way. My shouting had
aroused Mrs. Varley; we examined the door, and it was still locked
and bolted, and I told my wife what had happened, having noted the
hour--3:45 A.M.--and cautioned her not to mention the matter to
anybody, and to hear what was her sister's version, if she alluded
to the subject. In the morning, she told us that she had passed a
dreadful night, that she had been in our room, and greatly troubled
on my account; and that I had been nearly dying. It was between
half-past three and four when she saw I was in danger. She only
succeeded in rousing me by exclaiming, 'O Cromwell! I am dying.' I
appeared to her to be in a state which otherwise would have ended
fatally."

In considering the psychic-force hypothesis, I have been anxious to do justice to every slightest indication of such abnormal power in the speculations and experiences of Catholic writers. For this reason, I have spoken of projection, although I am not aware that any attempt has been made by the advocates of psychic force so to explain it. Whilst reiterating my belief that the mind has many mysterious powers capable of being brought into active operation by various influences, and that these are, in all probability, operative in several of the phenomena of spiritualism; granting, moreover, that it is hardly possible to define precisely the extent of the soul's co-operation in the production of these phenomena, I contend, notwithstanding, that the psychic-force hypothesis is the result of a non-natural and inadequate analysis of the phenomena of spiritualism. For, 1st, in the form in which it has been presented, it is indubitably obnoxious to the charge of being an expedient to escape a recognition of spiritual influence, which recognition, in a XIXth-century man of science, would be so very unsportsmanlike, to say the least of it. 2d. It wholly ignores the sense of personal dualism in spiritual experience, to which the history of spiritualism in all ages bears consistent witness. As the idealist would convince us that there is no external world distinct from the phenomena of sensation, so the advocate of psychic force would persuade spiritualists that they have been merely conversing with their own shadows, as with real beings who could hear and answer their questions, and have attributed to these, as independent agents, feats which they were themselves performing. 3d. So far as we have any indication of a thaumaturgic element in the mind, it manifests itself in the supreme efforts of the imagination, kindled by emotion, and abstracted and concentrated by expectation; whereas, in the mass of spiritualistic experiences, imagination in those concerned seems distinctly to fall short of its highest stages.

The third hypothesis remains for consideration; but, in order to do it justice, I shall have to enter at some length into the church notion of magic and direct diabolical interference; and this will form the subject of my second chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[49] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

[50] _Scientific Scraps._

[51] _Hist. of Rat._, chap. i.

[52] Pref. to _From Matter to Spirit_.

[53] Lib. iv. dist. 34, art. 2.

[54] Dr. Tuke, _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 355.

[55] _Biog. Brit., Baconthorp._

[56] Haureau, _La Philosophie Scholastique_, tome ii. cap. 29.

[57] _The Immortality of the Soul_, op. p. 212.

[58] _Biog. Brit._

[59] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 260.

[60] _Ibid._, p. 428.

[61] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 82.

[62] S. Max. Taur., _Hom._ xvi.

[63] _De Universo_, pars iii. cap. 18, 20.

[64] _Vie_, par Schmoeger, tome i., p. 484 _et seq._

THE SON OF GOD, ARCHETYPAL BEAUTY.

My heart's voice is to thee, my Lord and Eternal King, Christ Jesus. The work of Thy hand dares to address Thee with loving boldness, for it yearns after Thy beauty, and longs to hear Thy voice. O Thou, my heart's desired One, how long must I bear Thy absence! How long must I sigh after Thee, and my eyes drop tears? O Lord, all love, all loveable, where dwellest Thou? Where is the place of Thy rest, where Thou reposest all joyful among Thy favorite ones, and satisfiest them with the revelations of Thy glory? How happy, how bright, how holy, how ardently to be longed for, is that place of perennial joys! My eye has never reached far enough, nor my heart soared high enough, to know the multitude of the sweetnesses which Thou hast stored up in it for Thy children. And yet I am supported by their fragrance, though I am far away from them. The breath of Thy sweetness comes to me from afar--a sweetness which to me exceeds the odour of balsam, and the breath of frankincense and myrrh, and every kind of sweet smell.--_S. Anselm._

DANTE'S PURGATORIO.

