it shall find an answer in the Saviour Dionysus, who shall change the flight of search into the pomp of triumph.
* * * * *
But let us pause a moment. It is Palm Sunday! We are not, indeed, in Syria, the land of palms. Yet, even here,–lost in some far-reaching avenue of pines, where one could hardly walk upon a summer Sunday without such sense of joy as would move him to tears,–even here all the movements of the earth and the heavens hint of most jubilant triumph. Thus, the green grass rises above the dead grass at our feet; the leaf-buds new-born upon the tree, like lotos-buds springing up from Ethiopian marble, give token of resurrection; the trees themselves tower heavenward; and in victorious ascension the clouds unite in the vast procession, dissolving in exhalation at the “gates of the sun”; while from unnumbered choirs arise songs of exultant victory from the hearts of men to the throne of God!
But whither, in divine remembrance,–whither is it that upon this Sunday of all Sundays the thoughts of Christendom point? Back through eighteen hundred years to the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, followed by the children crying, “Hosanna in the highest heavens!” Of this it is that the processions of Nature, in the resurrections of birth and the aerial ascension of clouds,–of this that the upward processions of our thoughts are commemorative!
Thus was the sixth day of the Eleusinia,–when the ivy-crowned Dionysus was borne in triumph through the mystic entrance of Eleusis, and from the Eleusinian plains, as from our choirs to-day, ascended the jubilant Hosannas of the countless multitude;–this was the Palm Sunday of Greece.
Close upon the chariot-wheels of the Saviour Dionysus followed, in the faith of Greece, Aesculapius and Hercules: the former the Divine Physician, whose very name was healing, and who had power over death, as the child of the Sun; and the latter, who by his saving strength delivered the earth from its Augean impurities, and, arrayed in celestial panoply, subdued the monsters of the earth, and at last, descending to Hades, slew the three-headed Cerberus and took away from men much of the fear of death. Such was the train of the Eleusinian Dionysus. If Demeter was the wanderer, he was the conqueror and centre of all triumph.
And this reminds us of his Indian conquest. What did it mean? Admit that it may have been only the fabulous march in triumph of some forgotten king of mortal birth to the farthest limits of the East. Still the fact of its association with Dionysus stands as evidence of the connection of human faith with human victory. Let it be that Dionysus himself was only the apotheosis of victorious humanity. In strict logic this is more than probable. Yet why apotheosize conquerors at all? Why exalt all heroes to the rank of gods?
The reason is, that men are unwilling to draw a limited meaning from any human act. How could they, then, connecting, as they did, all victory with hope,–how could they fall short of the most exalted hope, of the most excellent victory; especially in instances like the one now under our notice, where the material circumstances of the conquest as well as of the conqueror’s life have passed out of remembrance; when for generations men have dwelt upon the dim tradition in their thoughts, and it has had time to grow into its fullest significance,–even finding an elaborate expression in sacred writings, in symbolic ritual, and monumental entablature? Osiris, who subjected men to his reign of peace, was also held to be the Preserver of their souls. Even Caesar, had he lived two thousand years before, might have been worshipped as Saviour. All extended power, measured by duration in time or vast areas of space, becomes an incarnate Presence in the world, which awes to the dust all who resist it, and exalts with its own glory all who trust in it. Achtheia mourns all failures; and here it is that the human touches the earth. But they who conquer, these are our Saviours; they shall follow in the train of Dionysus; they shall lift us to the heavens, and sanctify in our remembrance the Sunday of Palms!
But Dionysus not only looks back with triumphant remembrance to ancient conquest, but has his victories in the present, also, and in the great Hereafter. For triumph was connected with all Dionysiac symbols, hints of which are preserved to us in representations found upon ancient vases: such, for instance, as the figure of Victory surmounting the heads of the ivy-crowned Bacchantes in their mystic orgies; or the winged serpents which bear the chariot of the victor-god,–as if in this connection even the reptiles, whose very name (_serpentes_) is a synonyme for what creeps, are to be made the ministrants of his conquering flight. The tombs of the ancients from Egypt to Etruria are full of these symbols. Many of them have become dim as to their meaning by oblivious time; but enough is evident to indicate the prominence of hope in ancient faith. This appears in the very multiplicity of Dionysiac symbols as compared with any other class. Thus, out of sixty-six vases at Polignano, all but one or two were found to be Dionysiac in their symbolism. And this instance stands for many others. The _character_ of the scenes represented indicates the same prominence of hope, sometimes as connected with the relations of life,–as, for example, the representation, found upon a sepulchral cone, of a husband and wife uniting with each other in prayer to the Sun. Frequent inscriptions–such as those in which the deceased is carefully committed to Osiris, the Egyptian Dionysus–point in the same direction; as also the genii who presided over the embalmed dead, a belief in whose existence surely indicated a hopeful trust in some divine care which would not leave them even in the grave. Statues of Osiris are found among the ruins of palaces and temples; but it was in the monuments associated with death that they dwelt most upon his name and expressed their faith in most frequent incarnation and inscription.
The epic movement of Eleusinian triumph was in its range as unlimited as the movement of sorrow. Each found expression in sculptured monument,–the one hinting of flight into darkness, and the other of resurrection into light; each in its cycle inclosed the world; each widened into the invisible; as the wail of Achtheia reached the heart of Hades, so the paean of Dionysus was lost in the heavens.
* * * * *
But in what manner did this Dionysus make his _avatar_ in the world? For he must needs have first touched the earth as human child, ere he could be worshipped as Divine Saviour. Latona must leave the heavens and come to Delos ere she can give birth to Apollo; for, in order to slay the serpent, the child must himself be earth-born,–indeed, according to one representation, he slew the Python out of his mother’s arms. Neither the serpent of Genesis nor the dragon of Revelation can be conquered save by the seed of the woman. From this necessity of his earthly birth, the connection of the Saviour-Child with the _Mater Dolorosa_ becomes universal,–finding its counterpart in the Assyrian Venus with babe in arm, in Isis suckling the child Horus, and even in the Scandinavian Disa at Upsal accompanied by an infant. It is from swaddling-clothes, as the nursling of our Lady, and out of the sorrowful discipline of earth, that the child grows to be the Saviour, both for our Lady and for all her children.
Hence, according to the tradition, Dionysus was born of Semele of the royal house at Thebes; and Jove was his father. A little before his time of birth,–so the story goes,–Jove visited Semele, at her own rash request, in all the majesty of his presence, with thunderings and lightnings, so that the bower of the virgin mother was laid in ruins, and she herself, unable to stand before the revealed god, was consumed as by fire. But Jove out of her ashes perfected the birth of his son; whence he was called the Child of Fire, ([Greek: puripais],)–which epithet, as well as this part of the fable, probably points to his connection with the Oriental symbolism of fire in the worship of the Sun.
And it is worth while, in connection with this, to notice the gradations by which in the ancient mind everything ascended from the gross material to a refined spirituality. As in Nature there was forever going on a subtilizing process, so that
“from the root
Springs lighter the green stalk, from thence the leaves More aery, last the bright consummate flower Spirits odorous breathes,”–
and as, in their philosophy, from the earth, as the principle of Nature, they ascended through the more subtile elements of water, air, and fire, to a spiritual conception of the universe; so, as regards their faith, its highest incarnation was through the symbolism of fire, as representative of that central Power under whose influence all things arose through endless grades of exaltation to Himself,–so that the earthly rose into the heavenly, and all that was human became divine.
The enthusiasm of victory and exaltation in the worship of Dionysus tended of course to connect with him whatsoever was joyous and jubilant in life. He was the god of all joy. Hence the fable which makes him the author and giver of wine to men. Wherever he goes, he is surrounded by the clustering vine and ivy, hinting of his summer glory and of his kingly crown. Thus, the line of his conquests leads through the richest fields of Southern Asia,–through the incense-breathing Arabia, across the Euphrates and the Tigris, and through the flowery vales of Cashmere to the Indian garden of the world: and as from sea to sea he establishes his reign by bloodless victories, he is attended by Fauns and Satyrs and the jovial Pan; wine and honey are his gifts; and all the earth is glad in his gracious presence. Hence he was ever associated with Oriental luxuriance, and was worshipped even among the Greeks with a large infusion of Oriental extravagance, though tempered by the more subdued mood of the West.
But that depth of Grecian genius, which made it possible for Greece alone of all ancient nations to develop tragedy to anything like perfection, insured also even in the most impassioned life the most profound solemnity. Into the praises of Apollo, joyous as they were,–where, to the exultant anthem was joined the evolution of the dance beneath the vaulted sky, as if in his very presence,–for the sun was his shechinah,–there enters an element of solemnity, which, in certain connections, is almost overwhelming: as, for instance, in the first book of the “Iliad,”–where, after the pestilence which has sent up an endless series of funeral pyres,–after the strife of heroes and the return of Chryseis to her father, the priest of the angry Apollo,–after the feast and the libation from the wine-crowned cups, there follow the _apotropoea_, and the Grecian youths unite in the song and the dance, which last, both the joyous paean and the tread of exultant feet, until the setting sun. I know of nothing which to an equal degree suggests this element of solemnity, that is almost awe-inspiring from its depth, short of the jubilant procession of saints, in the Apocalypse, with palms in their hands.
This element is also evident in the worship of Dionysus,–so that the inspiration of joy must not be taken for the frenzy of intoxication, though the symbol of the vine has often led to just this misapprehension. Besides, Dionysus must not be too closely identified with the Bacchanalian orgies, which were only a perversion of rites which retained their original purity in the Eleusinia: and this latter institution, it must be remembered, was from the first under the control of the state,–and that state at the time the most refined on the face of the earth.
Surely, it is not more difficult to give a pure and spiritual significance to a vintage-festival or to the symbolic wine-cup of Dionysus, than in the rhapsodies of a Persian or Hindu poet to symbolize the attraction between the Divine Goodness and the human soul by the loves of Laili and Majnum, or of Crishna and Radha,–to say nothing of the exalted symbolism attached to the love of Solomon for his Egyptian princess, and sanctioned by the most delicate taste.
