Chapter III (2)

There is no difficulty in understanding the bitterness with which modern science regards spiritualism. It had been for so long carrying everything before it; it had weighed so many things on earth and in the heavens; it had reduced so many apparently eccentric phenomena to law; its discoveries had been so brilliant, and its still more brilliant projections were so plausible, that it flattered itself that all idea of the supernatural was fairly relegated to the obscure past or to the obscurer future. The philosophy of the XIXth century was being fast reduced to a bare statement of the contents of sensation, and the philosophers of the day were looking for an easy victory over the most respectable of dogmatic traditions, when, lo! full in the calm scientific light, the singularly grotesque form of spiritualism lifts its head, and the warrior who had so loudly challenged the king to mortal combat finds himself set upon by the court fool. When earth, according to the poet's dream, should be "lapped in universal law," up starts a mass of phenomena not merely inexplicable by any known law, but, in popular estimation at least, incompatible with any hypothesis but that of supernatural agency. It has been the more intolerable that spiritualism had affected an imposing vocabulary of scientific terms, recommending itself to its audience by an appeal to partially known laws, such as magnetism and electricity, whilst really indulging in the most unblushing necromancy. Thus the scientific formulæ have been given somewhat the _rôle_ of captives in the triumph of superstition. No wonder scientific men are angry. But whilst they "do well to be angry," I think they do by no means well to refuse to investigate the subject because on various accounts it is offensive to them.

Scientific men frequently complain that spiritualists will not submit their séances to the test of a public examination in broad daylight. Now, this is really not a fair statement of the case. Spiritualists say that they have found by experience that a certain class of phenomena require dark or twilight; but a vast number of independent physical manifestations do take place in broad daylight. On the other hand, when the scientific investigator insists upon interfering with the constituents of the séance, the arrangement of the circle, etc., the spiritualist answers, fairly enough, that, since under the most favorable conditions the success of the séance cannot be reckoned on, it would be absurd to allow the abandonment of what experience has shown to be a necessary condition of success. "With the phenomena of magic we can experimentalize but little; neither can we evoke the least of them at our good pleasure. We can but observe them where they present themselves, gather them into corresponding groups, and discover among them common features and common laws." (Perty, _Mystisch. Erscheinungen--Vorrede_, p. xi.) This being understood, spiritualists invite the representatives of science to make what observations they please in broad daylight, when, at least, they will be able to discount such disturbing conditions as they may not eliminate. It is an _onus_, certainly, for the investigator to have to form a part of what is going on; but this is no more than the detective undergoes when he plays the accomplice in order to discover the thief. Say that spiritualism is a folly, a disease, what you will, it is at least of the highest scientific interest and practical importance that we should understand its conditions and action as thoroughly as possible. If scientific men have no more serious scruple to keep them aloof than the dignity of their order--for, after all, this is what Mr. Huxley's excuses come to--the exigencies of the case require that it should be put aside. If the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.

Nothing is more calculated to bring out the inherent diversities of the human mind than the investigation of spiritualism; for it not only involves an examination of some of the most difficult problems relating to evidence, but, indirectly at least, an examination of the whole process by which each individual concerned rejects or assimilates his mental pabulum. Hence the extraordinary difficulty of conducting such an inquiry without incessant wrangling. The Committee of the Dialectical Society, to whose _Report_ I have so often referred, is quite a case in point. Its _Report_ is the record of a schism, of an irreconcilable clash of opinions. If the committee had waited until these had been reduced to harmony, the _Report_ would never have been published. One of the principal members--Dr. Edmunds--was, I think, exceptionally tried. His own opinion was and is that spiritualism is a mixture of trickery and delusion; but his own dining-room table habitually took sides against him, and this in the most treacherous manner. It used to wait until he had left the room, and then, in the presence of the other investigators, run around with nobody touching it.

You might almost as well meddle with a man's digestion as with his belief. Prove that his convictions are groundless, and he feels as outraged as though you had affixed a register to his waistcoat which showed the world that his favorite dish had disagreed with him. Dr. Garth Wilkinson (_Rep._, p. 234) is by no means singular in his experience "that nearly all truth is temperamental to us, or given in the affections or intuitions, and that discussion and inquiry do little more than feed the temperament." And what a variety of temperaments will inevitably be found in any committee of investigation--men who, like Mr. Lewes, consider the possibility of an hypothesis which cannot be rigidly tested unworthy of consideration, or like Mr. Grattan Geary (_Rep._, p. 95), who, on finding that many eminent men are spiritualists, is simply impressed by the number of eminent men who are enjoying an unmerited reputation for sanity. After all, men make more account, as a general rule, of one little bit of experience, the real force of which is incommunicable, and which, when put into words for another's benefit, is often to the last degree trivial, than of all the arguments in the world. A charming example of this is given by Dr. H. More in a letter to Glanville, published at the beginning of the latter's _Sadducismus Triumphatus_: "I remember an old gentleman in the country of my acquaintance, an excellent justice of the peace, and a piece of a mathematician; but what sort of a philosopher he was you may understand from a rhime of his own making, which he commended to me on my taking horse in his yard, which rhime is this:

An _ens_ is nothing till sense find out,
Sense ends in nothing, so naught goes about;

which rhime of his was so rapturous to himself that, at the reciting of the second verse, the old man turned himself about upon his toe as nimbly as one may see a dry leaf whisk'd round in the corner of an orchard-walk by some little whirlwind. With this philosopher I have had many discourses concerning the immortality of the soul and its distinction. When I have run him quite down by reason, he would laugh and say, 'That is logick, H.,' calling me by my Christian name. To which I replied, 'This is reason, Fr. L. (for so I and some others used to call him), but it seems you are for the new light and direct inspiration,' which, I confess, he was as little for as for the other; but I said so only by way of drollery to him in those times. But truth is, nothing but palpable experience could move him; and being a bold man, and fearing nothing, he told me he had tried all the ceremonies of conjuration he could to raise the devil or a spirit, and had a most earnest desire to meet with one, but never could do it. But this he told me: when he did not so much as think of it, while his servant was pulling off his boots in the hall, some invisible hand gave him such a clap on the back that it made all ring again. So, thought he, now I am invited to the converse of my spirit; and therefore, so soon as his boots were off and his shoes on, out he went into the yard and next field to find out the spirit that had given him this familiar clap on the back, but found none neither in the yard nor field next to it. But though he did not feel the stroke, albeit he thought it afterwards (finding nothing come of it) a mere delusion, yet, not long before his death, it had more force with him than all the philosophical arguments I could use to him, though I could wind him and nonplus as I pleased; but yet all my arguments, how solid soever, made no impression upon him. Wherefore, after several reasonings of this nature, whereby I would prove the soul's distinction from the body, and its immortality, when nothing of such subtile considerations did any more execution on his mind than some lightning is said to do, though it melts the sword, upon the fuzzy consistency of the scabbard, well, said I, Fr. L., though none of these things move you, I have something still behind, and what you yourself acknowledged to me, that may do the business. Do you remember that clap on the back when your servant was pulling off your boots in the hall? Assure yourself, said I, Fr. L., that goblin will be the first that will bid you welcome into the other world. Upon that his countenance changed most sensibly, and he was more confounded with this rubbing up of his memory than with all the rational and philosophical arguments I could produce."

Whilst admitting that the _Report_ of the Dialectical Society indicates a very considerable initial success, I cannot but feel the undiminished importance of W. M. Wilkinson's rather caustic warning (_Rep._, p. 231): "The first thing in such an investigation is to assume nothing, not even that a committee of the Dialectical Society can 'obtain a satisfactory elucidation of the phenomena.' No committee has ever done so yet. A committee of professors of Harvard University, amongst whom was Agassiz, after they had made an examination, did not think proper to publish their report, though they had published their intention to do so, and were frequently and publicly asked for it." The London Society has, at least improved upon the example.

I have maintained throughout that neither the hypothesis of trickery nor of delusion can be sustained for a moment as an adequate explanation of the phenomena of spiritualism, on grounds which may be thus summarized: 1. Many of these phenomena outdo all conjuring. 2. They take place where the possibility of trickery has been eliminated. 3. The exhibition of imaginative excitement is, on the whole, inconsiderable, and there is no appreciable proportion between the degrees of excitement and the phenomena. But, at the same time, I am far from maintaining that there is no trickery amongst the mediums, and no predisposition in the company tending more or less to disqualify them from detecting it. I am inclined to think that more or less trickery forms part of the stock in trade of most mediums, but that its share in the production of phenomena is comparatively slight.

Mr. Browning's marvellous conception of _Sludge the Medium_ is based, I admit, upon a real, existing unscrupulosity on the one side, and on a real, existing gullibility on the other; but these are magnified into colossal and perfectly unreal proportions so far as Sludge is to be taken as a representative of his class. In many cases a single fraud may fairly be taken to vitiate the whole projection. If in a chemical demonstration, for instance, we were to discover the secret substitution, by the operator, of an ingredient not in the programme, we might fairly conclude that the whole thing was a pretence; that there was nothing in it. But this is not necessarily so in the case of spiritualism; the lie or trick does not always imply the total absence of other force, but may be an initial ceremony, preparing the company by quickening their expectations, and propitiating the evil influence by an acceptable sacrifice of human honor.

It must be confessed that there is something very suggestive of trickery, and of silly trickery, in the attempts made from time to time by the spirits to flatter into good-humor the anti-spiritualistic critic of the company; as when Professor Tyndall was dubbed "Poet of Science,"[196] and when Dr. Edmunds' portrait was given in such glowing colors that, except in the character of a sceptic, he would have been ashamed to reproduce it (_Report_). Again, that something like systematic trickery has sometimes been attempted would seem to be established by the very remarkable evidence of Mr. W. Faulkener Surgeon (_Rep._, p. 125): "He said that for years he had been in the habit of supplying magnets for the production of rapping sounds at spiritual séances.... Some of these magnets--as, for instance, the one he had brought with him--were made for concealment about the person; while others were constructed with a view to their attachment to various articles of furniture.... He had never himself fitted up a house with these magnets, and he only knew of one house, Mr. Addison's, that is so fitted up. He also stated that he had not supplied any of these magnets for two or three years."