CANTO ELEVENTH.

In the Ninth Canto Virgil declares to Dante: _Tu sei omai al
Purgatorio giunto_-"Thou hast arrived at Purgatory now!" and it
is not until the next Canto that the gate of Purgatory proper is
unfolded to the poet. The first nine Cantos being preliminary, are
by Italian critics called the Ante-Purgatorio.

In the first cornice of the true Purgatory, "_La, dove 'l
Purgatorio ha dritto inizio_," Dante meets a procession of spirits
crouching under great burdens of stone, in expiation of their sin
of pride. As this Tenth Canto, however, is mostly occupied with an
elaborate description of certain sculptures around the cornice,
illustrative of the same deadly sin, and might be less interesting
to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we proceed to the Eleventh,
where we are introduced to the spirits of Omberto Aldobrandeschi,
Oderisi the illuminator, and Provenzan Salvani, lord of Sienna. In
Omberto the pride of birth is especially reproved; and in Salvani
the pride of place, the arrogance of power. The sin of Oderisi is
of the æsthetic order common to a period of larger culture. Himself
an artist, whose fault was pride of art, he inveighs against the
vanity of painters and of poets, and the emptiness of a present
reputation.

PRAYER OF THE PROUD SPIRITS--A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER.

"O thou, our Father, dwelling there in heaven!
Not circumscribed, save by the larger love
Which to thy love's first offspring must be given,
Who from the first have dwelt with thee above!
By every creature hallowed be thy name
And praised thy goodness, as for man was meant
To render thanks to thy benignant flame:
May to our souls thy kingdom's peace be lent,
For of ourselves we could not come thereto
With all our intellect, unless 'twere sent:
And even as of their will thine Angels do
(Chanting Hosanna) sacrifice to thee,
So to Thy Will may men their own subdue:
Our daily manna give to us this day,
Without which help, through this rough wilderness,
Who strives to go falls backward on his way.
And even as we forbear us to redress
The wrong from others which we have to brook
Pardon thou us, benignant One! and less
On our deserving than our weakness look:
Try not our virtue, ever prone to yield,
'Gainst the old enemy who spurs it so;
Deliver us from him and be our shield:
This last petition, dearest Lord! we know
We have no need of;--but for them we plead
Who after us amid temptation go."
Thus praying for themselves and us God-speed,
Those weary shadows, underneath a load
Like that we sometimes dream that we endure,
Toiled in unequal anguish[65] o'er the road
Round the first cornice, all becoming pure
From the world's tarnish. O if alway there
For us they say such gracious words! for them
What might be here performed in act or prayer
By souls whose will is a sound-rooted stem:
Well might we help them wash whatever stain
They bore from _this_ world, that sublimed and fair
They to the starry circles might attain.

VIRGIL.

"Ah so may pity soon, and justice spare
You souls this load, that you may move the wing
That lifts you upward to celestial air!
Show us which way most speedily may bring
Us towards the ascent. If more than one there be,
Point us that pass the least precipitous;
Since he who comes and fain would climb with me
Through flesh of Adam is encumbered thus."
Who made their answer to these words which he
Whom I was following unto them addrest
Was not discernible, but this was said:

OMBERTO.

"To the right hand, along the bank, 'tis best
You come with us. This way to living tread
The pass is possible that you request:
And were I not impeded by the stone
Which my proud neck so masters with its weight,
That I perforce must hold my visage down,
This man who liveth, and who doth not state
What name he bears, I would look up to see
If I do know, and make compassionate
His heart for this huge load that bendeth me.
William Aldobrandeschi was the name
Of a great Tuscan; I was born his son,
Of Latin race: whether his title came
To your ears ever, knowledge have I none.
Mine ancestors, their ancient blood, and what
They wrought by prowess, rendered me so high
In arrogance, that never taking thought
About our common Mother, all men I
So scorned, that as the Siennese all know,
I to my death at last was brought thereby,
And every child in Campagnatico
Knows how I there did perish for my sin.
I am Omberto, and not me alone
Hath pride done damage to, but all my kin
Hath it dragged hither with myself to groan,
And I who living never bowed my head,
Till God be satisfied, and mercy shown,
Must bear this burden here among the dead."