Indeed, is it not true that whatsoever is most sensuous in connection with human joy, and at the same time pure, is the very flower of life, and therefore the most consummate revelation of holiness? Nothing in Nature is so intensely solemn as her summer, in its infinite fulness of growth and the unmeasured altitude of its heavens. And within the range of human associations which shall we select as revealing the most profound solemnity? Surely not the sight of the funeral train, nor of the urn crowned with cypress,–of nothing which is associated with death or weakness in any shape;–but the sight of gayest festivals, or the paraphernalia of palace-halls,–the vision of some youthful maiden of transcendent beauty crowned with an orange-wreath, within hearing of marriage-bells and the whisperings of holy love,–or the aspirations of the dance and the endless breathings of triumphant music. These are they which come up most prominently in remembrance,–even as the whole race, in its remembrances, instinctively looks back to the Orient,–to some Homeric island of the morning, where are the palaces, the choral dances, and the risings of the sun.[e] And as Memory has the power to purify the past of all material grossness, Faith has the same power as regards the present Hence, the closest connection of religious faith with the most joyous festivals, with a finely moulded Venus or Apollo, with an Ephesian temple or a splendid cathedral, or the sweetest symphonies of music, does not mar, but reveals its natural beauty and strength.
[Footnote e: _Odyssey_, xii., 4.]
But most certainly the Greeks gave a profound spiritual meaning to the Eleusinia, as also to the mystic connection of Demeter with Dionysus. She gave them bread: but they never forgot that she gave them the bread of life. “She gave us,” says the ancient Isocrates, “two gifts that are the most excellent: fruits, that we might not live like beasts; and that initiation, those who have part in which have sweeter hope,–both as regards the close of life, and for all eternity.” So Dionysus gave them wine, not only to lighten the cares of life, but as a token, moreover, of efficient deliverance from the fear of death, and of the higher joy which he would give them in some happier world. And thus it is, that, from the earliest times and in all the world, bread and wine have been symbols of sacramental significance.
Human life so elevates all things with its exaltation and clothes them with its glory, that nothing vain, nothing trifling, can be found within its range. He who opposes himself to a single fact thus of necessity opposes himself to the whole onward and upward current, and must fall. We have heard of Thor, who with his magic mallet and his two celestial comrades went to Joetunheim in quest of adventures: and we remember the goblet which he could not exhaust because of its mysterious connection with the inexhaustible Sea; the race with Hugi, which in the end proved to be a race with Thought; and the wrestle with the old nurse Elli, who was no other than Time herself, and therefore irresistible. So do we all get us mallets ingeniously forged by the dark elves;–we try a race with human thought, and look vainly to come out ahead; we laugh at things because they are old, but with which we struggle to no purpose; and the cup which we confidently put to our lips has no bottom;–in fact, the great world of Joetunheim has grown for so long a time and so widely that it is quite too much for us,–and its tall people, though we come down upon them, like Thor and his companions, from celestial heights, are too stout for our mallet.
Nothing human is so insignificant, but that, if you will give it time and room, it will become irresistible. The plays of men become their dramas; their holidays change to holy days. The representations, through which, under various names, they have repeated to themselves the glory and the tragedy of their life,–old festivals once celebrated in Egypt far back beyond the dimmest myths of human remembrance,–the mystic drama of the Eleusinia, which we have been considering in its overwhelming sorrow developed in hurried flight, and its lofty hope through triumphal pomp and the significant symbolism of resurrection,–the epos and the epic rhapsodies,–the circus and the amphitheatre,–and even the impetuous song and dance of painted savages,–all these, which at first we may pass by with a glance, have for our deeper search a meaning which we can never wholly exhaust. Let it be that they have grown from feeble beginnings, they have grown to gigantic dimensions; and not their infantile proportions, but their fullest growth is to be taken as the measure of their strength,–if, indeed, it be not wholly immeasurable.
Upon some day, seemingly by chance, but really having its antecedent in the remotest antiquity, a company of men participate in some simple act,–of sacrifice, it may be, or of amusement. Now that act will be reiterated.
“Quod semel dictum est stabilisque rerum Terminus servet.”
The subtile law of repetition, as regards the human will, is as sure in Determination as it is in Consciousness. Habit is as inevitable as Memory; and as nothing can be forgotten, but, when once known, is known forever,–so nothing is done but will be done again. Lethe and Annihilation are only myths upon the earth, which men, though suspicious of their eternal falsehood, name to themselves in moments of despair and fearful apprehension. The poppy has only a fabled virtue; but, like Persephone, we have all tasted of the pomegranate, and must ever to Hades and back again; for while death and oblivion only seem to be, remembrances and resurrections there must be, and without end. Therefore this before-mentioned act of sacrifice or amusement will be reiterated at given intervals; about it, as a centre, will be gathered all the associations of intense interest in human life; and the names connected with its origin–once human names upon the earth–will pass upon the stars, so that the _nomina_ shall have changed to _numina_, and be taken upon the lips with religious awe. So it was with these old festivals,–so with all the representations of human life in stone or upon the canvas, in the fairy-tale, the romance, and the poem; at every successive repetition, at every fresh resurrection, is evolved by human faith and sympathy a deeper significance, until they become the centres of national thought and feeling, and men believe in them as in revelations from heaven; and even the oracles themselves, in respect of their inherent meaning, as also of their origin and authority, rise by the same ascending series of repeated birth,–like that at Delphi, which, at first attributed to the Earth, then to Themis, daughter of Earth and Heaven, was at last connected with the Sun and constituted one of the richest gems in Apollo’s diadem of light.
In the end we shall find that the whole world organizes about its centre of Faith. Thus, under three different religious systems, Jerusalem, Delphi, and Mecca were held to be each in its turn the _omphalos_ or navel of the world. It follows inevitably that the _main_ movement of the world must always be joyous and hopeful. By reason of this joy it is that every religious system has its feast; and the sixth day–the day of Iacchus–is the great day of the festival. The inscription which rises above every other is “To the Saviour Gods.”
We must look at history as a succession of triumphs from the beginning; and each trophy that is erected outdoes in its magnificence all that were ever erected before it. Nothing has suffered defeat, except as it has run counter to the main movement of conquest. No system of faith, therefore, can by any possibility pass away. Involved it may be in some fuller system; its _material_ bases may be modified; its central source become more central in the human heart, and so stronger in the world and more immediate in its connection with the eternal; but the life itself of the system must live forever and grow forever.
Still it is true that in the widest growth there is the largest liability to weakness. “Thus it is,” says Fouque, “with poor, though richly endowed man. All lies within his power so long as action is at rest within him; nothing is in his power the moment action has displayed itself, even by the lifting-up of a finger on the immeasurable world.” In the very extent of the empire of an Alexander, a Caesar, or a Tamerlane, rests the possibility of its rapid dissolution. At the giddiest altitude of triumph it is that the brain grows dizziest and there is revealed the deepest chasm of possible defeat; and the conqueror,
“Having his ear full of his airy fame,”
is just then most likely to fall like Herod from his aerial pomp to the very dust. This consciousness, revealing at the highest moment of joy its utmost frailty, led the ancients to suspect the presence of some Ate or Nemesis in all human triumphs. We all remember the king who threw his signet-ring into the sea, that he might in his too happy fortunes avert this suspected presence; we remember, too, the apprehension of the Chorus in the “Seven against Thebes,” looking forward from the noontide prosperity of the Theban king to some coming catastrophe.
But it is not without us that this Nemesis waits; she is but another name for the fearful possibility which lurks in every human will, of treachery to itself. And as solemnity rises to its acme in the most sensuous manifestation of the glory of life,–so in all that most fascinates and bewilders, at the very crisis of victorious exaltation, at the very height of joyous sensibility, does this mysterious power of temptation reveal her subtlest treachery; and sometimes in a single moment does she change the golden-filleted Horae, that are our ministers, into frightful furies, which drive us back again from triumph into flight.
What was it, then, which saved the Eleusinia from this defeat,–which kept the movement of the Dionysiac procession from the ruin inevitably consequent upon all intemperate joy? It was the presence of our Lady, the sorrowing Achtheia, who was the inseparable companion of the joyous conqueror,–who subdued the joy of victory, and preserved the strength and holy purity of the great Festival. Demeter was thus necessary to Dionysus,–as Dionysus to Demeter; and if in remembrance of him the sepulchral walls were covered with scenes associated with festivity,–in remembrance of her there must needs be a skeleton at every feast.
How inseparably connected in human thought is sorrow with all permanent hope is indicated in the penances which men have imposed upon themselves, from the earliest Gymnosophists of India, and the Stylitae of Syria, down to the monastic orders of the Romish Church in later times. This is the meaning of the old Indian fable which made two of the _Rishis_ or penitents to have risen by the discipline of sorrow from some low caste,–it may be, from very Pariahs,–first to the rank of Brahmins, and at last to the stars. The first initiation in which we veil our eyes, losing all, is essential to our fresher birth, by which in the second initiation all things are unveiled to us as our inheritance: indeed, it is only through that which veils that anything is ever revealed or possessed.
Through the same gate we pass both to glory and to tragic suffering, each of which heightens and measures the other; and it is only so that we can understand the function of sorrow in the Providence of God, or interpret the sudden calamities which sometimes overwhelm human hopes at their highest aspiration,–which from the most serene and cloudless sky evoke storms which leave not even a wreck from their vast ruin.
Nor merely is sorrow efficient in those who hope, but in even a higher sense does it attach to the character of Saviour. Apollo is, therefore, fabled to have been an exile from heaven and a servant of Admetus; indeed, Danaues, in “The Suppliants” of AEschylus, appeals to Apollo for protection on this very plea, addressing him as “the Holy One, and an exiled God from heaven.” Thus Hercules was compelled to serve Eurystheus; and his twelve labors were typed in the twelve signs of the zodiac. AEsculapius and Prometheus both suffered excruciating tortures and death for the good of men. And Dionysus–himself the centre of all joy–was persecuted by the Queen of Heaven and compelled to wander in the world. Thus he wandered through Egypt, finding no abiding-place, and finally, as the story runs, came to the Phrygian Cybele, that he might know in their deepest meaning–even by the initiation of sorrow–the mysteries of the Great Mother. And, very significantly, it is from this same initiation that _His_ wanderings have their end and his world-wide conquest its beginning; as if only thus could be realized the possibility both of triumph for himself and of hope for his followers. For these wanderers can find rest only in a _suffering_ Saviour, by the vision of whose deeper Passion they lose their sense of grief,–as Io on Caucasus in sight of the transfixed Prometheus, and the Madonna at the Cross.