As regards the company's predisposition to believe in spiritualism, I admit that a sufficient predisposing reaction against materialism has taken place, giving room for a man to constitute what "Sludge" calls

"Your peacock perch, pet post
To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon,
Just as you thought, much as you might expect,
There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

Nay, I admit that the following fiercely graphic catalogue of the medium's patrons only sins by omission:

1. "Fools who are smitten by imaginary antecedent probabilities.

2. ... "their opposites
Who never did at bottom of their hearts
Believe for a moment--men emasculate,
Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,
With superstition safely.

3. "The other picker-up of pearl
From dung-heaps, ay, your literary man,
Who draws on his kid gloves to play with Sludge
Daintily and discreetly; shakes a dust
Of the doctrine, flavors thence he well knows how
The narrative or the novel--half believes
All for the book's sake, and the public stare,
And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world.

4. "There's a more hateful kind of foolery--
The social sage's Solomon of saloons
And philosophic diner-out, the fribble
Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block
To try the edge of his faculty upon;
Prove how much common sense he'll hack and hew
In the critical minute 'twixt the soup and fish:
These were my patrons...."

And far stronger than any such predispositions is the intense and widespread feeling, so pathetic even in its uncouthest manifestations, to which Dr. Edmunds refers (_Rep._, p. 57): "Prior to the experience gained in this inquiry, I never realized the vast hold which the supernatural has upon mankind. Minds which have broken away from the commonplace lines of faith, and thrown overboard their belief in revealed religion, have not cast out the longing after immortality." And I may add, that when all religious assurance of what the soul must needs desire is absent, the longing for some visible, palpable witness becomes proportionably intenser. And so just now, from the very lack of faith, there is an exceptionally vehement desire that some one should come with unmistakable credentials from beyond the grave, and make us see, and feel, and know what we cannot help longing for; and it is difficult to say to what extent the wish may not be father to the thought.

I admit that all this constitutes an adverse momentum of antecedent probability. But, after all, spiritualists, as a whole, are not persons who have given any indications that this yearning has so wholly overbalanced their critical faculty as to make them incompetent witnesses. Moreover, we have, as witnesses to spiritualistic phenomena, not merely the spiritualists proper, but persons who, as regards the predominance of this sentiment, are their extremest opposites--viz., the advocates of psychic force. It must be admitted that these persons are either without the yearning for evidence of a future life, or at least hold it in complete subordination to the critical faculty.

It may easily be contended that I have been overrating the progress and prospects of spiritualism, for that the public prints as a rule make fun of it. I may be reminded that Mr. Browning has exposed it, in the region of poetry, in his _Sludge the Medium_; Professor Tyndall in that of prose, in his delicious account of a séance, in which he discomfits the medium and plays spirits himself, to the great edification of the company, who rebuke him solemnly for his want of faith in his own make-believe; that the keen critics of the _Saturday_ and the _Pall Mall_ invariably treat spiritualism as unmitigated humbug.

In reply, I point to the _Report_; to the testimony of an antagonist like Mr. Geary, as to the number of eminent men who believe in spiritualism; to the notorious fact that scientific men, as a whole, in Germany and America have ceased to regard spiritualism as a mere delusion; to the recent correspondence in the _Times_, and particularly to the article of December 26, 1872, wherein the writer, after reviewing the _Report_, exclaims that "it is high time competent hands undertook the unravelling of this gordian knot. It must be fairly and patiently unravelled, and not cut through. The slash of the Alexandrian blade has been tried often enough, and has never sufficed. Scientific men forget that, in the matter of spiritualism, they must make themselves fools in order that they may become wise." The writer then proceeds to relate how he went off to examine for himself. He tells us that he and his friend enter a room, the furniture of which consisted of a table and a few cane-bottomed chairs, which he previously examines; that in an inner room, during a dark séance, in which the medium's hands and feet have been carefully secured, a chair is lifted up and thrown upon the table; that afterwards, in the outer room, "the furniture became quite lively, and this in broad daylight; a chair jumped three or four yards across the carpet, our hat fell to our feet, and numerous other phenomena occurred"; but the mediums are free, and he is nervous about them. In another séance, the same writer, whilst the medium's hands and feet are in custody, has various things thrust into his hand, and once "felt distinctly the touch of a large finger and thumb." Several times during the séance he takes the opportunity, freely accorded, of carefully searching under the table with a lamp. He confesses there was nothing during the whole evening, except the phenomena themselves, to suggest imposture. "We tried our best to detect it, but found no trace of it." And then he ends with "a slash of the Alexandrian blade," after all, and suggests that still trickery it must be.

