salvation of mankind: and one does not like one's name called out as a
delinquent by him who solicits, but has not yet obtained our name for
his subscription-list It is, to say the least, injudicious; but we
hope that the well-known zeal and ardent charity of the Directors of
this pious work will be sufficient apology for the incautious remark.

{574}

A BRIEF BIOGRAPHICAL DICTIONARY.
Compiled and arranged by the Rev. Charles Hole, B.A., Trinity College,
Cambridge; with additions and corrections by William A. Wheeler, M.A.,
assistant editor of Webster's Dictionary, author of "A Dictionary of
Noted Names of Fiction," etc. 12mo, pp. 453. New-York: Hurd &
Houghton. 1866.

We have here a most convenient little volume for reference, and one
that is also pretty accurate and complete. It merely gives the name of
the person, his country, profession, date of birth and death. The
American editor has done his work well, as well as it is possible,
humanly speaking, to compile such a work; but he certainly should have
added the name of Dr. J.V. Huntington to the Appendix, which contains
the names of those omitted by Mr. Hole, He has placed names there that
are not half so well known to men of letters as that of the late
lamented Dr. Huntington. We make special mention of his name, as the
American editor of this useful little book is the author of "A
Dictionary of Noted Names of Fiction," and must have read of the
author of "Alban," "The Forest," "Rosemary," "Pretty Plate," "Blonde
and Brunette," etc., etc. There may be other omissions, but this
author being one of the most prominent of our deceased American
Catholic writers, there can be no good excuse for the exclusion of his
name.

DEVOTION TO THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY IN NORTH AMERICA.
By the Rev. Xavier Donald Macleod. With a Memoir of the author by the
Most Rev. John B. Purcell, D.D., Archbishop of Cincinnati. 8vo, pp.
467. Virtue & Yorston, New-York.

Few Americans are well acquainted with the religious history of their
own country. It is to be regretted, for in the religious history of
any nation we find a revelation of life no less interesting, and far
more important than the detail of its political fortunes. Indeed, we
believe that history written so as to exclude the mention of religion
and its influence upon the social character, civilization, and the
national peculiarities of a people, would be as incomplete as it would
be unintelligible. Americans are educated to believe that this
country, with the exception of Mexico, has been a Protestant country
from the start; that its religious activity has been purely
Protestant; that Catholicity has been chiefly hitherto a work confined
to the spiritual ministrations of foreign priests to a foreign
immigrant population; and he is surprised to learn that the only
missionary work done on this continent worthy of record on the page of
its history is wholly Catholic. And we venture to affirm that the only
picture of the religion of America, either of its early or its later
days, which will be looked upon by future generations with pleasure
and pride, will be that which the Catholic Church presents in the
apostolic labors of her missionaries, through which the savage Indian
becomes the docile Christian; the rude, uneducated masses, whether
white or black, are guided, instructed, and saved; the truth and grace
of the holy faith is preached in hardship, toil, privation,
persecution, and death. It is true that the book before as treats of
religion in America with only the devotion toward our Blessed Lady as
its particular theme, but it necessarily offers us a view of the
progress of the Catholic religion in every part of the continent. It
is written in a most charming style, replete with graphic
descriptions, and marked throughout by that tone of enthusiastic
loyalty to the faith so characteristic of the gifted and lamented
author. There is no portion of the work we have read with greater
interest than that which concerns the conversion and religious life of
the Indians. There has been no truer type of the Catholic missionary
than is displayed by those devoted priests, who came to this country
burning with the desire to win its savage aborigines to the faith of
Christ. Let us give a little extract:

  "For thirty years now has Father Sebastian Rasle dwelt in the
  forest, teaching to its wild, red children the love of God and Mary.
  He is burned by sun and tanned by wind until he is almost as red as
  his parishioners. The languages of the Abenaki and Huron, the
  Algonquin and Illinois, are more familiar to him than the tongue in
  which his mother taught him the Ave Maria. The huts of Norridgewock
  contain his people; the river Kennebec flows swiftly past his
  dwelling to the sea. There he has built a church--handsome, he
  thinks and says; perhaps it would not much excite our luxurious
  imagination. At any rate, the altar is handsome; and he has gathered
  a store of copes and chasubles, albs and embroidered stoles for the
  dignity of the holy service. He has trained, also, as many as forty
  Indian boys in the ceremonies, and, in their crimson cassocks and
  white surplices, they aid the sacred pomp. Besides the church, there
  are two chapels, one on the road which leads to the forest, {575}
  where the braves are wont to make a short retreat before they start
  to trap and hunt; the other on the path to the cultivated lands,
  where prayers are offered when they go to plant or gather in the
  harvest. The one is dedicated to the guardian angel of the tribe,
  the other to our most holy mother, Mary Immaculate. To adorn this
  latter is the especial emulation of the women. Whatever they have of
  jewels, of silk stuff from the settlements, or delicate embroidery
  of porcupine-quill, or richly tinted moose-hair, is found here; and
  from amidst their offerings rises, white and fair, the statue of the
  Virgin; and her sweet face looks down benignantly upon her swarthy
  children, kneeling before her to recite their rosaries. One
  beautiful inanimate ministrant to God's worship they have in
  abundance--light from wax candles. The wax is not precisely _opus
  apium_, but it is a nearer approach to it than you find in richer
  and less excusable places. It is wax from the berry of the laurels,
  which cover the hills of Maine. And to the chapel every night and
  morning come all the Indian Christians. At morning they make their
  prayer in common, and assist at mass, chanting, in their own
  dialect, hymns written for that purpose by their pastor. Then they
  go to their employment for the day; he to his continuous, orderly,
  and ceaseless labor. The morning is given up to visitors, who come
  to their good father with their sorrows and disquietudes; to ask his
  relief against some little injustice of their fellows; his advice on
  their marriage or other projects. He consoles this one, instructs
  that, reestablishes peace in disunited families, calms troubled
  consciences, administers gentle rebuke, or gives encouragement to
  the timid. The afternoon belongs to the sick, who are visited in
  their own cabins. If there be a council, the black-robe must come to
  invoke the Holy Spirit on their deliberations; if a feast, he must
  be present to bless the viands and to check all approaches to
  disorder. And always in the afternoon, old and young, warrior and
  gray-haired squaw, Christian and catechumen, assemble for the
  catechism. When the sun declines westward, and the shadows creep
  over the village, they seek the chapel for the public prayer, and to
  sing a hymn to St. Mary. Then each to his own home; but before
  bed-time, neighbors gather again, in the house of one of them, and
  in antiphonal choirs they _sing_ their beads, and with another hymn
  they separate for sleep."

The work does not need any commendation at our hands; it will
assuredly become popular wherever it is introduced, whether it be into
the libraries of colleges or literary associations, or into the family
circle.

LIFE AND CAMPAIGNS OF LIEUT.-GENERAL U. S. GRANT,
from his Boyhood to the Surrender of General Lee; including an
accurate account of Sherman's great march from Chattanooga to
Washington, and the final official Reports of Sheridan, Meade,
Sherman, and Grant; with portraits on steel of Stanton, Grant and his
Generals, and other illustrations. By Rev. P.G. Headley, author of
Life of Napoleon, Life of Josephine, etc., etc. 8vo, pp. 720. New
York: Derby & Miller Publishing Co. 1866.

The title of this work is sufficiently ambitious to justify the
expectation that it is really a valuable contribution to our national
historical literature. Such is, however, not the case. The only
valuable portions of the book are the reports of different commanding
generals, which are appended. The style is of the inflated,
mock-heroic order, of which we have had a surfeit, especially since
the commencement of the late war. The descriptions of battles remind
us of a certain class of cheap battle pictures, in which smoke,
artillery horses, and men are arranged and rearranged to suit any
desired emergency. One is left in doubt in reading the account of the
famous charge on the left at Fort Donelson, whether C. F. Smith or
Morgan L. Smith was the officer in command. Morgan L. Smith was a
brave and valuable officer, but the decisive charge in question was
led by C. F. Smith, and was one of the most remarkable and brilliant
military exploits of the war. We cannot pretend to wade through all
the crudities, platitudes, and mistakes of this bulky volume,
manufactured to order, not written. There is one glaring blunder or
intentional perversion, in the desire to please every body, which all
cannot pass over. The relief of Major-General McClernand in front of
Vicksburg is made to appear to be a reluctant act on the part of
General Grant. Mr. Headley represents General Grant as complying with
an urgent military necessity, at the cost of _his friend_. This is all
sheer nonsense. There was and could be no friendship between Grant and
McClernand. One might as well expect fellowship between light and
darkness. There was a military necessity to remove McClernand, for
every day that he commanded a corps imperilled the safety of the whole
army. Sherman and McPherson united in demanding his removal, {576} and
General Grant chose the right moment to relieve him--when he had
demonstrated his incapacity, or worse, to the mind of every soldier on
the field, and ruined forever the false popularity he had acquired as
a politician of the lowest grade. Mr. Headley makes an unsuccessful
effort to glaze over General Wallace's unaccountable delay in coming
up to the field of' Shiloh. In fact, he deals in indiscriminate praise
for an obvious reason, and like all such people is certain to get very
little himself from his critics. The book no doubt sells, and will
probably stimulate a desire to read the authentic histories which will
in due season appear, and of which Wm. Swinton's History of the Army
of the Potomac (not without its faults) is a specimen. We expect a
first-class scientific History of the War. Major-General Schofield is
the man to write it, when the proper time arrives.