It is worthy of more attention than we can give it here, yet we cannot pass over in silence the fact, so important in this relation, that Grecian Tragedy, in all its wonderful development under the three great masters, was directly associated, and in its ruder beginnings completely identified, with the worship of Dionysus. And this confirms our previous hint, that the same element which made tragedy possible for Greece must also be sought for in the development of its faith. There are those who decry Grecian faith,–at the same time that they laud the Grecian drama to the skies: but to the Greeks themselves, who certainly knew more than we do as regards either, the drama was only an outgrowth of their faith, and derived thence its highest significance. Thus the mystic symbolism of the dramatic Choruses, taken out of its religious connections, becomes an insoluble enigma; and naturally enough; for its first use was in religious worship,–though afterwards it became associated with traditionary and historic events. Besides, it was supposed that the tragedians wrote under a divine inspiration; and the subjects and representations which they embodied were for the most part susceptible of a deep spiritual interpretation. Indeed, upon a careful examination, we shall find that very many of the dramas directly suggest the two Eleusinian movements, representing first the flight of suppliants–as of the Heraclidae, the daughters of Danaues, and of Oedipus and Antigone–from persecution to the shrine of some Saviour Deity,–and finally a deliverance effected through sacrifice or divine interposition. Examples of this are so numerous that we have no space for a minute consideration.
But certainly it is plain that the Eleusinia, as being more central, more purely spiritual, must in the thought of Greece have risen high above the drama. The very dress in which the _mystae_ were initiated was preserved as most sacred or deposited in the temple. Or if we insist upon measuring their appreciation of the Festival by the more palpable standard of numbers,–the temple at Eleusis, by the account of Strabo, was capable of holding even in its mystic cell more persons than the theatre. To be sure, the celebration was only once in five years,–but it was all the more sacred from this very infrequency. Nothing in all Greece–and that is saying very much–could compare with it in its depth of divine mystery. If anything could, it would have been the drama; but no wailings were ever heard from beneath the masks of the stage like the wailings of Achtheia,–no jubilant song of the Chorus ever rose like the paean of Dionysiac triumph.
* * * * *
Thus was the name of Dionysus connected with the palace and the temple, with the sepulchral court of death and the dramatic representations of life,–and everywhere associated with our Lady.
Sometimes, indeed, she seems to overshadow and hide him from our vision. Thus was it when the Eumenides in their final triumph swept the stage, and victory seemed all in the hands of invisible Powers, with no human participant: even as throughout the Homeric epos there runs an undercurrent of unutterable sadness; because, while to the Gods there ever remains a sure seat upon Olympus, unshaken by the winds, untouched by rain or snow, crowned with a cloudless radiance,–yet upon man come vanity, sorrow, and strife; like the leaves of the forest he flourisheth, and then passeth away to the “weak heads of the dead,” ([Greek: nekuon amenaena karaena],) conquered by purple Death and strong Fate.
To the eye of sense, and in the circumscribed movements of this world, the desolation seems complete and the defeat final. But the snows of winter are necessary to the blossoms of spring,–the waste of death to the resurrection of life; and from the vastest of all desolations does our Lady lead her children in the loftiest of all flights,–even from all sorrow and solitude,–from the wastes of earth and the desolation of AEons, to ineffable joy in her Saviour Lord.
* * * * *
VICTOR AND JACQUELINE.
I.
Jacqueline Gabrie and Elsie Meril could not occupy one room, and remain, either of them, indifferent to so much as might be manifested of the other’s inmost life. They could not emigrate together, peasants from Domremy,–Jacqueline so strong, Elsie so fair,–could not labor in the same harvest-fields, children of old neighbors, without each being concerned in the welfare and affected by the circumstances of the other.
It was near ten o’clock, one evening, when Elsie Meril ran up the common stairway, and entered the room in the fourth story where she and Jacqueline lodged.
Victor Le Roy, student from Picardy, occupied the room next theirs, and was startled from his slumber by the voices of the girls. Elsie was fresh from the theatre, from the first play she had ever witnessed; she came home excited and delighted, ready to repeat and recite, as long as Jacqueline would listen.
And here was Jacqueline.
Early in the evening Elsie had sought her friend with a good deal of anxiety. A fellow-lodger and field-laborer had invited her to see the play,–and Jacqueline was far down the street, nursing old Antonine Dupre. To seek her, thus occupied, on such an errand, Elsie had the good taste, and the selfishness, to refrain from doing.
Therefore, after a little deliberation, she had gone to the theatre, and there forgot her hard day-labor in the wonders of the stage,–forgot Jacqueline, and Antonine, and every care and duty. It was hard for her, when all was ended, to come back to compunction and explanation, yet to this she had come back.
Neither of the girls was thinking of the student, their neighbor; but he was not only wakened by their voices, he amused himself by comparing them and their utterances with his preconceived notions of the girls. They might not have recognized him in the street, though they had often passed him on the stairs; but he certainly could have distinguished the pretty face of Elsie, or the strange face of Jacqueline, wherever he might meet them.
Elsie ran on with her story, not careful to inquire into the mood of Jacqueline,–suspicious of that mood, no doubt,–but at last, made breathless by her haste and agitation, she paused, looked anxiously at Jacqueline, and finally said,–
“You think I ought not to have gone?”
“Oh, no,–it gave you pleasure.”
A pause followed. It was broken at length by Elsie, exclaiming, in a voice changed from its former speaking,–
“Jacqueline Gabrie, you are homesick! horribly homesick, Jacqueline!”
“You do not ask for Antonine: yet you know I went to spend the day with her,” said Jacqueline, very gravely.
“How is Antonine Dupre?” asked Elsie.
“She is dead. I have told you a good many times that she must die. Now, she is dead.”
“Dead?” repeated Elsie.
“You care as much as if a candle had gone out,” said Jacqueline.
“She was as much to me as I to her,” was the quick answer. “She never liked me. She did not like my mother before me. When you told her my name, the day we saw her first, I knew what she thought. So let that go. If I could have done her good, though, I would, Jacqueline.”
“She has everything she needs,–a great deal more than we have. She is very happy, Elsie.”
“Am not I? Are not you, in spite of your dreadful look? Your look is more terrible than the lady’s in the play, just before she killed herself. Is that because Antonine is so well off?”
“I wish that I could be where she is,” sighed Jacqueline.
“You? You are tired, Jacqueline. You look ill. You will not be fit for to-morrow. Come to bed. It is late.”
As Jacqueline made no reply to this suggestion, Elsie began to reflect upon her words, and to consider wherefore and to whom she had spoken. Not quite satisfied with herself could she have been, for at length she said in quite another manner,–
“You always said, till now, you wished that you might live a hundred years. But it was not because you were afraid to die, you said so, Jacqueline.”
“I don’t know,” was the answer,–sadly spoken, “Don’t remind me of things I have said. I seem to have lost myself.”
The voice and the words were effectual, if they were intended as an appeal to Elsie. Fain would she now exclude the stage and the play from her thoughts,–fain think and feel with Jacqueline, as it had long been her habit to do.
Jacqueline, however, was not eager to speak. And Elsie must draw yet nearer to her, and make her nearness felt, ere she could hope to receive the thought of her friend. By-and-by these words were uttered, solemn, slow, and dirge-like:–
“Antonine died just after sundown. I was alone with her. She did not think that she would die so soon. I did not. In the morning, John Leclerc came in to inquire how she spent the night. He prayed with her. And a hymn,–he read a hymn that she seemed to know, for all day she was humming it over. I can say some of the lines.”
“Say them, Jacqueline,” said the softened voice of Elsie.
Slowly, and as one recalls that of which he is uncertain, Jacqueline repeated what I copy more entire:–
“In the midst of life, behold,
Death hath girt us round!
Whom for help, then, shall we pray? Where shall grace be found?
In thee, O Lord, alone!
We rue the evil we have done,
That thy wrath on us hath drawn.
Holy Lord and God!
Strong and holy God!
Merciful and holy Saviour!
Eternal God!
Sink us not beneath
Bitter pains of endless death!
Kyrie, eleison!”
“Then he went away,” she continued. “But he did not think it was the last time he should speak to Antonine. In the afternoon I thought I saw a change, and I wanted to go for somebody. But she said, ‘Stay with me. I want nothing.’ So I sat by her bed. At last she said, ‘Come, Lord Jesus! come quickly!’ and she started up in her bed, as if she saw him coming. And as if he were coming nearer, she smiled. That was the last,–without a struggle, or as much as a groan.”
“No priest there?” asked Elsie.
“No. When I spoke to her about it, she said her priest was Jesus Christ the Righteous,–and there was no other,–the High-Priest. She gave me her Bible. See how it has been used! ‘Search the Scriptures,’ she said. She told me I was able to learn the truth. ‘I loved your mother,’ she said; ‘that is the reason I am so anxious you should know. It is by my spirit, said the Lord. Ask for that spirit,’ she said. ‘He is more willing to give than earthly parents are to give good gifts to their children.’ She said these things, Elsie. If they are true, they must be better worth believing than all the riches of the world are worth the having.”
The interest manifested by the student in this conversation had been on the increase since Jacqueline began to speak of Antonine Dupre. It was not, at this point of the conversation, waning.
“Your mother would not have agreed with Antonine,” said Elsie, as if there were weight in the argument;–for such a girl as Jacqueline could not speak earnestly in the hearing of a girl like Elsie without result, and the result was at this time resistance.
“She believed what she was taught in Domremy,” answered Jacqueline, “She believed in Absolution, Extreme Unction, in the need of another priest than Jesus Christ,–a representative they call it.” She spoke slowly, as if interrogating each point of her speech.
“I believe as they believed before us,” answered Elsie, coldly.
“We have learned many things since we came to Meaux,” answered Jacqueline, with a patient gentleness, that indicated the perplexity and doubt with which the generous spirit was departing from the old dominion. She was indeed departing, with that reverence for the past which is not incompatible with the highest hope for the future. “Our Joan came from Domremy, where she must crown the king,” she continued. “We have much to learn.”
“She lost her life,” said Elsie, with vehemence.
“Yes, she did lose her life,” Jacqueline quietly acquiesced.
“If she had known what must happen, would she have come?”
“Yes, she would have come.”
“How late it is!” said Elsie, as if in sleep were certain rest from these vexatious thoughts.
Victor Le Roy was by this time lost in his own reflections. These girls had supplied an all-sufficient theme; whether they slept or wakened was no affair of his. He had somewhat to argue for himself about extreme unction, priestly intervention, confession, absolution,–something to say to himself about Leclerc, and the departed Antonine.
Late into the night he sat thinking of the marvel of Domremy and of Antonine Dupre, of Picardy and of Meaux, of priests and of the High-Priest. Brave and aspiring, Victor Le Roy could not think of these things, involved in the names of things above specified, as more calculating, prudent spirits might have done. It was his business, as a student, to ascertain what powers were working in the world. All true characters, of past time or present, must be weighed and measured by him. Result was what he aimed at.