Spiritualism indubitably affords, and in all probability will continue to afford, an abundant and legitimate field for the satirist of human folly, even when its substantial reality has been admitted; for it is a condescension to a great vulgar want, and its supplies are detailed, for the most part, through the unwashed fingers of very scurvy fellows indeed. Neither is there anything in the discipline necessary for the development of a medium, so far as I know, which makes his refinement as a class probable.

Educated men are naturally shy of admitting their connection with anything involving so much that is low and disagreeable, except as a sort of "casual ward" experience; just as men are usually shy of its being known that they eat strange meats, such as rats, out of siege-time. But once let an heroic rat-eater come forward, impelled by a sense of public duty, to tell the world what a noble viand it is neglecting, when, lo! it appears, from confessions on this side and on that, that numbers know all about it, and have been secretly indulging in the rat feast. So it is with spiritualism and its adherents; it is only now and again that the curtain is lifted up, and we are enabled to appreciate the hold which it is steadily making good on the public imagination.

As to the line taken by the _Pall Mall_ and the _Saturday_, the question is whether the critics who write in these periodicals could, under any circumstances, adapt their method and style, I will not say to the support, but to the fair discussion, of an uncouth, ill-conditioned, sensational enthusiasm like spiritualism. As it was the Crusader's boast that he never touched the unbeliever save with the sword, so, it would seem, some of our critics plume themselves upon never touching enthusiasm but with a sneer. Our present school of critics is the result of a reaction from the enthusiastic Young England school of forty years ago, who were romanticists, patronizing religious enthusiasm as one of the many forms of romance. We can hardly expect that a school which is inclined to regard all religious sentiment as something essentially weak and finikin; which can talk of Joan of Arc as a "crazy servant-girl,"[197] should be civil to an exhibition of enthusiasm much weaker, and vulgar to boot. Neither do I see how it would be possible to write a trenchant _critique_ of such a nondescript medley, except by treating it as a form of mania. It admits of no precise scientific treatment, for it falls under no one category. Spiritualism, to discuss, not to banter, would be as uncongenial a subject for the _Pall Mall_ or the _Saturday_ as a case of chronic bronchitis for a brilliant public operator.

When the "Jupiter" of the latter days is engaged in duly chronicling, for the edification of the public, the splendid spiritualistic phenomena with which Antichrist will dazzle the world, should the _Pall Mall_ and _Saturday_ still exist, we should not look for them even then amongst the enthusiastic crowd. Though employed in the government interest, they will surely be allowed to do their old work in their old way, and we shall find them engaged in the congenial task of mocking the last miracles by which Enoch and Elias are gathering in the remnant of the elect.

It may be insisted that the one effectual way of repressing spiritualism is to pooh-pooh it. Surely it is too late; you must give its many sober adherents some better reason against trusting their own senses than its making other people laugh.

Assuredly spiritualism can never be safely despised until its reality has been discounted and its author recognized.

FOOTNOTES:

[192] _Apoth._ l. 409.

[193] _Lib. de Divers. Quæst._, qu. 12.

[194] See Görres, _Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 346, French trans.

[195] St. Aug., _De Unit. Eccles._, c. 19.

[196] Tyndall, _Scientific Scraps_.

[197] This was in the _Spectator_, but surely not of it.

THE FARM OF MUICERON.

BY MARIE RHEIL.

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

XII.

The Sunday after the last day of the harvest, M. le Marquis invited all the boys up to the château, where a magnificent banquet was prepared, and they were expected to remain until the evening. He ordered a splendid repast, and music besides; the principal barn, which ordinarily was crammed full at this season, but that, owing to the bad season, was comparatively empty, was decorated for the occasion. Our master desired that nothing should be spared to make the _fête_ a great success. All the fine linen of the château--and the closets were heaping-full of it--the china, and silver were put into requisition, so that there never was given a more superb banquet to great personages than to our delighted villagers. As for the _fricassée_, it is remembered to this day; it was composed, to commence with, of a dozen kinds of poultry, so well disguised under different sauces that one ate chicken in confidence as chicken, because it was so written on little strips of paper laid beside each plate, but without being positive that it was not turkey or pigeon; and every one agreed in acknowledging that such a delicious compound had never passed down country throats, and that the wines, if possible, surpassed the eating; so that the good fellows commenced to be merry and perfectly happy when the roast appeared.

Of this roast I will say a word before passing to other things, for I fancy you have seldom seen it equalled. With all respect, imagine a huge hog, weighing at least a hundred pounds, roasted whole, beautifully gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and reposing so quietly on a plank covered with water-cresses you would have thought him asleep.

It was really a curious and most appetizing sight, and sufficiently rare to be remarked; but see how stupid some people are! On seeing this superb dish, whose delicious perfume would have brought the dead back to life--that is to say, if they were hungry--some of the fellows said that M. le Marquis might have better chosen another roast, as pork was something they ate all through the year. Whereupon Master Ruinard, the head-cook of the château, made a good-natured grimace, and apostrophized them as a heap of fools, but without any other sign of displeasure; and then seizing his big knife, that he sharpened with a knowing air, he cut the animal open, and out tumbled snipe, woodcock, rennets, and partridges, done to a turn, and of which each one had his good share. As for the hog, no one touched it, which proved two things--first, that you must not speak too soon; secondly, that when a great lord gives an entertainment, it is always sure to be remarkably fine.