Listening I held my visage down intent,
And one of them, but not the same that spoke,
Writhing looked up, beneath his burden bent,
And recognized, and called me; still his look
With strained eyes fixing upon me who went
All bowed beside them. "O!" exclaimed I then,
"Art thou not Oderisi, Gubbio's pride,
And honor also of that art which men
In Paris name _illuming_?" He replied:

ODERISI.

"Brother! those leaves with hues more smiling shine
Touched by the pencil of the Bolognese
Franco, whose whole fame was but partly mine.
Haply in life such courteous words as these
I had not spoken, so my heart was set
All others to excel. For such poor pride
Here I must pay the penalty; nor yet
Should I be here, but that before I died
I turned to God, still having power to sin.
O thou vain-glory of man's boasted powers!
How little while thy summit keeps its green,
Unless gross ages come that yield no flowers!
Once Cimabuè thought to keep the crown
In painting's field; now all cry Giotto best,
So that the former hath but dim renown:
Thus could one Guido from the other wrest
The glory of language, and perchance is born
He that shall drive out either from his nest.
Naught is the world's voice but a breath of morn
Coming this way and that, and changing name
Even as it shifteth side: what more shalt thou,
If old thou cast thy flesh, enjoy of fame
Than if death's hand had touched thy baby brow
Whilst thou wert babbling, ere a thousand years
Have past? which unto God's eternity
A space more insignificant appears
Than would the twinkle of an eyelid be
To the least rapid of the heavenly spheres.
Yon soul before me, moving on so slow,
Once through all Tuscany was noised for great,
Now scarce Sienna breathes his name, although
He was her sovereign, when the infuriate
Spirit of Florence met such overthrow;
For she, now vile, swelled then in proud estate.
Men's reputation is the fleeting hue
Of grass, that comes and goes! even that whereby
Fresh from the soil its tender verdure grew,
The sun, discolors it and leaveth dry."

ANTE.

And I: "Thy truthful words teach me to seek
Goodness in humbleness, and quell my pride.
But who is he of whom thou just didst speak?"

ODERISI.

"That's Provenzan Salvani," he replied;
"And he goes here because he so presumed
In bringing all Sienna 'neath his sway:
Thus ever since he died hath he been doomed,
Without repose, to walk his weary way.
_Who dares too much there in such coin pays back._"

DANTE.

I then: "If every soul who doth delay
Repentance till the limit of life's track,
Must wait below, nor be up here received
Unless good prayers assist him on his road,
Before as much time pass as he hath lived,
How comes this largess upon him bestowed?"

ODERISI.

The spirit replied: "When he was living still
In the full glory of his most high state,
All shame subduing, of his own free will
Amid Sienna's public square he sate,
And there his friend to ransom from the pain,
Which Charles had doomed him, of his dungeon's grate,
Did that which made him tremble in each vein.[66]
I say no more and know I darkly teach
But in short while thy neighbors unto thee
Will so conduct that thou mayst gloss my speech:
Him from those confines did this act set free."

NOTE.

In the translation of Canto VII., published in the April No. of
THE CATHOLIC WORLD, I proposed a new rendering of the 74th verse,
namely,

_India's rich wood, heaven's lucid blue serene_,

for

_Indico legno, lucido e sereno_,

which line I would then have read,

_Indico legno, lucido sereno_,

without the conjunction. I had not found this reading in any
edition which fell to my hands, and it was merely a suggestion of
my own to make intelligible what seemed to be unsatisfactory to the
sense.