POETRY, LYRICAL, NARRATIVE, AND SATIRICAL, OF THE CIVIL WAR.
Selected and edited by Richard Grant White. 12mo, pp. 384. American
News Co.

Mr. White's preface to this volume of selected poetry is the best
criticism which the book could have, and is an exhaustive and elegant
essay. It is a remarkably complete collection of the pieces which have
appeared from time to time in the progress of the war. The value of
such a work is in its completeness less than in the merits of the
compositions selected. We should be glad to see another edition,
containing some which have been overlooked or omitted. The value of
such a collection increases with time, and it will be eagerly sought
for and highly prized when the hateful, painful, and commonplace
features of the struggle have softened into the elements of pleasing
reminiscence and romance, and become the incentives to heroism and
patriotism to unborn children.

A TEXT BOOK ON PHYSIOLOGY.
For the use of Schools and Colleges, being an Abridgement of the
author's larger work on Human Physiology. By John William Draper,
M.D., LL.D., author of A Treatise on Human Physiology, and A History
of the Intellectual Development of Europe, etc. 12mo, pp. 376. Harper
& Brothers, 1866.

A TEXT BOOK ON CHEMISTRY.
For the use of Schools and Colleges. By Henry Draper, M.D., Professor
Adjunct of Chemistry and Natural History in the University of New
York. 12mo, pp. 507. Harper & Brothers. 1866.

The Drapers, father and sons, present the rare example in this
materialistic age and most materialistic city, of a whole family
devoted to literary and scientific pursuits, and working in that
harmony which the sincere and loyal pursuit of science is sure to
produce. Although we have had occasion to differ with Professor Draper
in his philosophical and some of his political deductions, we admire
his intellect and attainments, and in the purely scientific order
consider him entitled to the highest consideration and respect. He is
a close student and an original observer, and we believe him ardently
and faithfully devoted to the ascertainment of exact scientific truth.

His sons are men of great promise, and have already done more in their
short lives in the respective departments of natural science than many
of twice their age.

Catholicity courts scientific investigation and verification in every
department of inquiry, and delights to honor all men who devote their
lives to these self-denying labors. There is, so to speak, a sanctity
of science. Science inevitably tends toward religion, and is the most
powerful safeguard of society and civilization next to religion.

The two manuals whose titles are given above are excellent of their
kind, and we cordially recommend them to our schools and colleges.

BOOKS RECEIVED.

From D. Appleton & Co., New-York. The Annual Cyclopaedia and Register
of Important Events of the Year 1865. 8vo, pp. 850.

From Hurd & Houghton, New-York. Revolution and Reconstruction. Two
Lectures delivered in the Law School of Harvard College, in January,
1865, and January, 1866, by Joel Parker. 8vo, pamphlet, pp. 89.
Shakespeare's Delineations of Insanity, Imbecility, and Suicide. By A.
O. Kellogg, M.D., Assistant Physician State Lunatic Asylum, Utica,
N.Y. 12mo. pp. 204. Pictures of Country Life. By Alice Cary. 18mo, pp.
859.

From D. & J. Sadlier & Co., New-York. Parts 18. 19, and 20 of
D'Artaud's Lives of the Popes; and Vol II. of Catholic Anecdotes.

From P. O'Shea, New-York. Nos. 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32. and 33 of
Darras's History of the Catholic Church.

From A. D. F. Randolph, New-York. The Lady of La Garaye. By the Hon.
Mrs. Norton, 12mo, pp. 115.

From J. J. O'Connor & Co., Newark, N.J. Jesus and Mary. A Catholic
hymn-book. Selected from various sources, and arranged for the use of
the children of St. Patrick's Cathedral, Newark, N.J. 12mo, pp. 76,
paper.

{577}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. III., NO. 17.--AUGUST, 1866.

[ORIGINAL.]

PROBLEMS OF THE AGE.

V.