At the dessert, which was abundant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh and dried fruits, they served a delicate wine, the color of old straw, the name of which I don't know exactly, but which was sweet and not at all disagreeable. At this time, M. le Marquis, accompanied by mademoiselle, Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, entered and mingled with the guests, who rose and bowed low. Our good master thanked the young men for the great service they had rendered him; and as he could not drink with each one, he touched his glass to that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to the health of all the commune. They cried, "Long live M. le Marquis!" until the roof shook; and as their heads were as heated as the boilers at the big yearly wash, they whispered among themselves that it would be well to carry Jean-Louis again in triumph, as much to please the master as to render justice to him who was the cause of all this festivity.

Now, our Jean-Louis was the only one who remained composed after all this eating and drinking. He had eaten with good appetite, and fully quenched his thirst, but not one mouthful more than was necessary. He heard all that was said without appearing to listen; and when others might have felt vain, he was displeased; he therefore watched his chance, slid under the table, and, working his way like an eel between the legs of his comrades, who were too busily occupied to notice him, in three seconds was out of the door, running for dear life, for fear of being caught.

He was delighted to breathe the fresh air, and did not slacken his pace until he had gone a good quarter of a league, and was near Muiceron. Then he stopped to take breath, laughing aloud at the good trick he had played.

"Thank goodness!" thought he, "I have at last escaped. They can run as fast as they choose now; there is no chance of catching up with me. What would M. le Marquis and the family have thought to have seen me hoisted up on the shoulders of those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded around the court, like a learned beast on a fair-ground? Not knowing that I had come to the château only to oblige the master, who had besides given me a valuable watch, it would have looked as though I wished to receive in vain applause what I refused in money. None of that, none of that for me; there is enough nonsense going on, without my mixing myself up in it. They can drink and dance until sunrise to-morrow, if they so please, it is all the same to me; and I will go home to bed, after having told all to my dear mother, who will not fail to approve of my conduct, and laugh heartily at my escape."

As he said this to himself, he entered the wood, of which we have already spoken, that skirts La Range and throws its shade nearly to the fir-trees which surround Muiceron. It was such a delightful spot, either by night or day, that it was difficult to pass through it without feeling a disposition to loiter and meditate, particularly for such a dreamer as Jean-Louis. After all, now that he was safe, there was nothing to hurry him home for at least half an hour. He therefore put his hands in his pockets, and strolled along, resting both mind and body in a dreamy reverie for the benefit of the one, and walking slowly to the great good of the other.

Really, the evening was delicious. The great heat of the day had been succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, passing over the orchards around, brought into the wood the sweet odor of young fruit, mingled with that of the foliage and bark of the trees, damp with the August sap. The hum of insects was heard, and not far off the joyous murmur of the stream leaping over the stones. As the ground had been thoroughly soaked for several weeks past, quantities of wild flowers strewed the soil, and added to the balmy air a taste of spring, entirely out of season. You surely must have felt, at some time or other, how such nights and such scenes enervate the brain. The will cannot resist the bewitching influence; insensibly we become dreamers, and feel a strong desire to converse with the stars. August nights especially are irresistible, and I imagine no one, unless somebody depraved by wicked deeds and thoughts, or a born idiot, can fail to understand and acknowledge the effect.

Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his pure soul and young heart of twenty years, was happy in the midst of these gifts of the good God. He was like a child who hears for the first time the sound of the bagpipes; and I beg you will not sneer at this comparison, for the reveries of an innocent heart have precisely the same gentle effect on the soul as the grand harmonies that roll through vast cathedrals on the great festivals of the church.

Doubtless, that he might better listen to this music, he seated himself on the moss at the bottom of a birch-tree, rested his head against the trunk, and looked up at the leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet crossed, and in the most comfortable position possible, to dream at his ease. Now, whether he was more fatigued than he imagined, on account of his week's hard labor, or whether the unusual feasting at the château made him drowsy, certain it is that he first closed one eye, then both, and ended by falling as soundly asleep as though he were in his bed at Muiceron.

It happened that, during this time, a storm arose behind the hill of Chaumier, to the right of the river that runs through the parish of Val-Saint and Ordonniers--something which our sleeper had not foreseen, although he was very expert in judging of the weather. Ordinarily, the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so that this side of La Range is seldom injured by storms; but this time it was not so. At the end of an hour or two that his sleep lasted, Jean-Louis was suddenly awakened by a clap of thunder which nearly deafened him; and in an instant the rain commenced to fall in great drops that came down on his face, and of which he received the full benefit as he lay stretched out on the grass.

He rose at a bound, and started off on a gallop, that his best clothes might not be injured. Muiceron was not far distant, and the storm had just commenced; he therefore hoped to reach the house in time to escape it. Not that he thought only of his costume, like a vain, effeminate boy, but because his mother Pierrette was very careful, and did not like to see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted with the rain.