In a late No. (June 14) of the London _Athenæum_, Dr. H. C. Barlow,
a very learned Dantean, confirms my reading by one of the older
texts in his library, and also adds that, "in the edition of the
_Divina Commedia_ by Paola Costa, we find the reading recently
adopted by Mr. Parsons ... which the editor says is an emendation
of Biondi, who has defended it with much learned reasoning."

Nevertheless, Dr. Barlow does not accept this amendment; but
believes, with Monti, that Dante meant to compare the rich and
varied hues of a flower-bed to something like charcoal; to wood,
clear and dry; for instance, _ebony_; and he quotes from Monti this
word: "What can be darker than the night? yet when free from clouds
we call it _serene_." The answer whereto is that when the night is
free from clouds, and starry, or serene, it is _not_ dark, and many
objects in nature are blacker than such a night.

I cannot feel quite so sure of my reading as Dr. Barlow appears to
be of his own interpretation, but I have some confidence that Dante
did not mean _ebony_, for the obvious reason that _ebony_ is not
a brilliant color such as Dante was describing; and the statement
which Dr. Barlow takes such pains to prove, namely, that painters
often introduce black for the sake of contrast, does not apply at
all to a verbal description--"_segnius per aurem_," etc.

I am after all inclined to think that the true reading of this
much-disputed verse may be

_Indico legno, e lucido sereno_,

but my mind is not made up entirely, and one object of publishing
these Cantos in a periodical is that my version, before it is
completed, may have the advantage of critical suggestions, and
perhaps elucidation, in doubtful passages, from the learning and
ingenuity of such Italian scholars in England as Mr. Haselfoot, Dr.
Barlow, and Sir Frederic Pollock.

TRANSLATOR.

FOOTNOTES:

[65] That is, under loads of divers weight proportioned to their degree of sin.

[66] That is to say he begged: in which act of terrible humiliation to so haughty a spirit Dante is recalling his own bitter experience.

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

I.

What I am going to relate to you is a true story in every respect, seeing that I had it from my late father--in his lifetime the harness-maker of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who was never known to tell a falsehood: may God have mercy on his soul!

In the village of Ordonniers, which was the next one to us, and in our commune, where flows _la Range_, lived a farmer named Louis Ragaud. The maiden name of his wife was Pierrette Aubry; but after her marriage, according to our custom, she was called by every one La Ragaude.

They were rich, and no one was jealous of them, as it was known that they had commenced with nothing, having been simply servants in the employ of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Little by little they had risen, without having injured any one, always kind to the poor, never miserly or boasting; so that, when at the end of twenty years they found they had saved enough to buy the beautiful farm of Muiceron, which they had previously rented, all the neighbors said: "Behold the true justice of the good God!"

They had been married a long time, and had no children. Now, wealth is a great deal, but not enough for perfect contentment of heart. The good man Ragaud had fields and meadows that yielded rich crops, strong oxen, and even vines that bore well--though it must be acknowledged that the wines of our province were not very renowned. As for the farm buildings, except those of the château, there were scarcely any in a circle of six leagues which were as well kept; and nevertheless, Ragaud sighed when looking around him--no child, alas! and no family, with the exception of a cousin, who left for the army more than thirty years before, and had never been heard of since; so that, very naturally, he could not be counted upon.

La Ragaude sighed still more. She was good and very devout, but unable to bear sorrow; and this was so severe, so constant, it had ended by destroying all her happiness. Often, when looking at the neighbors' children playing before the doors, she felt her heart throb with pain, and would hasten to seek refuge in her own house, where she could give free vent to her tears. As this happened more than once, and as she always reappeared with red eyes, it had been much remarked, and sundry comments made. Not that there is much time to be lost in the fields, but a reflection here and there scarcely retards work. There are even those who say that the tongue assists the arm, and that gossipping helps push the plough. It is woman's tattle, I believe; but a good number of men here and elsewhere have the habit of repeating it, and I do likewise, without inquiring further.

The gossips of the neighborhood--above all, those who had larger families than incomes--were determined to find out the true cause of Pierrette Ragaud's tears; and, as often happens, preferred seeking for wicked reasons rather than stop their babbling.