Jacqueline’s words had not given him new thoughts, but unawares they did summon him to his appointed labor. He looked to find the truth. He must stand to do his work. He must haste to make his choice. Enthusiastic, chivalrous, and strong, he was seeking the divine right, night and day,–and to ascertain that, as it seemed, he had come from Picardy to Meaux.
Elsie Meril went to bed, as she had invited Jacqueline to do; to sleep, to dream, she went,–and to smile, in her dreaming, on the world that smiled on her.
Jacqueline sat by the window; leaned from the window, and prayed; her own prayer she prayed, as Antonine had said she must, if she would discover what she needed, and obtain an answer.
She thought of the dead,–her own. She pondered on the future. She recalled some lines of the hymn Antonine had repeated, and she wished–oh, how she wished!–that, while the woman lived, and could reason and speak, she had told her about the letter she had received from the priest of Domremy. Many a time it had been on her lips to tell, but she failed in courage to bring her poor affairs into that chamber and disturb that dying hour. Now she wished that she had done it. Now she felt that speech had been the merest act of justice to herself.
But there was Leclerc, the wool-comber, and his mother; she might rely on them for the instruction she needed.
Old Antonine’s faith had made a deep impression on the strong-hearted and deep-thinking girl; as also had the prayers of John Leclerc,–especially that last prayer offered for Antonine. It seemed to authenticate, by its strong, unfaltering utterance, the poor old woman’s evidence. “Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever,” were strong words that seemed about to take possession of the heart of Jacqueline.
Therefore, while Elsie slept, she prayed,–looking farther than the city-streets, and darkness,–looking farther than the shining stars. What she sought, poor girl, stood in her silent chamber, stood in her waiting heart. But she knew Him not, and her ear was heavy; she did not hear the voice, that she should answer Him, “Rabboni!”
II.
A fortnight from this night, after the harvesters had left the fields of M. Flaval, Jacqueline was lingering in the twilight.
The instant the day’s work was done, the laborers set out for Meaux, Their haste suggested some unusual cause.
John Leclerc, wool-comber, had received that day his sentence. Report of the sentence had spread among the reapers in the field and all along the vineyards of the hill-sides. Not a little stir was occasioned by this sentence: three days of whipping through the public streets, to conclude with branding on the forehead. For this Leclerc, it seemed, had profanely and audaciously declared that a man might in his own behalf deal with the invisible God, by the mediation of Christ, the sole Mediator between God and man. Viewed in the light of his offence, his punishment certainly was of the mildest. Tidings of his sentence were received with various emotion: by some as though they were maddened with new wine; others wept openly; many more were pained at heart; some brutally rejoiced; some were incredulous.
But now they were all on their way to Meaux; the fields were quite deserted. Urged by one desire, to ascertain the facts of the trial, and the time when the sentence would be executed, the laborers were returning to the town.
Without demonstration of any emotion, Jacqueline Gabrie, quiet, silent, walked along the river-bank, until she came to the clump of chestnut-trees, whose shadow fell across the stream. Many a time, through the hot, dreadful day, her eyes turned wistfully to this place. In the morning Elsie Meril had promised Jacqueline that at twilight they would read together here the leaves the poor old mother of Leclerc gave Jacqueline last night: when they had read them, they would walk home by starlight together. But now the time had come, and Jacqueline was alone. Elsie had returned to town with other young harvesters.
“Very well,” said Jacqueline, when Elsie told her she must go. It was not, indeed, inexplicable that she should prefer the many voices to the one,–excitement and company, rather than quiet, dangerous thinking.
But, thus left alone, the face of Jacqueline expressed both sorrow and indignation. She would exact nothing of Elsie; but latterly how often had she expected of her companion more than she gave or could give!
Of course the young girl was equal to others in pity and surprise; but there were people in the world beside the wool-comber and his mother. Nothing of vast import was suggested by his sentence to her mind. She did not see that spiritual freedom was threatened with destruction. If she heard the danger questioned, she could not apprehend it. Though she had listened to the preaching of Leclerc and had been moved by it, her sense of truth and of justice was not so acute as to lead her willingly to incur a risk in the maintaining of the same.
She would not look into Antonine’s Bible, which Jacqueline had read so much during the last fortnight. She was not the girl to torment herself about her soul, when the Church would save it for her by mere compliance with a few easy regulations.
More and more was Elsie disappointing Jacqueline. Day by day these girls were developing in ways which bade fair to separate them in the end. When now they had most need of each other, their estrangement was becoming more apparent and decided. The peasant-dress of Elsie would not content her always, Jacqueline said sadly to herself.
Jacqueline’s tracts, indeed, promised poorly as entertainment for an hour of rest;–rest gained by hours of toil. The confusion of tongues and the excitement of the city pleased Elsie better. So she went along the road to Meaux, and was not talking, neither thinking, all the way, of the wrongs of John Leclerc, and the sorrows of his mother,–neither meditating constantly, and with deep-seated purpose, “I will not let thee go, except thou bless me!”–neither on this problem, agitated then in so many earnest minds, “What shall a man give in exchange for his soul?”
Thus Jacqueline sat alone and thought that she would read by herself the tracts Leclerc had found it good to study. But unopened she held the little printed scroll, while she watched the home-returning birds, whose nests were in the mighty branches of the chestnut-trees.
She needed the repose more than the teaching, even; for all day the sun had fallen heavily on the harvesters,–and toiling with a troubled heart, under a burning sun, will leave the laborer not in the best condition for such work as Jacqueline believed she had to do.
But she had promised the old woman she would read these tracts, and this was her only time, for they must be returned that night: others were waiting for them with an eagerness and longing of which, haply, tract-dispensers see little now. Still she delayed in opening them. The news of Leclerc’s sentence had filled her with dismay.
Did she dread to read the truth,–“the truth of Jesus Christ,” as his mother styled it? The frightful image of the bleeding, lacerated wool-comber would come between her and the book in which that faith was written for maintaining which this man must suffer. Strange contrast between the heavy gloom and terror of her thoughts and the peaceful “river flowing on”! How tranquil were the fields that spread beyond her sight! But there is no rest or joy in Nature to the agitated and foreboding spirit. Must we not have conquered the world, if we serenely enter into Nature’s rest?
Fain would Jacqueline have turned her face and steps in another direction that night than toward the road that led to Meaux: to the village on the border of the Vosges,–to the ancient Domremy. Once her home was there; but Jacqueline had passed forth from the old, humble, true defences: for herself must live and die.
Domremy had a home for her no more. The priest, on whom she had relied when all failed her, was still there, it is true; and once she had thought, that, while he lived, she was not fatherless, not homeless: but his authority had ceased to be paternal, and she trusted him no longer.
She had two graves in the old village, and among the living a few faces she never could forget. But on this earth she had no home.
Musing on these dreary facts, and on the bleeding, branded image of Leclerc, as her imagination rendered him back to his friends, his fearful trial over, a vision more familiar to her childhood than her youth opened to Jacqueline.
There was one who used to wander through the woods that bordered the mountains in whose shadow stood Domremy,–one whose works had glorified her name in the England and the France that made a martyr of her. Jeanne d’Arc had ventured all things for the truth’s sake: was she, who also came forth from that village, by any power commissioned?
Jacqueline laid the tracts on the grass. Over them she placed a stone. She bowed her head. She hid her face. She saw no more the river, trees, or home-returning birds; heard not the rush of water or of wind,–nor, even now, the hurry and the shout; that possibly to-morrow would follow the poor wool-comber through the streets of Meaux,–and on the third day they would brand him!
She remembered an old cottage in the shadow of the forest-covered mountains. She remembered one who died there suddenly, and without remedy,–her father, unabsolved and unanointed, dying in fear and torment, in a moment when none anticipated death. She remembered a strong-hearted woman who seemed to die with him,–who died to all the interests of this life, and was buried by her husband ere a twelvemonth had passed,–her mother, who was buried by her father’s side.
Burdened with a solemn care they left their child. The priest of Domremy, and none beside him, knew the weight of this burden. How had he helped her bear it? since it is the _business_ of the shepherd to look after the younglings of the flock. Her hard earnings paid him for the prayers he offered for the deliverance of her father from his purgatorial woes. Burdened with a dire debt of filial love, the priest had let her depart from Domremy; his influence followed her as an oppression and a care,–a degradation also.
Her life of labor was a slavish life. All she did, and all she left undone, she looked at with sad-hearted reference to the great object of her life. Far away she put all allurement to tempting, youthful joy. What had she to do with merriment and jollity, while a sin remained unexpiated, or a moment of her father’s suffering and sorrow could be anticipated?
How, probably, would these new doctrines, held fast by some through persecution and danger, these doctrines which brought liberty to light, be received by one so fast a prisoner of Hope as she? She had pledged herself, with solemn vows had promised, to complete the work her mother left unfinished when she died.
Some of the laborers in the field, Elsie among them, had hoped, they said, that the wool-comber would retract from his dangerous position. Recalling their words, Jacqueline asked herself would she choose to have him retract? She reminded herself of the only martyr whose memory she loved, the glorious girl from Domremy, and a lofty and stern spirit seemed to rouse within her as she answered that question. She believed that John had found and taught the truth; and was Truth to be sacrificed to Power that hated it? Not by a suicidal act, at least.
She took the tracts, so judging, from underneath the stone, wistfully looked them over, and, as she did so, recalled these words: “You cannot buy your pardon of a priest; he has no power to sell it; he cannot even give it. Ask of God, who giveth to all men liberally, upbraiding not. ‘If ye, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Heavenly Father give his Holy Spirit to them that ask him!'”
She could never forget these words. She could never forget the preacher’s look when he used them; nor the solemnity of the assenting faith, as attested by the countenances of those around her in that “upper room.”
But her father! What would this faith do for the departed?
Yet again she dared to pray,–here in this solitude, to ask for that Holy Spirit, the Enlightener. And it was truly with trembling, in the face of all presentiments of what the gift might possibly, must certainly, import to her. But what was she, that she could withstand God, or His gift, for any fear of the result that might attend the giving of the gift?
Divinely she seemed to be inspired with that courageous thought. She rose up, as if to follow the laborers who had already gone to Meaux. But she had not passed out from the shadow of the great trees when another shadow fell along her path.
III.
It was Victor Le Roy who was so close at hand. He recognized Jacqueline; for, as he came down the road, now and then he caught a glimpse of her red peasant-dress. And he accepted his persuasion as it had been an assurance; for he believed that on such a night no other girl would linger alone near the place of her day’s labor. Moreover, while passing the group of harvesters, he had observed that she was not among them.