THE REVELATION OF THE SUPERNATURAL ORDER,
AND ITS RELATION TO THE PRIMITIVE IDEA OF REASON.

Our reason in apprehending the intelligible is advertised at the same
time of the existence of the super-intelligible. It is necessary to
explain here the sense in which this latter term is used. It is
evident that it can be used only in a relative and not in an absolute
sense. That which is absolutely without the domain of the intelligible
is absolutely unintelligible and therefore a non-entity. The
super-intelligible must therefore be something which is intelligible
to God, but above the range either of all created reason, or of human
reason in its present condition. It will suffice for the present to
consider it under the latter category.

Our reason undoubtedly apprehends in its intelligible object the
existence of something which is above the range of human intelligence
in its present state. The intimate nature of material and spiritual
substances is incomprehensible. Much more, the intimate nature or
essence of the infinite divine being. All science begins from and
conducts to the incomprehensible. Any one who wishes to satisfy
himself of this may peruse the first few chapters of Mr. Herbert
Spencer's "Principles of Philosophy." That portion of the first
article of the creed which reason can demonstrate; namely, the being
of God, the Creator of the world, in which is included also the
immortality of the soul, and the principle of moral obligation;
advertises therefore, of an infinite sphere of truth which is above
our comprehension. The natural suggests the supernatural, in which it
has its first and final cause, its origin and ultimate end. The
knowledge of the natural, therefore, gives us a kind of negative
knowledge of the super-natural, by advertising us of its own
incompleteness, and of the want of any principle of self-origination
or metaphysical finality in itself. A system of pure naturalism which
represents the idea of reason under a form which satisfies completely
the intelligence without introducing the supernatural, is impossible.
What is nature, and what do we mean by the natural? Nature is simply
the aggregate of finite entities, and the natural is {578} what may be
predicated of these entities. A system of pure naturalism would
therefore give a complete account of this aggregate of finite
entities, without going beyond the entities themselves, that is,
without transcending the limits of space, time, the finite and the
contingent. Such a system is not only incapable of rational
demonstration, but utterly unthinkable. For, when the mind has gone to
its utmost length in denying or excluding every positive affirmation
of anything except nature, there remains always the abyss of the
unknown from which nature came and to which it tends, even though the
unknown may be declared to be unknowable. Those who deny the
super-intelligible and the supernatural, therefore, are mere sceptics,
and cannot construct a philosophy. Those who affirm a First Cause, in
which second causes and their effects are intelligible, affirm the
supernatural. For the first and absolute Cause cannot be included
under the same generic term with the second causes and finite forces
of nature. The more perfectly and clearly they evolve the full
theistic conception of pure reason, the more distinctly do they affirm
the supernatural, because the idea of God as the infinite,
intelligible object of his own infinite intelligence is
proportionately explicated and apprehended. It is explicated and
apprehended by means of analogies derived from finite objects, but
these analogies suggest that there is an infinite something behind
them which they represent. By these analogies we learn in a measure
the meaning of the affirmation _Ut Deus sit_. We do not learn _Quid
sit Deus_, but still we cannot help asking the question, What is God,
what is his essence? We know that he is the adequate object of his own
intelligence and will, and therefore we cannot help asking the
question what is that object, what does God see and love in himself,
in what does his most pure and infinite act consist, what is his
beatitude? Our reason is advertised of an infinite truth, reality, or
being, which it cannot comprehend, that is, of the super-intelligible.
Those who base their philosophy on pure theism, or a modified
rationalistic Christianity, are therefore entirely mistaken when they
profess to be anti-supernaturalists, and to draw a distinctly marked
line between themselves and the supernaturalists. The distinction is
only between more or less consistent supernaturalists. Those who are
at the remotest point from the Catholic idea, see that those who are a
little nearer have no tenable standing-point, and these see it of
those who are nearer than they are, and so on, until we come to the
Anglicans and the Orientals. But the extremists themselves have no
better standing-point than the intermediaries, and in their theistic
conception have admitted a principle from which they can be driven by
irresistible and invincible logic to the Catholic Church. For the
present, we merely aim to show that they are compelled to admit the
supernatural when they affirm God as the first and final cause of the
world. In affirming this, they affirm that nature has its origin and
final reason in the supernatural, or in an infinite object above
itself, which human reason cannot comprehend. That is, they affirm
super-intelligible and super-natural relations, of man and the
universe. These relations must be regulated and adjusted by some law.
This law is either the simple continuity of the original creative act
which explicates itself through con-creative second causes in time and
space, or it is this, and in addition to this, an immediate act of the
Creator completing his original, creative act by subsequent acts of an
equal or superior order, which concur with the first towards the final
cause of the creation. Whoever takes the first horn of this dilemma is
a pure naturalist in the only sense of the word which is intelligible.
That is, while he is a supernaturalist, in maintaining that nature has
its first and final cause in the supernatural, or in {579} God; he is
a naturalist in maintaining that man has no other tendency to his
final cause except that given in the creative act that is essential to
nature, and no other mode prescribed for returning to his final cause
than the explication of this natural tendency, according to natural
law. Consequently, reason is sufficient, without revelation; the will,
without grace; humanity, without the incarnation; society, or the race
organized under law, without the church. It is precisely in the method
of treating this thesis of naturalism that the divarication takes
place between the great schools of Catholic theology and between the
various systems of philosophy, whether orthodox or heterodox, which
profess to base themselves on the Christian idea, or to ally
themselves with it. It is not easy to find the clue which will lead us
safely through this labyrinth and preserve us from deviating either to
the right hand or to the left, by denying too much on the one hand to
the naturalists, or conceding too much to them on the other.
Nevertheless it is necessary to search for it, or to give up all
effort to discuss the question before us, and to prove from principles
furnished by nature and reason the necessity of accepting a
supernatural revelation.