But the storm ran faster than he; the rain fell as from a great watering-pot in the trees, lightning glared on all sides at once, and one would have said that two thunder-clouds were warring against each other, trying to see which could show the greatest anger.

In the midst of this infernal noise, Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he thought, by the flash of lightning, to be a little brown form trotting before him in the middle of the path. He was not a boy to be alarmed by the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories with which we frighten children to make them behave, and which many grown-up men, with beards on their chin, half believe to be true; but, nevertheless, the thing appeared quite unusual. He hastened his steps, and, as sometimes he could see in the lightning-glare as well as at noonday, he soon recognized the costume of the women of the country, or at least the cloak they throw over their clothes when the weather is threatening.

"Oh!" said the kind-hearted Jeannet, "here is a poor little thing half frightened to death on account of the storm. I must catch up with her, and offer to take her to the village."

For Jean-Louis, although he had very little ever to do with girls, was so kindly disposed he was always ready to be of service to his neighbors, whether they wore blouses or petticoats.

But as he hurried on, that he might put in practice his charitable thought, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to set the woods on fire, and, immediately after, a terrible clap of thunder as loud as though the heavens were rent asunder. Jeannet involuntarily closed his eyes, and stopped short, fastened to the ground like a stake. It was what the _savants_ call--an electric shock. But don't expect me to explain that expression, for I know nothing about it, and, besides, I don't worry my head about such things.

When our boy opened his eyes, after one or two seconds, which appeared to him very long, his first care was to explore the path, in order that he might discover the unknown country-girl; but there was nowhere to be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, or anything that resembled a human being.

"Well, this is at least singular," said he very uneasily. "Has my sight grown dim? No; I would stake my head that I saw before me a flesh-and-bone woman. I saw it--that I am positive and sure. If she has been hurt by this stroke of lightning, which must surely have fallen near here, she must be lying on the ground; for I have never heard that the storm kills people by making them melt like snow under the March sun."

This sudden disappearance excited him to such a degree that, without thinking of the rain, which was pouring down in torrents, and had drenched his new coat of Vierzon cloth, he resolved to enter the copse, at the risk of losing his way, and search around until he would discover the lost girl. But before leaving the beaten path, by a sudden inspiration, he cried out with a loud voice:

"If there is any one here who needs assistance, let her speak. I will bring two strong arms to the rescue."

Instantly a faint voice, stifled and weeping, replied, "Oh! for S. Sylvain's sake, good people, have mercy on me!"

"Holy Virgin Mary!" cried Jean-Louis, "is not that the voice of my sister Jeannette? She is the last person for three leagues around I would have expected to find in such a plight at this hour of the night. But I must be mistaken; it can't be possible."

And with that, more dead than alive from the violent palpitation of the heart which suddenly seized him, Jean-Louis rushed towards a thicket of young chestnut-trees that bordered the path, and from which seemed to come the weak, mournful voice that implored pity. He pushed aside the branches with a vigorous hand, and soon discovered a girl, in cloak and hood, crouched upon the ground, and so doubled up in a heap she could have been mistaken at first sight for a large ant-heap or bundle of old rags left there by some passing beggar.

"For the love of our Lord and Saviour, tell me who you are, and don't be afraid of me," said Jeannet, leaning over the poor little thing.

She raised her head, and instantly let it fall again on her knees, around which her hands were clasped; but as the lightning continued without ceasing a moment, the movement sufficed for Jean-Louis to recognize her.

It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but so paralyzed with fear, so wet and fainting, she seemed about to breathe her last. Her piteous moans were enough to break one's heart. Her whole body trembled, and thus huddled up in the middle of the mud in the dense underbrush, her situation was so perilous I verily believe she would have met her death in that lonely spot, but for the assistance sent by Heaven.

"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean-Louis, coming close to her, "keep up your courage, my darling. Rouse up, I beg of you. Be brave; you are already chilled through. It is dangerous to remain in the woods in such a storm."

But the poor little creature did not move. The fright and cold of the terrible tempest had totally bewildered her. Jeannet vainly shook her by the shoulders, trying to raise her on her feet, and to unclasp her hands, which had stiffened around her knees. He could not make her change her position in the least. What could be done? He did not know precisely how long she had wandered in the wood before falling down; and although he had just heard her speak a moment before, he feared that she was about to die, as perhaps she had been struck by lightning.

He made the sign of the cross, and invoked the angels of paradise. Immediately he remembered that not far from this grove was a miserable cabin, used by the wood-cutters, half tumbling down, but still sufficiently sound to shelter a Christian. This thought gave him fresh strength; and taking the little thing, doubled up as she was, in his arms, he raised her from the ground, and carried her, without stopping, to the wretched hut.

Well was it that he thought of this retreat, and, still better, that it was not far distant; for Jeannette, although slender and not tall, was in a dead faint, and consequently so heavy that Jeannet was perfectly exhausted when he reached the shelter.