The acquaintance of these young persons was but slight; yet it was of such a character as must needs increase. Within the last fortnight they had met repeatedly in the room of Leclerc’s mother. On the last night of her son’s preaching they had together listened to his words. The young student with manly aspirations, ambitious, courageous, inquiring, and the peasant girl who toiled in fields and vineyards, were on the same day hearkening to the call, “Ho, every one that thirsteth!” with the consciousness that the call was meant for them.
When Victor Le Roy saw that Jacqueline perceived and recognized him, he also observed the tracts in her hand and the trouble in her countenance, and he wondered in his heart whether she could be ignorant of what had passed that day at Meaux, and if it could be possible that her manifest disturbance arose from any perplexity or disquietude independent of the sentence that had been passed on John Leclerc. His first words brought an answer that satisfied his doubt.
“She has chosen that good part which shall not be taken from her,” said he, as he came near. “The country is so fair, could no one of them all except Jacqueline see that? Were they all drawn away by the bloody fascination of Meaux? even Elsie?”
“It was the news that hurried her home with the rest,” answered she, almost pleased at this disturbance of the solitude.
“Did that keep you here, Jacqueline?” he asked. “It sent me out of the city. The dust choked me. Every face looked like a devil’s. To-morrow night, to-morrow night, the harvesters will hurry all the faster. Terrible curiosity! And if they find traces of his blood along the streets, there will be enough to talk about through the rest of the harvesting. Jacqueline, if the river could be poured through those streets, the sacred blood could never be washed out. ‘Tis not the indignity, nor the cruelty, I think of most, but the barbarous, wild sin. Shall a man’s truest liberty be taken from him, as though, indeed, he were not a man of God, but the spiritual subject of his fellows? If that is their plan, they may light the fires,–there are many who will not shrink from sealing their faith with their blood.”
These words, spoken with vehemence, were the first free utterance Victor Le Roy had given to his feelings all day. All day they had been concentrating, and now came from him fiery and fast.
It was time for him to know in whom and in what he believed.
Greatly moved by his words, Jacqueline said, giving him the tracts,–
“I came from Domremy, I am free. No one can be hurt by what befalls me. I want to know the truth. I am not afraid. Did John Leclerc never give way for a moment? Is he really to be whipped through the streets, and on the third day to be branded? Will he not retract?”
“Never!” was the answer,–spoken not without a shudder. “He did not flinch through all the trial, Jacqueline. And his old mother says, ‘Blessed be Jesus Christ and his witnesses!'”
“I came from Domremy,” seemed to be in the girl’s thought again; for her eyes flashed when she looked at Victor Le Roy, as though she could believe the heavens would open for the enlightening of such believers.
“She gave me those to read,” said she, pointing to the tracts she had given him.
“And have you been reading them here by yourself?”
“No. Elsie and I were to have read them together; but I fell to thinking.”
“You mean to wait for her, then?”
“I was afraid I should not make the right sense of them.”
“Sit down, Jacqueline, and let me read aloud. I have read them before. And I understand them better than Elsie does, or ever will.”
“I am afraid that is true, Sir. If you read, I will listen.”
But he did not, with this permission, begin instantly.
“You came from Domremy, Jacqueline,” said he. “I came from Picardy. My home was within a stone’s throw of the castle where Jeanne d’Arc was a prisoner before they carried her to Rouen. I have often walked about that castle and tried to think how it must have been with her when they left her there a prisoner. God knows, perhaps we shall all have an opportunity of knowing, how she felt when a prisoner of Truth. Like a fly in a spider’s net she was, poor girl! Only nineteen! She had lived a life that was worth the living, Jacqueline. She knew she was about to meet the fate her heart must have foretold. Girls do not run such a course and then die quietly in their beds. They are attended to their rest by grim sentinels, and they light fagots for them. I have read the story many a time, when I could look at the window of the very room where she was a prisoner. It was strange to think of her witnessing the crowning of the King, with the conviction that her work ended there and then,–of the women who brought their children to touch her garments or her hands, to let her smile on them, or speak to them, or maybe kiss them. And the soldiers deemed their swords were stronger when they had but touched hers. And they knelt down to kiss her standard, that white standard, so often victorious! I have read many a time of that glorious day at Rheims.”
“And she said, _that_ day,’ Oh, why can I not die here?'” said Jacqueline, with a low voice.
“And when the Archbishop asked her,” continued Victor, “‘Where do you, then, expect to die?’ she answered, ‘I know not. I shall die where God pleases. I have done what the Lord my God commanded me; and I wish that He would now send me to keep my sheep with my mother and sister.'”
“Because she loved Domremy, and her work was done,” said Jacqueline, sadly. “And so many hated her! But her mother would be sure to love. Jeanne would never see an evil eye in Domremy, and no one would lie in wait to kill her in the Vosges woods.”
“It was such as you, Jacqueline, who believed in her, and comforted her. And to every one that consoled her Christ will surely say, ‘Ye blessed of my Father, ye did it unto me!’ Yes, to be sure, there were too many who stood ready to kill her in all France,–besides those who were afraid of her, and fought against our armies. Even when they were taking her to see the Dauphin, the guard would have drowned her, and lied about it, but they were restrained. It is something to have been born in Domremy,–to have grown up in the very place where she used to play, a happy little girl. You have seen that fountain, and heard the bells she loved so much. It was good for you, I know.”
“Her prayers were everywhere,” Jacqueline replied. “Everywhere she heard the voices that called her to come and deliver France. But her father did not believe in her. He persecuted Jeanne.”
“A man’s foes are of his own household,” said Victor. “You see the same thing now. It is the very family of Christ–yes! so they dare call it–who are going to tear and rend Leclerc to-morrow for believing the words of Christ. A hundred judges settled that Jeanne should be burned; and for believing such words as are in these books”–
“Read me those words,” said Jacqueline.
So they turned from speaking of Joan and her work, to contemplate another style of heroism, and to question their own hearts.
Jacqueline Gabrie had lived through eighteen years of hardship and exposure. She was strong, contented, resolute. Left to herself, she would probably have suffered no disturbance of her creed,–would have lived and died conforming to the letter of its law. But thrown under the influence of those who did agitate the subject, she was brave and clear-headed. She listened now, while, according to her wish, her neighbor read,–listened with clear intelligence, intent on the truth. That, or any truth, accepted, she would hardly shrink from whatever it involved. This was the reason why she had really feared to ask the Holy Ghost’s enlightenment! So well she understood herself! Truth was truth, and, if received, to be abided by. She could not hold it loosely. She could not trifle with it. She was born in Domremy. She had played under the Fairy Oak. She knew the woods where Joan wandered when she sought her saintly solitude. The fact was acting on her as an inspiration, when Domremy became a memory, when she labored far away from the wooded Vosges and the meadows of Lorraine.
She listened to the reading, as girls do not always listen when they sit in the presence of a reader such as young Le Roy.
And let it here be understood–that the conclusion bring no sorrow, and no sense of wrong to those who turn these pages, thinking to find the climax dear to half-fledged imagination, incapable from inexperience of any deeper truth, (I render them all homage!)–this story is not told for any sake but truth’s.
This Jacqueline did listen to this Victor, thinking actually of the words he read. She looked at him really to ascertain whether her apprehension of these things was all the same as his. She questioned him, with the simple desire to learn what he could tell her. Her hands were very hard, so constant had been her dealing with the rough facts of this life; but the hard hand was firm in its clasp, and ready with its helpfulness. Her eyes were open, and very clear of dreams. There was room in them for tenderness as well as truth. Her voice was not the sweetest of all voices in this world; but it had the quality that would make it prized by others when heart and flesh were failing; for it would be strong to speak then with cheerful faith and an unfaltering courage.
Jacqueline sat there under the chestnut-trees, upon the river-bank, strong-hearted, high-hearted, a brave, generous woman. What if her days were toilsome? What if her peasant-dress was not the finest woven in the looms of Paris or of Meaux? Her prayers were brief, her toil was long, her sleep was sound,–her virtue firm as the everlasting mountains. Jacqueline, I have singled you from among hordes and tribes and legions upon legions of women, one among ten thousand, altogether lovely,–not for dalliance, not for idleness, not for dancing, which is well; not for song, which is better; not for beauty, which, perhaps, is best; not for grace, or power, or passion. There is an attribute of God which is more to His universe than all evidence of power. It is His truth. Jacqueline, it is for this your name shall shine upon my page.
And, manifestly, it is by virtue of this quality that her reader is moved and attracted at this hour of twilight on the river-bank.
Her intelligence is so quick! her apprehension so direct! her conclusions so true! He intended to aid her; but Mazurier himself had never uttered comments so entirely to the purpose as did this young girl, speaking from heart and brain. Better fortune, apparently, could not have befallen him than was his in this reading; for with every sentence almost came her comment, clear, earnest, to the point.
He had need of such a friend as Jacqueline seemed able to prove herself. His nearest living relative was an uncle, who had sent the ambitious and capable young student to Meaux; for he gave great promise, and was worth an experiment, the old man thought,–and was strong to be thrown out into the world, where he might ascertain the power of self-reliance. He had need of friends, and, of all friends, one like Jacqueline.
From the silence and retirement of his home in Picardy he had come to Meaux,–the town that was so astir, busy, thoroughly alive! Inexperienced in worldly ways he came. His face was beautiful with its refinement and power of expression. His eyes were full of eloquence; so also was his voice. When he came from Picardy to Meaux, his old neighbors prophesied for him. He knew their prophecies, and purposed to fulfil them. He ceased from dreaming, when he came to Meaux. He was not dreaming, when he looked on Jacqueline. He was aware of what he read, and how she listened, under those chestnut-trees.
The burden of the tracts he read to Jacqueline was salvation by faith, not of works,–an iconoclastic doctrine, that was to sweep away the great mass of Romish superstition, invalidating Papal power. Image-worship, shrine-frequenting sacrifices, indulgences, were esteemed and proved less than nothing worth in the work of salvation.
“Did you understand John, when he said that the priests deceived us and were full of robberies, and talked about the masses for the dead, and said the only good of them was to put money into the Church?” asked Jacqueline.
“I believe it,” he replied, with spirit.
“That the masses are worth nothing?” she asked,–far from concealing that the thought disturbed her.
“What can they be worth, if a man has lived a bad life?”
“_That_ my father did _not!_” she exclaimed.
“If a man is a bad man, why, then he is. He has gone where he must be judged. The Scripture says, As a tree falls, it must lie.”
“My father was a good man, Victor. But he died of a sudden, and there was no time.”