The true thesis of pure naturalism or rationalism is, that God in
educating the human race for the destiny in view of which he created
it, merely explicates that which is contained in nature by virtue of
the original creative act, without any subsequent interference of the
divine, creative power. He develops nature by natural laws alone, in
one invariable mode. The physical universe evolves by a rigid sequence
the force of all the second causes which it contains. The rational
world is governed by the same law, and so also is the moral and
spiritual world. The intellectual and spiritual education of the human
race develops nothing except natural reason, and the natural,
spiritual capacity of the soul. Reason extends its conquests by a
continual progress in the super-intelligible realm, reducing it to the
intelligible, and eternally approaching to the comprehension of the
infinite and absolute truth. The spiritual capacity advances
constantly in the supernatural realm, reducing it to the natural, and
eternally approaching the infinite and absolute good or being. All
nature, all creation, is on the march, and its momentum is the
impulsive force given it by the creative impact that launched it into
existence and activity.

Planting themselves on this thesis, its advocates profess to have _à
priori_ principle by which they prove the all-sufficiency of nature
for the fulfilment of its own destiny, and reject as an unnecessary or
even inconceivable intrusion, the affirmation of another divine
creative act, giving a new impact to nature, superadding a new force
to natural law, subordinating the physical universe to a higher end,
implanting a superior principle of intelligence and will in the human
soul, and giving to the race a destination above that to which it
tends by its own proper momentum. They refuse to entertain the
question of a supernatural order, or an order which educates the race
according to a law superior to that of the evolution of the mere
forces of nature; and in consequence of this refusal, they logically
refuse to entertain the question of a supernatural revelation
disclosing this order, and of a supernatural religion in which the
doctrines, laws, institutions, forces and instruments of this order
are organized, for the purpose of drawing the human race into itself.
This is the last fortress into which heterodox philosophy has fled.
The open plains are no longer tenable. The only conflict of magnitude
now raging in Christendom is between the champions of the Catholic
faith and the tenants of this stronghold. It is a great advantage for
the cause of truth that it is so. The controversy is simplified, the
issues are clearly marked, the opportunity is favorable for an {580}
unimpeded and decisive collision between the forces of faith and
unbelief, and the triumph of faith will open the way for Christianity
to gain a new and mighty sway over the mind, the heart, and the life
of the civilized world. This stronghold is no more tenable than any of
the others which have been successively occupied and abandoned. Its
tenants have gained only a momentary advantage by retreating to it.
They escape certain of the inconsistencies of other parties and evade
the Catholic arguments levelled against these inconsistencies. But
they can be driven by the irresistible force of reason from their
position, and made to draw the Catholic conclusion from their own
premises.