By a still greater mercy, he had his flint in his pocket, and, luckily, it had not been injured by the dampness. He thus was able to strike a light, after having laid the poor girl on the dry earthen floor. He quickly lighted some handfuls of brush and straw that strewed the ground, and by their smoky light discovered, in a corner of the cabin, a good moss mattress, which the wood-men used when they came to sleep in the place, and near by a little board, upon which laid a packet of _auribus_--little resin candles very much used in our province.

"May God be praised for helping me!" thought the brave boy, delighted at having found poor little Jeannette. "It is a poor bed-room in comparison with the fine apartments at the château, but worth a palace when we think of the thicket just now."

He unfastened his sister's cloak, with a thousand respectful precautions, just as he would have touched the veil that covers the statue of Our Lady, and in the same manner took off her shoes and stockings, which he found very difficult, as, owing to the dampness, the fine thread stockings clung tightly to the skin. That accomplished, he built up the fire with all the rubbish he could find, and, turning the moss mattress in such a manner that Jeannette's feet were in front of the fire, he stretched her gently upon it, and seated himself beside her, waiting for her to recover her senses.

Thus passed half an hour without the little one stirring; fortunately, her cloak was very thick, so that the rest of her clothes were not wet, and he could thus hope for the best. But it was the first time Jeannet had ever watched by the side of a fainting girl; and, not knowing by experience what to do in such a case, the time seemed to him very long before she revived. He himself was dripping wet, and, although he scarcely gave it a thought, he shivered as one who might soon have the chills-and-fever.

"It would be very queer if I also should have an inclination to faint; what then would become of us?" thought Jean-Louis, who really began to feel very uncomfortable.

As this idea entered his head, Jeannette moved her little feet before the fire, and began to sigh, and then to yawn, which was the best sign that there was no danger of dying, as there is always hope as long as a sick person can yawn. A minute afterwards, she raised herself, and looked around with astonished eyes that asked an explanation.

"Well," said the happy Jeannet, "how do you feel, my poor little sister?"

"Is it you?" she asked, still trembling. "O Jeannet! how frightened I was."

And as she spoke, she tried to throw her arms around his neck, like a child who seeks refuge in his mother's breast. Jean-Louis drew back--something which was entirely different from his usual manner of receiving her caresses.

"Are you angry?" said she. "I have done nothing wrong, except to venture out to-night to return home; but the weather was not bad when I started, and I did not dream of such a storm."

"I angry? Why should I be?" cried Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands. "No, no, my pet; on the contrary, I am most happy to see you a little restored. But I am thoroughly drenched with the rain; that is the reason I don't wish you to touch me."

"That is true," said she; "I did not notice it before. What were you doing before this good fire, instead of drying yourself?"

"I was looking at you," replied Jeannet innocently.

"Big goose!" cried the little thing laughing heartily with her usual good humor. "Hadn't you any more sense than that? And now you are just ready to catch the ague."

"Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is not the first time I have had a check of perspiration. What I hope is that you will not suffer by this adventure, any more than I. But tell me, why did you run away from the _fête_ at the very moment the dancing was about to commence?"

"I cannot say why," replied Jeannette. "Sometimes we have ideas we must follow, whether or no. It is as though some one stronger than we were pushing us by the shoulders the way he wished us to go. To speak frankly, I saw you leave hastily, and I instantly became more serious, and felt less desire to be amused. I said to myself, Doubtless Jeannet, who is better than I, knows that father and mother are alone waiting for him at Muiceron, and he cannot bear the thought of their sitting up for him until late at night. And I, what am I doing? Am I not also a child of the house? Jeannet will relate all that happened at the dinner, and they will ask, 'And Jeannette?' 'Oh! yes, Jeannette; does Jeannette think of anything else but amusing herself and talking nonsense far away from her parents?' At these thoughts my heart throbbed so I nearly burst into tears; just then mademoiselle was busy replying to the compliments every one was offering her; so I left the barn, and went after my cloak, and, without further reflection, started for Muiceron. You know how afraid I am of thunder and lightning; when I saw the storm coming up, I became bewildered, and don't know which way I went, but I suppose it was the wrong one. When I regained what I thought was the right path, the storm was still raging, and I would have died of fright, but for you, my old fellow."

"Thank God you escaped this time!" said Jean-Louis, very much touched by the simple recital, which showed the good heart of the little girl; "but, nevertheless, you ran a great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us hurry home; we must quit this place, as it must be late."

"I suppose it is," said she. "Haven't you your watch to see what time it is?"

"I left it hanging up in my room," replied Jeannet. "I did not wish to wear it when at dinner in the château, for fear it might look as though I wished to display it before those who had none; and it is well I did not take it, as it would have been ruined by the rain."

"How can I walk barefooted?" asked Jeannette. "I can't put on my wet stockings."

"And your shoes still less," replied her brother, laughing. "But if you will let me, Jeannette, I can carry you."

"Poor Jeannet! Not at all; it would be too much for you," said she. "Go to Muiceron, and bring me my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now outside; I don't hear any noise, and I will not be afraid to remain here alone for a little while."