“No time for what, Jacqueline? No time for him to turn about, and be a bad man in the end?”
“No time for confession and absolution. He died praying God to forgive him all his sins. I heard him. I wondered, Victor, for I never thought of his committing sins. And my mother mourned for him as a good wife should not mourn for a bad husband.”
“Then what is your trouble, Jacqueline?”
“Do you know why I came here to Meaux? I came to get money,–to earn it. I should be paid more money here than I got for any work at home, they said: that was the reason. When I had earned so much,–it was a large sum, but I knew I should get it, and the priest encouraged me to think I should,–he said that my heart’s desire would be accomplished. And I could earn the money before winter is over, I think. But now, if”—-
“Throw it into the Seine, when you get it, rather than pay it to the liar for selling your father out of a place he was never in! He is safe, believe me, if he was the good man you say. Do not disturb yourself, Jacqueline.”
“He never harmed a soul. And we loved him that way a bad man could not be loved.”
As Jacqueline said this, a smile more sad than joyful passed over her face, and disappeared.
“He rests in peace,” said Victor Le Roy.
“It is what I must believe. But what if there should be a mistake about it? It was all I was working for.”
“Think for yourself, Jacqueline. No matter what Leclerc thinks or I think. Can you suppose that Jesus Christ requires any such thing as this of you, that you should make a slave of yourself for the expiation of your father? It is a monstrous thought. Doubt not it was love that took him away so quickly. And love can care for him. Long before this, doubtless, he has heard the words, ‘Come, ye blessed of my father!’ And what is required of you, do you ask? You shall be merciful to them that live; and trust Him that He will care for those who have gone beyond your reach. Is it so? Do I understand you? You have been thinking to _buy_ this good _gift_ of God, eternal life for your father, when of course you could have nothing to do with it. You have been imposed upon, and robbed all this while, and this is the amount of it.”
“Well, do not speak so. If what you say is true,–and I think it may be,–what is past is past.”
“But won’t you see what an infernal lie has been practised on you, and all the rest of us who had any conscience or heart in us, all this while? There _is_ no purgatory; and it is nonsense to think, that, if there were, money could buy a man out of it. Jesus Christ is the one sole atonement for sin. And by faith in Him shall a man save his soul alive. That is the only way. If I lose my soul, and am gone, the rest is between me and God. Do you see it _should_ be so, and must be so, Jacqueline?”
“He was a good man,” said Jacqueline.
She did not find it quite easy to make nothing of all this matter, which had been the main-spring of her effort since her father died. She could not in one instant drop from her calculations that on which she had heretofore based all her activity. She had labored so long, so hard, to buy the rest and peace and heavenly blessedness of the father she loved, it was hardly to be expected that at once she would choose to see that in that rest and peace and blessedness, she, as a producing power, had no part whatever.
As she more than hinted, the purpose of her life seemed to be taken from her. She could not perceive that fact without some consternation; could not instantly connect it with another, which should enable her to look around her with the deliberation of a liberated spirit, choosing her new work. And in this she was acted upon by more than the fear arising from the influences of her old belief. Of course she should have been, and yet she was not, able to drop instantly and forever from recollection the constant sacrifices she had made, the deprivation she had endured, with heroic persistence,–the putting far away every personal indulgence whose price had a market value. Her father was not the only person concerned in this work; the priest; herself. She had believed in the pastor of Domremy. Yet he had deceived her. Else he was self-deceived; and what if the blind should strive to lead the blind? _Could_ she accept the new faith, the great freedom, with perfect rejoicing?
Victor Le Roy seemed to have some suspicion of what was passing in her thoughts. He did not need to watch her changeful face in order to understand them.
“I advise you to still think of this,” said he. “Recall your father’s life, and then ask yourself if it is likely that He who is Love requires the sacrifice of your youth and your strength before your father shall receive from Him what He has promised to give to all who trust in Him. Take God at his word, and you will be obliged to give up all this priest-trash.”
IV.
Victor Le Roy spoke these words quietly, as if aware that he might safely leave them, as well as any other true words, to the just sense of Jacqueline.
She was none the happier for them when she returned that night to the little city room, the poor lodging whose high window overlooked both town and country, city streets and harvest-fields, and the river flowing on beyond the borders of the town,–no happier through many a moment of thinking, until, as it were by an instant illumination, she began to see the truth of the matter, as some might wonder she did not instantly perceive it, if they could omit from observation this leading fact, that the orphan girl was Jacqueline Gabrie, child of the Church, and not a wise and generous person, who had never been in bondage to superstitions.
For a long time after her return to her lodging she was alone. Elsie was in the street with the rest of the town, talking, as all were talking, of the sight that Meaux should see to-morrow.
Besides Jacqueline, there was hardly another person in this great building, six stories high, every room of which had usually a tenant at this hour. She sat by her window, and looked at the dusky town, over which the moon was rising. But her thoughts were far away; over many a league they wandered.
Once more she stood on the playground of her toilsome childhood. She recalled many a year of sacrificing drudgery, which now she could not name such,–for another reason than that which had heretofore prevented her from calling it a sacrifice. She remembered these years of wrong and of extortion,–they received their proper name now,–years whose mirth and leisure she had quietly foregone, but during which she had borne a burden that saddened youth, while it also dignified it,–a burden which had made her heart’s natural cheerfulness the subject of self-reproach, and her maiden dreams and wishes matter for tears, for shame, for confession, for prayer.
Now Victor Le Roy’s words came to her very strangely; powerfully they moved her. She believed them in this solitude, where at leisure she could meditate upon them. A vision more fair and blessed than she had ever imagined rose before her. There was no suffering in it, and no sorrow; it was full of peace. Already, in the heaven to which she had hoped her toil would give him at length admission, her father had found his home. There was a glory in his rest not reflected from her filial love, but from the all-availing love of Christ.
Then–delay the rigor of your judgment!–she began,–yes, she, this Jacqueline, began to count the cost of what she had done. She was not a sordid soul, she had not a miserly nature. Before she had gone far in that strange computation, she paused abruptly, with a crimsoned face, and not with tearless eyes. Counting the cost! Estimating the sacrifice! Had, then, her purpose been less holy because excited by falsehood and sustained through delusion? Was she less loving and less true, because deceived? And was she to lament that Christ, the one and only Priest, rather than another instrumentality, was the deliverer of her beloved from the power of death?
No ritual was remembered, and no formula consulted, when she cried out,–“It is so! and I thank Thee! Only give me now, my Jesus, a purpose as holy as that Thou hast taken away!”
But she had not come into her chamber to spend a solitary evening there. Turning away from the window, she bestowed a little care upon her person, smoothed away the traces of her day’s labor, and after all was done she lingered yet longer. She was going out, evidently. Whither? To visit the mother of John Leclerc. She must carry back the tracts the good woman had lent her. Their contents had firm lodgement in her memory.
Others might run to and fro in the streets, and talk about the corners, and prognosticate with passion, and defy, in the way of cowardice, where safety rather than the truth is well assured. If one woman could console another, Jacqueline wished that she might console Leclerc’s mother. And if any words of wisdom could drop from the poor old woman’s lips while her soul was in this strait, Jacqueline desired to hear those words.
Down the many flights of stairs she went across the court, and then along the street, to the house where the wool-comber lived.
A brief pause followed her knock for admittance. She repeated it. Then was heard a sound from within,–a step crossing the floor. The door opened, and there stood the mother of Leclerc, ready to face any danger, the very Fiend himself.
But when she saw that it was Jacqueline, only Jacqueline,–an angel, as one might say, and not a devil,–the terrible look passed from her face; she opened the door wide.
“Come in, child! come in!”
So Jacqueline went into the room where John had worked and thought, reasoned, argued, prayed.
This is the home of the man because of whom many are this night offended in the city of Meaux. This is the place whence issued the power that has set the tongues to talking, and the minds to thinking, and the hearts to hoping, and the authorities to avenging.
A grain of mustard-seed is the kingdom of heaven in a figure; the wandering winds a symbol of the Pentecostal power: a dove did signify the descent of God to man. This poor chamber, so pent in, and so lowly, so obscure, has its significance. Here has a life been lived; and not the least does it import, that walls are rough and the ceiling low.
But the life of John Leclerc was not to be limited. A power has stood here which by its freedom has set at defiance the customary calculation of the worldly-wise. In high places and in low the people are this night disturbed because of him who has dared to lift his voice in the freedom of the speech of God. In drawing-rooms odorous with luxury the man’s name has mention, and the vulgarity of his liberated speech and courageous faith is a theme to move the wonder and excite the reprobation of hearts whose languid beating keeps up their show of life, –to what sufficient purpose expect me not to tell. His voice is loud and harsh to echo through these music-loving halls; it rends and tears, with almost savage strength, the dainty silences.
But busier tongues are elsewhere more vehement in speech; larger hearts beat faster indignation; grief and vulgarest curiosity are all manifesting themselves after their several necessity. In solitary places heroes pray throughout the night, wrestling like Jacob, agonizing like Saul, and with some of them the angel left his blessing; for some the golden harp was struck that soothed their souls to peace. Angels of heaven had work to do that night. Angels of heaven and hell did prove themselves that night in Meaux: night of unrest and sleeplessness, or of cruel dreaming; night of bloody visions, tortured by the apprehension of a lacerated body driven through the city streets, and of the hooting shouts of Devildom; night haunted by a gory image,–the defiled temple of the Holy Ghost.
Did the prospect of torture keep _him_ wakeful? Could the man bear the disgrace, the derision, shouting, agony? Was there nothing in this thought, that as a witness of Jesus Christ he was to appear next day, that should soothe him even unto slumber? Upon the silence of his guarded chamber let none but ministering angels break. Sacred to him, and to Him who watched the hours of the night, let the night go!
But here–his mother, Jacqueline with her–we may linger with these.
V.
When the old woman saw that it was Jacqueline Gabrie who stood waiting admittance, she opened the door wider, as I said; and the dark solemnity of her countenance seemed to be, by so much as a single ray, enlivened for an instant.
She at once perceived the tracts which Jacqueline had brought. Aware of this, the girl said,–
“I stayed to hear them read, after I heard that for the sake of the truth in them”–she hesitated–“this city will invite God’s wrath to-morrow.”
And she gave the papers to the old woman, who took them in silence.
By-and-by she asked,–
“Are you just home, Jacqueline?”
“Since sunset,–though it was nearly dark when I came in,”–she answered. “Victor Le Roy was down by the riverbank, and he read them for me.”