We do not say this in a boastful spirit, or as vaunting our own
ability to effect a logical demolition of rationalism. Rather, we
desire to express our confidence that the reason of its advocates
themselves will drive them out of it, and that the common judgment of
an age more enlightened than the present will demolish it. It is our
opinion, formed after hearing the language used by a great number of
men of all parties, and reading a still greater number of their
published utterances, that the most enlightened intelligence of this
age in Protestant Christendom has reached two conclusions; the first
is, that the Catholic Church is the true and genuine church of
Christianity; and the second, that it is necessary to have a positive
religion which will embody the same idea that produced Christianity.
The combination and evolution of these two intellectual convictions
promise to result in a return to Catholicism. And there are to be seen
even already in the writings of those who have given up the positive
Christianity of orthodox Protestantism, indications of the workings of
a philosophy which tends to bring them round to the positive
supernatural faith of the Catholic church. It is by these grand,
intellectual currents moving the general mind of an age, that
individual minds are chiefly influenced, more than by the thoughts of
other individual minds. Individual thinkers can scarcely do more than
to detect the subtle element which the common intellectual atmosphere
holds in solution, to interpret to other thinkers their own thoughts,
or give them a direction which will help them to discover for
themselves some truth more integral and universal than they now
possess. Therefore, while confiding in the power of the integral and
universal truth embodied in the Catholic creed to bear down all
opposition and vanquish every philosophy which rises up agamst it, we
do not arrogate the ability to grasp and wield this power, and to
exhibit the Catholic idea in its full evidence as the integrating,
all-embracing form of universal truth. It is proposed in an honorable
and conciliatory spirit to those who love truth and are able to
investigate it for themselves. Many things must necessarily be
affirmed or suggested in a brief, unpretending series of essays, which
admit of and require minute and elaborate proof, such as can only be
given in an extensive work, but merely sketched here after the manner
of an outline engraving which leaves out the filling up belonging to a
finished picture.

To return from this digression. We have begun the task of indicating
how that naturalism or pure rationalism which affirms the theistic
conception logically demonstrable by pure reason, can only integrate
itself and expand itself to a universal Theodicy or doctrine of God,
in a supernatural revelation.

If the opposite theory of pure naturalism were true, it ought to
verify itself in the actual history of the human race, and in the
actual process of its education. The idea of the supernatural ought to
be entirely absent from the consciousness of the race. For, on the
supposition of that theory, it has no place in the human mind--and no
business in the world. If unassisted nature and reason suffice for
{581} themselves they ought to do their work alone, and do it so
thoroughly that there would be no room for any pretended supernatural
revelation to creep in. The history of mankind ought to be a
continuous, regular evolution of reason and nature, like the movements
of the planets; the human race ought to have been conscious of this
law from the beginning, and never to have dreamed of the supernatural,
never to have desired it.

Philosophy ought to have been, from the first, master of the
situation, and to have domineered over the whole domain of thought.

The reverse of this is the fact. The history of the human race, and
the whole world of human thought, is filled with the idea of the
supernatural. The philosophy of naturalism is either a modification
and re-combination of principles learned from revelation, or a protest
against revelation and an attempt to dethrone it from its sway. It has
no pretence of being original and universal, but always pre-supposes
revelation as having prior possession, and dating from time
immemorial. Now human nature and human reason are certainly competent
to fulfil whatever task God has assigned them. They act according to
fixed laws, and tend infallibly to the end for which they were
created. The judgments of human reason and of the human race are valid
in their proper sphere. And therefore the judgment of mankind that its
law of evolution is in the line of the supernatural is a valid
judgment. Revelation has the claim of prescription and of universal
tradition. Naturalism must set aside this claim and establish a
positive claim for itself based on demonstration, before it has any
right even to a hearing. It can do neither. It cannot bring any
conclusive argument against revelation, nor can it establish itself on
any basis of demonstration which does not pre-suppose the instruction
of reason by revelation.

It cannot conclusively object to revelation. The very principle of
law, that is, of the invariable nexus between cause and effect, which
is the ultimate axiom of naturalism, is based on the perpetual
concurrence of the first cause with all secondary causes, that is, the
perpetuity of the creative act by which God perpetually creates the
creature. There is no reason why this creative act should explicate
all its effects at once or merely conserve the existences it has
produced, and not explicate successively in space and time the effects
of its creative energy. The hypothesis that the creative power can
never act directly in nature except at its origin, and must afterwards
merely act through the medium of previously created causes in a direct
line, is the sheerest assumption. Some of the most eminent men in
modern physical science maintain the theory of successive creations.
There may be the same direct intervention of creative power in the
moral and spiritual world. Miracles, revelations, supernatural
interventions for the regeneration and elevation of the human race,
are not improbable on any _à priori_ principle. The artifice by which
the entire tradition of the human race is set aside, and a demand made
to prove the supernatural _de novo_, is unwarrantable and unfair. The
supernatural has the title of prescription, and the burden of proof
lies only upon the particular systems, to show that they are genuine
manifestations of it, and not its counterfeits. The existence of a
reality which may be counterfeited is a fair postulate of reason,
until the contrary is demonstrated, and something positive of a prior
and more universal order is logically established from the first
principles of reason. We are not to be put off with assurances like a
fraudulent debtor's promises of payment, that our doubts and
uncertainties, will be satisfied after two thousand or two hundred
thousand years. Exclude the supernatural, and natural reason will
have, and can have nothing in the future, beyond the universal data
and principles which we have now and have had from the beginning, with
which to solve its problems. The {582} connection between mind and
matter, the origin and destination of the soul, the future life, the
state of other orders of intelligent beings, the condition of other
worlds, will be as abstruse and incapable of satisfactory settlement
then as now. If we are to gain any certain knowledge concerning them,
it must be in a supernatural way. And what conclusive reason is there
for deciding that we may not? Who can prove that some of that infinite
truth which surrounds us may not break through the veil, that some of
the intelligent spirits of other spheres may not be sent to enlighten
and instruct us?  [Footnote 125]