"It is a thing I cannot understand," said one, "why the mistress of Muiceron is so unhappy that she weeps constantly--a woman who is so well off. We must believe that things at the farm are not so well as they appear. Perhaps it is her husband who makes all the trouble!"

"Her husband! Magdaleine Piédau?" replied another; "you must be well put to that you imagine such a thing. Master Ragaud is the first workman in the country; and, as for his using bad words, that he has never done, any more to his wife than to others."

"Bah! what you say is true," replied Magdaleine Piédau; "but all the same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly into a rage as well as any other man. I saw and heard him, day before yesterday, beside himself with anger against one of his yoke of oxen. You know Capitaine, the big black one? Ah! my dear, I pitied the poor beast--he beat him well! without counting that he swore so that you would not have known him. Bah! don't talk to me!"

"Ah! that may be, but I speak of people. Now, an ox is not a person!"

"There you are right, thank God! Men are often rough to beasts, and very polite to Christians; but, in my opinion, we must be gentle and patient to both. A beast that works well deserves to be well treated, and Ragaud had no right to beat his ox. I don't say he would treat his wife so; but, at least, we must allow that Pierrette Ragaud does not always look as if her life were a holiday. Ah! she has trouble, that is very sure, poor creature!"

"And the reason?"

"The reason! Go and ask her, Magdaleine, if you are so curious."

"I wouldn't dare; for, after all, it don't concern me very much. What I have said was only in the way of friendly gossip."

"In that case, we can speak of other things; for I don't know any more about it than you. We will leave it for God to clear up. Go and catch your boy, who will fall into the pond, Magdaleine Piédau, and lend me your sickle, that I may cut some grass for my cows.... But to think that Ragaud ill-treats his wife--no, no; that is out of the question. After that, where may we hope to find a good man? One don't know...."

"No, neighbor, one never knows how it is with them. You speak like a priest, my good woman. The deceased Piédau, my man, that every one believed so good, ..."

"Good-evening, Magdaleine."

"Was a drunkard and big eater. I concealed it for ten years, and wept alone like the mistress of Muiceron."

"Good-evening, neighbor."

II.

One summer day, when La Ragaude was washing her earthen pans in the sun, she saw the _curé_ of Ordonniers advancing through the path in the woods. He was a worthy priest, beloved by all, and well deserving of it on account of his great charity. I have heard it said that, in the years when bread was so dear, he gave away his last measure of wheat, and then, having no more for himself, was obliged to go to the miller, Pierre Cotentin, and ask for some flour on credit.

"It is not my custom," said he gaily, "and you are not bound to oblige me; but the times are hard, and you must never refuse to give alms, even to your _curé_."

The miller filled the bag willingly; and as for the money, although he was very fond of it, he would never hear the word mentioned.

Said he, "M. le Curé has an empty purse. We must not ask him where the last cent went, poor dear man! Pierre Cotentin can well feed him--it is justice! Who will have the heart to be jealous?"

And in fact, the _curé_ was so respected that not a boy, no matter how bad he was, ever failed to take off his cap when passing him.

When La Ragaude saw the black cassock coming towards Muiceron, she quickly arranged her pans, and threw aside her working-apron; for she was a careful woman and thorough housekeeper.

"Good-morning, M. le Curé; how are you?" she asked joyfully.

"Very warm, very warm," replied the _curé_; "otherwise, well."

"My dear monsieur, why did you not wait until the cool of the evening to do us the honor of visiting us? It is roasting in the road. I thought just now I would send a servant to replace my husband in the fields. A storm is rising, the flies bite, Ragaud is not as strong as he was at twenty, and I am afraid of the beasts--they are difficult to control when they become impatient."

"Ah! your husband is absent?"

"Have you something to say to him, monsieur?"

"To him and to you also, my good woman."

"Come in and refresh yourself," said she.