“He wanted to get out of town, maybe. You would surely have thought it was a holiday, Jacqueline, if you could have seen the people. Anything for a show: but some of them might well lament. Did you want to know the truth he pays so dear for teaching? But you have heard it, my child.”
“We all heard what he must pay for it, in the fields at noon. Yes, mother, I wanted to know.”
“But if you shall believe it, Jacqueline, it may lead you into danger, into sad straits,” said the old woman, looking at the young girl with earnest pity in her eyes.
She loved this girl, and shuddered at the thought of exposing her to danger.
Jacqueline had nursed her neighbor, Antonine, and more than once, after a hard day’s labor, which must be followed by another, she had sat with her through the night; and she could pay this service only with love, and the best gift of her love was to instruct her in the truth. John and she had proved their grateful interest in her fortunes by giving her that which might expose her to danger, persecution, and they could not foresee to what extremity of evil.
And now the old woman felt constrained to say this to her, even for her love’s sake,–“It may lead you into danger.”
“But if truth is dangerous, shall I choose to be safe?” answered Jacqueline, with stately courage.
“It _is_ truth. It _will_ support him. Blessed be Jesus Christ and His witnesses! To-night, and to-morrow, and the third day, our Jesus will sustain him. They think John will retract. They do not know my son. They do not know how he has waited, prayed, and studied to learn the truth, and how dear it is to him. No, Jacqueline, they do not. But when they prove him, they will know. And if he is willing to witness, shall I not be glad? The people will understand him better afterward,–and the priests, maybe. ‘I can do all things,’ said he, ‘Christ strengthening me’; and that was said long ago, by one who was proved. Where shall you be, Jacqueline?”
“Oh,” groaned Jacqueline, “I shall be in the fields at work, away from these cruel people, and the noise and the sight. But, mother, where shall you be?”
“With the people, child. With him, if I live. Yes, he is my son; and I have never been ashamed of the brave boy. I will not be ashamed to-morrow. I will follow John; and when they bind him, I will let him see his mother’s eyes are on him,–blessing him, my child!–Hark! how they talk through the streets!–Jacqueline, he was never a coward. He is strong, too. They will not kill him, and they cannot make him dumb. He will hold the truth the faster for all they do to him. Jesus Christ on his side, do you think he will fear the city, or all Paris, or all France? He does not know what it is to be afraid. And when God opened his eyes to the truth of his gospel, which the priests had hid, he meant that John should work for it,–for he is a working-man, whatever he sets about.”
So this old woman tried, and not without success, to comfort herself, and sustain her tender, proud, maternal heart. The dire extremity into which she and her son had fallen did not crush her; few were the tears that fell from her eyes as she recalled for Jacqueline the years of her son’s boyhood,–told her of his courage, as in various ways it had made itself manifest: how he had always been fearless in danger,–a conqueror of pain,–seemingly regardless of comfort,–fond of contemplation,–contented with his humble state,–kindly, affectionate, generous, but easily stirred to wrath by injustice, when manifested by the strong toward the weak,–or by cruelty, or by falsehood.
Many an anecdote of his career might she relate; for his character, under the pressure of this trial, which was as searching and severe a test of her faith as of his, seemed to illustrate itself in manifold heroic ways, all now of the highest significance. With more majesty and grandeur his character arose before her; for now in all the past, as she surveyed it, she beheld a living power, a capability, and a necessity of new and grand significance, and her heart reverenced the spirit she had nursed into being.
Removed to the distance of a prison from her sight, separated from her love by bolts and bars, and the wrath of tyranny and close-banded bigotry, he became a power, a hero, who moved her, as she recalled his sentence, and prophesied the morrow, to a feeling tears could not explain.
They passed the night together, the young woman and the old. In the morning Jacqueline must go into the field again. She was in haste to go. Leaving a kiss on the old woman’s cheek, she was about to steal away in silence; but as she laid her hand upon the latch, a thought arrested her, and she did not open the door, but went back and sat beside the window, and watched the mother of Leclerc through the sleep that must be brief. It was not in her heart to go away and leave those eyes to waken upon solitude. She must see a helpful hand and hopeful face, and, if it might be, hear a cheerful human voice, in the dawning of that day.
She had not long to wait, and the time she may have lost in waiting Jacqueline did not count or reckon, when she heard her name spoken, and could answer, “What wilt thou? here am I.”
Not in vain had she lingered. What were wages, more or less, that they should be mentioned, thought of, when she might give and receive here what the world gives not, and never has to give,–and what a mortal cannot buy, the treasure being priceless? Through the quiet of that morning hour, soothing words, and strong, she felt and knew to speak; and when at last she hurried away from the city to the fields, she was stronger than of nature, able to bear witness to the faith that speaks from the bewilderment of its distresses, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”
Not alone had her young, frank, loving eyes enlivened the dreary morning to the heart of Leclerc’s mother. Grace for grace had she received. And words of the hymn that were always on John’s lips had found echo from his mother’s memory this morning: they lodged in the heart of Jacqueline. She went away repeating,–
“In the midst of death, the jaws
Of hell against us gape.
Who from peril dire as this
Openeth us escape?
‘Tis thou, O Lord, alone!
Our bitter suffering and our sin
Pity from thy mercy win,
Holy Lord and God!
Strong and holy God!
Merciful and holy Saviour!
Eternal God!
Let us not despair
For the fire that burneth there!
Kyrie, eleison!”
Jacqueline met Elsie on her way to the fields. But the girls had not much to say to each other that morning in their walk. Elsie was manifestly conscious of some great constraint; she might have reported to her friend what she had heard in the streets last night, but she felt herself prevented from such communication,–seemed to be intent principally on one thing: she would not commit herself in any direction. She was looking with suspicion upon Jacqueline. Whatever became of her soul, her body she would save alive. She was waking to this world’s enjoyment with vision alert, senses keen. Martyrdom in any degree was without attraction to her, and in Truth she saw no beauty that she should desire it. It was a root out of dry ground indeed, that gave no promise of spreading into goodly shelter and entrancing beauty.
As to Jacqueline, she was absorbed in her heroic and exalted thoughts. Her heart had almost failed her when she said farewell to John’s mother; tearfully she had hurried on her way. One vast cloud hung between her and heaven; darkly rolled the river; every face seemed to bear witness to the tragedy that day should witness.
Not the least of her affliction was the consciousness of the distance increasing between herself and Elsie Meril. She knew that Elsie was rejoicing that she had in no way endangered herself yet; and sure was she that in no way would Elsie invite the fury of avenging tyranny and reckless superstition.
Jacqueline asked her no questions,–spoke few words to her,–was absorbed in her own thoughts. But she was kindly in her manner, and in such words as she spoke. So Elsie perceived two things,–that she should not lose her friend, neither was in danger of being seized by the heretical mania. It was her way of drawing inferences. Certain that she had not lost her friend, because Jacqueline did not look away, and refuse to recognize her; congratulating herself that she was not the object of suspicion, either justly or unjustly, among the dreadful priests.
But that friend whose steady eye had balanced Elsie was already sick at heart, for she knew that never more must she rely upon this girl who came with her from Domremy.
As they crossed the bridge, lingering thereon a moment, the river seemed to moan in its flowing toward Meaux. The day’s light was sombre; the birds’ songs had no joyous sound,–plaintive was their chirping; it saddened the heart to hear the wind,–it was a wind that seemed to take the buoyancy and freshness out of every living thing, an ugly southeast wind. They went on together,–to the wheat-fields together;–it was to be day of minutes to poor Jacqueline.
To be away from Meaux bodily was, it appeared, only that the imagination might have freer exercise. Yes,–now the people must be moving through the streets; shopmen were not so intent on profits this day as they were on other days. The priests were thinking with vengeful hate of the wrong to themselves which should be met and conquered that day. The people should be swiftly brought into order again! John in his prison was preparing, as all without the prison were.
The crowd was gathering fast. He would soon be led forth. The shameful march was forming. Now the brutal hand of Power was lifted with scourges. The bravest man in Meaux was driven through the streets,–she saw with what a visage,–she knew with what a heart. Her heart was awed with thinking thereupon. A bloody mist seemed to fall upon the environs of Meaux; through that red horror she could not penetrate; it shrouded and it held poor Jacqueline.
Of the faith that would sustain him she began once more to inquire. It is not by a bound that mortals ever clear the heights of God. Step by step they scale the eminences, toiling through the heavenly atmosphere. Only around the summit shines the eternal sun.
So she must now recall the words that Victor Le Roy read for her last night; and the words he spoke from out his heart,–these also. And she did not fear now, as yesterday, to ask for light. Let the light dawn,–oh, let it shine on her!
The mother of Leclerc had uttered mysterious words which Jacqueline took for truth; the light was joyful and blessed, and of all things to be desired, though it smote the life from one like lightning. She waited alone with faith, watching till it should come,–left alone with this beam glimmering like a moth through darkness!–for thus was a believer, or one who resolved on believing, left in that day, when he turned from the machinery of the Church, and stood alone, searching for God without the aid of priestly intervention.
VI.
There was something awful in such loneliness.
Jacqueline knew little of it until now, as she walked toward the fields, by the side of Elsie Meril.
She saw how she had depended on the priest of Domremy, as he had been the lawgiver and the leader of her life. A spiritual life, to be sustained only by the invisible spirit, to be lived by faith, not in man, but in God, without intervention of saint or angel or Blessed Virgin,–was the world’s life liberated by such freedom?
By faith, and not by sight, the just must live. Would He bow his heavens and come down to dwell with the contrite and the humble?
Wondrous strange it seemed,–incomprehensible,–more than she could manage or control. There are prisoners whose pardon proves the world too large for them: they find no rest until their prison-door is opened for them again.
Of this class was Elsie,–not Jacqueline. Elsie was afraid of freedom,–not equal to it,–unable to deal with it; satisfied with being a child, with being a slave, when it came to be a question whether she should accept and use her highest privilege and dignity. At this hour, and among all persuasions, you will find that Elsie does not stand alone. Little children there are, long as the world shall stand,–though not precisely such as we think of when we remember, “Of such is the kingdom of heaven.”
It was enough for Elsie–it is enough for multitudes through all the reformations–that she had an earthly defence, even such as she relied on without trouble. She lived in the hour. She had never toiled to deliver her darling from the lions,–to redeem a soul from purgatory. She eased her conscience, when it was troubled, by such shallow discovery of herself as she deemed confession. She loved dancing, and all other amusements,–hated solitude, knew not the meaning of self-abnegation. And let her dance and enjoy herself!–some service to the body is rendered thereby. She might do greatly worse, and is incapable of doing greatly better. Will you stint the idiots of comfort,–or rather build them decent habitations, and even vex yourself to feed and clothe them, in reverent confidence that the Future shall surely take them up and bless them, unstop their ears, open their eyes, give speech to them and absolute deliverance?