  [Footnote 125: That is, who can prove it from reason alone, without
  the evidence of Revelation itself that it is already completed?]

One of the ablest advocates of naturalism, Mr. William R. Alger, has
admitted that it is possible, and oven maintains that it has already
taken place. In his erudite work on the "History of the Doctrine of a
Future Life," he maintains the opinion that Jesus Christ is a most
perfect and exalted being, who was sent into this world by God to
teach mankind, who wrought miracles and really raised his body to life
in attestation of his doctrine, although he supposes that he laid it
aside again when he left the earth. He distinctly asserts the
infallibility of Christ as a teacher, and of the doctrine which he
actually taught with his own lips. Here is a most distinct and
explicit concession of the principle of supernatural revelation. To
those who heard him he was a supernatural and infallible teacher. In
so far as his doctrine is really apprehended it is for all generations
a supernatural and infallible truth. It has regenerated mankind, and
Mr. Alger believes it is destined, when better understood, to carry
the work of regeneration to a higher point in the future. It is true,
he does not acknowledge that the apostles were infallible in
apprehending and teaching the doctrine of Christ. But he must admit,
that in so far as they have apprehended and perpetuated it, and in so
far as he himself and others of his school now apprehend it more
perfectly than they did, they apprehend supernatural truth and
appropriate a supernatural power. Besides, once admitting that Christ
was an infallible teacher, it is impossible to show why he could not
do what so many philosophers have done, communicate his doctrine in
clear and intelligible terms, so that the substance of it would be
correctly understood and perpetuated. Miss Frances Cobbe, admitted to
be the best expositor of the doctrine of the celebrated Theodore
Parker, in her "Broken Lights," and other similar writers, give to the
doctrine and institutions of Christ a power that is superhuman and
that denotes the action of a superhuman intelligence. Those who
prognosticate a new church, a new religion, a realization of ideal
humanity on earth, cannot integrate their hypothesis in anything
except the supernatural, and must suppose either a new outburst of
supernatural life from the germ which Christ planted on the earth, or
the advent of another superhuman Redeemer.

Dr. Brownson while yet only a transcendental philosopher on his road
to the Church, exhibited this thought with great power and beauty, in
a little book entitled "New Views." The dream of a new redemption of
mankind in the order of temporal perfection and felicity was never
presented with greater argumentative ability or portrayed in more
charming colors, at least in the English language; and never was any
thing made more clear than the necessity of superhuman powers for the
actual fulfilment of this bewitching dream.  [Footnote 126]

  [Footnote 126: That is, bewitching to those who do not believe in
  something for more sublime, the restoration of all things in Christ,
  foretold in the Scriptures.]

Whether we look backward or forward, we confront the idea of the
supernatural. This is enough to prove its reality. There are no
universal pseudo-ideas, deceits, or illusions. That which is universal
is true. We have {583} therefore only to inspect the idea of the
supernatural, to examine and explicate its contents, to interrogate
the universal belief and tradition of mankind, to study the history of
the race, and unfold the wisdom of the ancients, and the result will
be truth. We shall obtain true and just conceptions of the original,
universal, eternal idea, in which all particular forms of science,
belief, law, and human evolution in all directions, coalesce and
integrate themselves as in a complete whole including all the
relations of the universe to God, as First and Final Cause.

We must now go back to the point where we left off, after establishing
as the first principle of all science and faith the pure theistic
doctrine respecting the first and final cause, or the origin and end
of all things in necessary being, that is, God. We have to show the
position of this doctrine in the conception of supernatural
revelation, and its connection with the other doctrines which express
the supernatural relation of the human race and the universe to God.