M. le Curé entered, and took a seat near the table. He appeared preoccupied, and answered like a man who did not hear what was said to him. He even placed his cane against the bread-box, and his hat on top--something which he had never done before, as the slightest motion might have sent them to the floor. When he put his hand in his pocket for his breviary, he found he had forgotten it, which embarrassed him not a little; as, it must be said, no man was more exact and particular than he in words as well as in actions.

La Ragaude, not being a fool by nature, quietly replaced the cane and hat in a safe place, but was, in her turn, very much astonished to see the _curé_ so absent, as it was the first time it had ever happened; and from that concluded he must have something in his head of great importance. What could it be?

While busying herself around the room, without showing it, Pierrette Ragaud had distractions also. She drew new wine for cider, and washed a glass which had not been used. But that I do not believe she would have perceived then or afterwards; for she was so accustomed to scrub everything you could have used the side walls of the stable for a mirror.

M. le Curé tasted the wine through civility, but, as he said nothing, she began to feel rather impatient. Women are curious. My deceased father was accustomed to say, from that came all the evil from the commencement of the world. It is true the dear man was rather in his dotage towards the end; but it is also true that I have heard others say the same thing.

Pierrette at last commenced to question the _curé_ very respectfully and gently; for, in truth, she could no longer restrain herself.

"Although the master is out, M. le Curé," said she, "will you not tell me what I can do to serve you?--without pressing to know, you understand, monsieur."

M. le Curé raised his eyes, and replied as gravely as though he were preaching a sermon:

"I have come to know, in the name of the good God, Mme. Ragaud, if you are disposed to act charitably."

"Oh! if it is to aid those who are suffering and in need, my husband and I will be most happy to assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, who spoke with her whole heart and soul. "Thank God! there is yet money in the drawer. Tell me how much you want, monsieur."

The good _curé_ shook his head, laughing, and repeated two or three times, "Good, good," which was a sign that he was pleased.

"You are always ready to give money to the poor, I know," said he; "but to-day that is not the question. I have come to ask you for something of greater importance."

"More so than money! Heaven of our Lord!" said Pierrette, slightly amazed. "I do not know, M. le Curé, how, then, I can oblige you."

She said that, although she had a generous heart; but money with us is always the great affair. In the fields, as in the city, the poor man who eats his bread while working knows that the francs are not picked up under the horses' feet.

"Money," replied M. le Curé, "when the soul is wanting in charity, is given, and there it ends; but what I have come to ask of you is a good work which will not end for a long while, and which will need good-will, and great patience especially, on your part."

"I can guess what it is," said Pierrette.

"Indeed!" replied the _curé_. "Well, that spares me the difficulty of explaining myself. Let us hear, Mme. Ragaud, what you have guessed."

"I have heard it said you were very much worried about your surplices and altar-linens, since Catharine Luguet left the country so shamefully, like a good-for-nothing girl, to seek her fortune in Paris," said La Ragaude, blushing--for this Catharine was a distant cousin--"and doubtless, M. le Curé, you wish me to replace her, and take charge of the sacristy."

"And if it were so, would you refuse me?"

"Certainly not, monsieur. I would willingly do my best to please you. Not that I have as light a hand as Catharine for plaiting and folding; but for washing and ironing, I can say, without boasting, I am the equal of any one."

"Thank you," said the _curé_. "I accept an offer made so willingly. But to speak truly, I have not come for that."

"Then," replied Pierrette, in astonishment, "I cannot imagine what you want me to do."

"This is it," said the _curé_, taking a serious tone: "This morning, Pierrette, a bundle was left at my house...."

"I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it was the beautiful monstrance promised by M. le Marquis for Corpus Christi!"

"No, it was a new-born infant, a beautiful boy, Mme. Ragaud; and, since the good God has allowed you to remain childless, and that this privation has greatly afflicted you, I immediately thought he destined this child for you."

"Monsieur," replied Pierrette, with emotion, "it is true that it is very hard for me to be alone in the house, and to think that I will die and leave no one after me to inherit Muiceron; but I prefer it to working all my life for a child sprung, perhaps, from a wicked race."