There are others beside Elsie who congratulate themselves on non-committal,–they covet not the advanced and dangerous positions. Honorable, but dangerous positions! The head might be taken off, do you not see? And could all eternity compensate for the loss of time? Ah, the body might be mutilated,–the liberty restrained: as if, indeed, a man’s freedom were not eternally established, when his enemies, howling around, must at least crucify him! as if a divine voice were not ever heard through the raging of the people, saying, “Come up higher!”
But a fern-leaf cannot grow into a mighty hemlock-tree. From the ashes of a sparrow the phoenix shall not rise. You will not to all eternity, by any artificial means, nor by a miracle, bring forth an eagle from a mollusk.
There was not a sadder heart in all those fields of Meaux than the heart of Jacqueline Gabrie. There was not a stronger heart. Not a hand labored more diligently. Under the broad-brimmed peasant-hat was a sad countenance,–under the peasant-dress a heavily burdened spirit. Silent, all day, she labored. She was alone at noon under the river-bordered trees, eating her coarse fare without zest, but with a conscience,–to sustain the body that was born to toil. But in the maelstroem of doubt and anxiety was she tossed and whirled, and she cared not for her life. To be rid of it, now for the first time, she felt might be a blessing. What purpose, indeed, had she? She turned her thought from this question, but it would not let her alone. Again and yet again she turned to meet it, and thus would surely have at length its satisfying answer.
John Leclerc might pass through this ordeal, as from the first she had expected of him. But she listened to the speech of many of her fellow-laborers. Some prophecies which had a sound incredible escaped them. She did not credit them, but they tormented her. They contended with one another. John, some foretold, would certainly retract. One day of public whipping would suffice. When the blood began to flow, he would see his duty clearer! The men were prophesying from the depths and the abundance of their self-consciousness. Others speculated on the final result of the executed sentence. They believed that the “obstinacy” and courage of the man would provoke his judges, and the executors of his sentence,–that with rigor they would execute it,–and that, led on by passion, and provoked by such as would side with the victim, the sentence would terminate in his destruction. Sooner or later, nothing but his life would be found ultimately to satisfy his enemies.
It might be so, thought Jacqueline Gabrie. What then? what then?–she thought. There was inspiration to the girl in that cruel prophecy. Her lifework was not ended. If Christ was the One Ransom, and it did truly fall on Him, and not on her, to care for those beloved, departed from this life, her work was still for love.
John Leclerc disabled or dead, who should care then for his aged mother? Who should minister to him? Who, indeed, but Jacqueline?
Living or dying, she said to herself, with grand enthusiasm,–living or dying, let him do the Master’s pleasure! She also was here to serve that Master; and while in spiritual things he fed the hungry, clothed the naked, gave the cup of living water, visited the imprisoned, and the sick of sin, she would bind herself to minister to him and his old mother in temporal things; so should he live above all cares save those of heavenly love. She could support them all by her diligence, and in this there would be joy.
She thought this through her toil; and the thought was its own reward. It strengthened her like an angel,–strengthened heart and faith. She labored as no other peasant-woman did that day,–like a beast of burden, unresisting, patient,–like a holy saint, so peaceful and assured, so conscious of the present very God!
[To be continued.]
* * * * *
MIDSUMMER.
Around this lovely valley rise
The purple hills of Paradise.
Oh, softly on yon banks of haze
Her rosy face the Summer lays!
Becalmed along the azure sky,
The argosies of cloudland lie,
Whose shores, with many a shining rift, Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.
Through all the long midsummer-day
The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. I seek the coolest sheltered seat
Just where the field and forest meet,– Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand,
And fringy roots and pebbles fret
The ripples of the rivulet.
I watch, the mowers as they go
Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring;
Behind the nimble youngsters run
And toss the thick swaths in the sun; The cattle graze; while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, when summer breezes break,
The green wheat crinkles like a lake.
The butterfly and humble-bee
Come to the pleasant woods with me; Quickly before me runs the quail,
The chickens skulk behind the rail, High up the lone wood-pigeon sits,
And the woodpecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats his throbbing drum. The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house.
The oriole flashes by; and, look!
Into the mirror of the brook,
Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float.
As silently, as tenderly,
The down of peace descends on me.
Oh, this is peace! I have no need
Of friend to talk, of book to read: A dear Companion here abides;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His Voice:
I lie and listen, and rejoice.
TOBACCO.
“Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher’s stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases! a good vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used. But as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, ’tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lauds, health: hellish, devilish, and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul!”–BURTON. _Anatomy of Melancholy_.
A delicate subject? Very true; and one which must be handled as tenderly as _biscuit de Sevres_, or Venetian glass. Whichever side of the question we may assume, as the most popular, or the most right, the feelings of so large and respectable a minority are to be consulted, that it behooves the critic or reviewer to move cautiously, and, imitating the actions of a certain feline household reformer, to show only the _patte de velours_.
The omniscient Burton seems to have reached the pith of the matter. The two hostile sections of his proposition, though written so long since, would very well fit the smoker and the reformer of to-day. That portion of the world which is enough advanced to advocate reforms is entirely divided against itself on the subject of Tobacco. Immense interests, economical, social, and, as some conceive, moral, are arrayed on either side. The reformers have hitherto had the better of it in point of argument, and have pushed the attack with most vigor, yet with but trifling results. Smokers and chewers, _et id omne genus_, mollified by their habits, or laboring under guilty consciences, have made but a feeble defence. Nor in all this is there anything new. It is as old as the knowledge of the “weed” among thinking men,–in other words, about three centuries. The English adventurers under Drake and Raleigh and Hawkins, and the multitude of minor Protestant “filibusters” who followed in their train, had no sooner imported the habit of smoking tobacco, among the other outlandish customs which they brought home from the new Indies and the Spanish Main, than the higher powers rebuked the practice, which novelty and its own fascinations were rendering so fashionable, in language more forcible than elegant. The philippic of King James is so apposite that we may be pardoned for transcribing one oft-quoted sentence:–“But herein is not only a great vanity, but a great contempt of God’s good gifts, that the sweetness of man’s breath, being a good gift of God, should be wilfully corrupted by this stinking smoke…. A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose, harmfull to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, and in the black stinking fume thereof neerest resembling the horrible Stygian smoake of the pit that is bottomless.”[a]
[Footnote a: _Counterblast to Tobacco_.]
The Popes Urban VIII. and Innocent XII. fulminated edicts of excommunication against all who used tobacco in any form; from which we may conclude that the new habit was spreading rapidly over Christendom. And not only the successors of St. Peter, but those also of the Prophet, denounced the practice, the Sultan Amurath IV. making it punishable with death. The Viziers of Turkey spitted the noses of smokers with their own pipes; the more considerate Shah of Persia cut them entirely off. The knout greeted in Russia the first indulgence, and death followed the second offence. In some of the Swiss cantons smoking was considered a crime second only to adultery. Modern republics are not quite so severe.
It is not to be supposed that in England the royal pamphlet had its desired effect. For we find that James laid many rigid sumptuary restrictions upon the practice which he abominated, based chiefly upon the extravagance it occasioned,–the expenses of some smokers being estimated at several hundred pounds a year. The King, however, had the sagacity to secure a preemption-right as early as 1620.
Yet how could the practice but have increased, when, as Malcolm relates the tradition, such men as Sir Walter Raleigh and Sir Hugh Middleton sat smoking at their doors?–for “the public manner in which it was exhibited, and the aromatic flavor inhaled by the passengers, exclusive of the singularity of the circumstance and the eminence of the parties,” could hardly have failed to favor its dissemination.
The silver-tongued Joshua Sylvester hoped to aid the royal cause by writing a poem entitled, “Tobacco battered, and the pipes shattered, (about their ears who idly idolize so base and barbarous a weed, or at least-wise overlove so loathsome a vanity,) by a volley of holy shot thundered from Mount Helicon.” If the smoothness of the verses equalled the euphony of the title, this must have proved a moving appeal.
Stow contents himself with calling tobacco “a stinking weed, so much abused to God’s dishonor.”
Burton exhausts the subject in a single paragraph. Ben Jonson, though a jolly good fellow, was opposed to the habit of smoking. But Spenser mentions “divine tobacco.” Walton’s “Piscator” indulges in a pipe at breakfast, and “Venator” has his tobacco brought from London to insure its purity. Sweet Izaak could have selected no more soothing minister than the pipe to the “contemplative man’s recreation.”
As the new sedative gains in esteem, we find Francis Quarles, in his “Emblems,” treating it in this serio-comic vein:–
“Flint-hearted Stoics, you whose marble eyes Contemn a wrinkle, and whose souls despise To follow Nature’s too affected fashion, Or travel in the regent walk of passion,– Whose rigid hearts disdain to shrink at fears,
Or play at fast-and-loose with smiles and tears,–
Come, burst your spleens with laughter to behold
A new-found vanity, which days of old Ne’er knew,–a vanity that has beset
The world, and made more slaves than Mahomet,– That has condemned us to the servile yoke Of slavery, and made us slaves to smoke, But stay! why tax I thus our modern
times
For new-born follies and for new-born crimes?
Are we sole guilty, and the first age free? No: they were smoked and slaved as well as we.
What’s sweet-lipped honor’s blast, but smoke? what’s treasure,
But very smoke? and what’s more smoke than pleasure?”
Brand gives us the whole matter in a nutshell, in the following quaint epigram, entitled “A Tobacconist,” taken from an old collection:–
“All dainty meats I do defy
Which feed men fat as swine;
He is a frugal man, indeed,
That on a leaf can dine.
“He needs no napkin for his hands
His fingers’ ends to wipe,
That keeps his kitchen in a box,
And roast meat in a pipe.”
And so on, the singers of succeeding years, _usque ad nauseam_,–a loathing equalled only by that of the earlier writers for the plant, now so lauded.
Tobacco-worship seems to us to culminate in the following stanza from a German song:–
“Tabak ist mein Leben,
Dem hab’ ich mich ergeben, ergeben; Tabak ist meine Lust.
Und eh’ ich ihn sollt’ lassen,
Viel lieber wollt’ ich hassen,
Ja, hassen selbst eines Maedchens Kuss.”
As it is with your sex, my dear Madam, that this question of Tobacco is to be mainly argued,–for, to your honor be it spoken, you have always been of the reformatory party,–let us hope, that, provided you have