It was really the best and shortest way of getting over the difficulty. Jean-Louis opened the door of the cabin, and saw that the sky was clear and bright; not this time with the lightning's glare, but with the soft rays of the moon and beautiful stars of the good God. All was quiet and peaceful, except that great drops fell from the trees, still wet with the heavy rain, and that the ruts in the road were filled with water, that made them look like little rivulets.

"Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be patient ten minutes," said he; "and in two strides I will be there and back again."

It took a little longer time than that to return, as on entering the farm he met Ragaud, who was looking to see if the storm had injured the palings around the barn-yard, and was therefore obliged to stop and in a few words relate the night's adventure.

The good man, while grumbling and scolding at the imprudence of his daughter, who, he said, had no more sense than a child six years old, felt fearfully anxious, as was easily shown by the rapid questions he asked Jean-Louis. To assure himself that nothing was kept behind, and that the boy, from kindness of heart, had not disguised the truth, he hastily took down his big woollen scarf from the hook, and hurried off.

"I will lecture the giddy child well," said he. "Go before, Jeannet; I will follow you. It is not far, so hurry."

"Mother will be anxious," said Jeannet. "Let me go alone; I will be back the sooner."

"Your mother has been asleep a long time," replied Ragaud, "or else she would have been on our heels before this, and we would have had to carry her back also. Fasten the bolt, without any noise, and let us be off."

With that they started. Ragaud was quick and light for his age, and they proceeded at a rapid rate, which soon brought them to their journey's end. Jean-Louis carried a bright lantern and a bundle of woollen stockings and wooden shoes he had taken at random out of the chest; for it was all-important that Jeannette's feet should be well warmed, and that she should be in her comfortable bed as soon as possible, so as to prevent fresh chills.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hut, which enables us to see what a long time had elapsed since Jean-Louis' flight from the château, what a good sound sleep he had had in the wood, and proves that the storm and Jeannette's swoon were not slight affairs.

As soon as they entered--Jeannet the first, Ragaud behind him--they saw that the lantern was a wise precaution. The heap of brush-wood was burnt up, and there was no light, except from a little pile of red ashes, as even the resin candle glued to the wall was flickering and falling in big drops, which announced its speedy death.

"Here we are, my Jeanne," cried Jean-Louis from the threshold of the door. "Father is with me, and we have brought fresh lights."

No answer. The child was so weak and faint, it looked as though she had swooned again. Ragaud, at this sight, forgot the scolding he intended giving his daughter by way of welcome, and, leaning over her, placed his hand on her forehead, which was icy cold.

"She is very ill, I tell you," murmured the good man. "Bring the lantern here, Jeannet. God have mercy on me, how pale the poor child is!... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't you know us?"

"Ah! yes, my father," she whispered, looking languidly at him. "I hear you, but I am so sleepy ... so sleepy ... I can't talk."

"But you must wake up, and leave this place," said Ragaud. "Try and rouse yourself, my child; in five minutes we will be at the house."

She made the effort, and tried to stand on her feet; but for Jeannet, who was near and caught her, she would have fallen down.

"I am so tired!" she said again, closing her eyes.

"Shall we carry you on _a chair to see the king_?" asked Jean-Louis. "Perhaps that will be the best way."

"Yes, yes," said she, smiling at this remembrance of her childhood; "that will be fun."

Undoubtedly you know what is _a chair to see the king_? It is a child's play, which generally is done by three persons--two boys and a girl; the boys clasp hands in such a manner that a good seat is made for the girl, who thus, without any fatigue to the bearers, can be carried as easily as in a carriage.

Ragaud highly approved of the idea. Jeannet, who thought of everything, tied the lantern to a piece of cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's neck, who recovered enough strength to laugh; and thus, well lighted and very happy, they started on their return to the farm, which they soon reached safe and sound.

They entered Muiceron by the kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette, who was sleeping in the big front room, did not hear the slightest noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly restored; she was gay, although still pale and shivering; but she assured them the warmth of the bed would soon make her feel better. So they embraced, and, after many good-nights, retired to their rooms.

The next morning Ragaud told Pierrette all the events of the preceding night, but forbade her entering Jeannette's room, for fear she might be awakened too soon after her great fatigue; but at the same time, unable to restrain his own curiosity, he took off his wooden shoes, softly lifted the latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, and peeped between the curtains, just to see, for a second, how the child was resting.

Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes wandering in delirium, her whole body burning with fever. She knew no one. Her excitement was so great she beat the air with her bare arms, while her throat was so choked up the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud thought she was dying; he uttered a loud cry, which brought Pierrette to the bedside, where the poor mother fell down, half fainting with grief and fright.

In an instant the whole farm was in a tumult. Big Marion set up a blubbering, crying that the child was dying; the cow-herds and stable-boys burst into the room, and, seeing every one in tears, began to whine in their turn without exactly knowing why. Jean-Louis alone, when he saw his sister's dreadful condition, did not shed a tear or make a sound, but, darting out of the room like an arrow, leaped on a horse's bare back, and galloped off for the doctor, who lived half a league beyond Val-Saint, towards the large town of Preuilly.