"I know where it comes from," said the _curé_; "but still I can tell you nothing, as it is a secret of the confessional. But have confidence in me; as for the race, it is not bad."

"It is the same thing. I don't believe in these foundlings."

"Say nothing further about it," replied the _curé_ rather sadly; "I will send it to the hospital."

And then, without appearing to feel either pique or bitterness, M. le Curé commenced to converse on other subjects, speaking of the next harvest, the price of the new wine, and of the last fair, with even voice and kind looks, that showed plainly he did not wish his parishioner to think he was pained by her rather prompt refusal.

This kindness of a heart truly charitable had more effect on good Pierrette than reproaches or scolding. She did her best to reply to the _curé_, but her eyes were wet against her will, and soon she became so absent-minded the _curé_ with difficulty repressed his mirth, seeing that he had gained ground by the ell, without seeming to do it intentionally.

"You see," said he, "by often hearing the bells ring, one becomes a bell-ringer; and as I love all my parishioners, like a true pastor, I go everywhere, inquiring and advising, so that I may be useful in case of need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, without ever having driven a plough or taken care of cattle, God has given me the grace of being able to advise on all rural subjects, as well as the first master-farmer in the neighborhood. Thus, I will say to you: 'When there are more pears than apples, keep your wine, good man.' This is a country proverb hundreds of years old. Now, as this year there are more pears than they know what to do with, believe me, keep your vintage, and you will have news to tell me of it by next Easter."

"I do not know how Ragaud will decide," replied Pierrette; "he is always afraid when the cellar is full...."

"The proverb never fails, my good woman; and that is easily understood when one reflects how and why proverbs have obtained credit."

"But, M. le Curé," interrupted La Ragaude, "if you knew where this poor abandoned child came from, it seems to me...."

"What child?" said the _curé_, taking a pinch of snuff, so as to appear indifferent. "Oh! yes, the little one of this morning. What, do you still think of it? Bah! let it pass; after all, the hospital is not a place where one dies from want of care."

"I know it; but it is sad, monsieur, very sad, for one of those little innocents to say afterwards, 'I was in a hospital'; that always gives a bad idea."

"What can be done, Mme. Ragaud? One becomes accustomed to everything. Come, come, don't make yourself uneasy. We were saying, then, ... what were we saying? Ah! I remember now. I was telling you that proverbs must be believed, and for the reason that these little village-sayings are only repeated after they have been verified by the great and long experience of our fathers. Thus, you will see that the last part of the one I just quoted is equally curious: 'When there are more apples than pears, then, good man, you can drink.' Well, wasn't it a fact last year? There were so many apples that a jug of cider was only worth two farthings; there was enough for everybody, and the wine was so abundant that--you are not listening to me, Pierrette Ragaud?"

"Excuse me, M. le Curé, I am listening attentively; but I was thinking perhaps my husband would not return; and, nevertheless, he should have a little talk with you."

"About the vintage? We have time enough until then for that," replied the _curé_ with a spice of malice.

"About the little innocent, dear monsieur. The truth is, I feel my heart ache when I think he will go to the hospital through my fault."

"And as for me, my good woman, I am sorry that I spoke to you about it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnestly, "for I have worried you, and I had no such intention when I came to visit you. I see now that you are inclined on the side of the good work; but I don't wish to force you to take it in hand. Here, now, if the hospital frightens you, I have thought of another arrangement, which might work well. My old Germaine, notwithstanding her thirty years of service, is still active, and the work in my house don't kill her. We will buy a good milking-goat at the August fair; until then, you will lend us one, and, God willing, the little one will remain where his good angel deposited him."

"May the Lord bless you!" cried La Ragaude, the tears streaming from her eyes. "But what a shame for us to let you burden yourself with such a heavy load, when you already give more than you can afford! No, no, holy and good Virgin Mary! For my part, I would not sleep easy after such an act."

The good _curé_ clasped his hands, and in his heart rendered thanks to all the saints in paradise. He was very much touched, and as he was about to thank Pierrette as she deserved, Ragaud returned from the fields.