The conception of the supernatural in its most simple and universal
form, is the conception of somewhat distinct from and superior to the
complete aggregate of created forces or second causes. In this sense,
it is identical with the conception of first and final cause. It may
be proper here to explain the term Final Cause, which is not in common
use among English writers. It expresses the ultimate motive or reason
for which the universe was created, the end to which all things are
tending. When we say that God is necessarily the final cause, as well
as the first cause, of all existing things, we mean that he could have
had no motive or end in creating, extrinsic to his own being. All that
proceeds from him as first cause must return to him as final cause.
From this it appears that the conception of nature in any theistic
system implies the supernatural; because it implies a cause and end
for nature above itself. The supernatural can only be denied by the
atheist, who maintains that there is nothing superior to what the
Theist calls second causes, or by the Pantheist, who either identifies
God with nature, or nature with God. A Theist cannot form any
conception of pure nature or a purely natural order, except as
included in a supernatural plan; because his natural order originates
in a cause and tends toward an end above and beyond itself, and is not
therefore its own adequate reason. As we have already seen, reason, by
virtue of its original intuition of the infinite, is advertised of
something infinitely beyond all finite comprehension. By apprehending
its own limitation, and the finite, relative, contingent existence of
all things which are, it is advertised of an infinite unknown, and
thus has a negative knowledge of the supernatural. By the light of the
creative act in itself and in the universe, it apprehends the being of
God as reflected in his works and made intelligible by the similitude
of created existences to the Creator. It apprehends that there is an
infinite being, whose created similitude is in itself and all things;
a primal uncreated light, the cause of the reflected light in which
nature is intelligible. Therefore it apprehends the supernatural. But
it does not directly and immediately perceive what this infinite being
or uncreated light is, and cannot do so. That is, by explicating its
own primitive idea, and bringing it more and clearly into the
reflective consciousness, and by learning more and more of the
universe of created existences, it may go on indefinitely,
apprehending God by the reflected light of similitudes, "_per
speculum, in aenigmate;_" but it must progress always in the same
line: it has no tendency toward an immediate vision of God as he is
intelligible in his own essence and by uncreated light. Therefore, it
has only a negative and not a positive apprehension of the
supernatural. God dwells in a light inaccessible to created {584}
intelligence, as such. There is an infinite abyss between him and all
finite reason, which cannot be crossed by any movement of reason,
however accelerated or prolonged. Therefore, although there is no
science or philosophy possible which does not proceed from the
affirmation of the supernatural, that is, of the infinite first and
final cause of nature, yet it is not properly called supernatural
science so long as it is confined to the limits of that knowledge of
causes above nature which is gained only through nature. Its domain is
restricted to that intelligibility which God has given to second
causes and created existences, and which only reflects himself
indirectly. Therefore, theologians usually call it natural knowledge,
and in its highest form natural theology, as being limited within the
bounds above described. They call that the natural order in which the
mind is limited to the explication of that capacity of apprehending
God, or of that intuitive idea of God, which constitutes it rational,
and is therefore limited to a relation to God corresponding to the
mode of apprehending him. The term supernatural is restricted to an
order in which God reveals to the human mind the possibility of
apprehending him by the uncreated light in which he is intelligible to
himself, and coming into a relation to him corresponding therewith;
giving at the same time an elevation to the power of intelligence and
volition which enables it to realize that possibility. This elevation
includes the disclosure of truths not discoverable otherwise, as well
as the faculty of apprehending them in such a vivid manner that they
can have an efficacious action on the will, and give it a supernatural
direction.

In this sense, rationalists have no conception of the supernatural.
None have it, except Catholics, or those who have retained it from
Catholic tradition. When we ascribe to rationalists a recognition of
the supernatural, we merely intend to say that they recognize in part
that immediate interference of God to instruct mankind and lead it to
its destiny which is really and ultimately, although not in their
apprehension, directed to the elevation of man to a sphere above that
which is naturally possible. Therefore they cannot object to
revelation on the ground of its being an interference with the course
of nature or not in harmony with it, and cannot make an _à priori_
principle by virtue of which they can prejudge and condemn the
contents of revelation. But we do not mean to say that they possess
the conception of that which constitutes the supernaturalness of the
revelation, in the scientific sense of the term as used by Catholic
theologians. Even orthodox Protestants possess it very confusedly. And
here lies the source of most of the misconceptions of several abstruse
Catholic dogmas.

It is in the restricted sense that we shall use the term supernatural
hereafter, unless we make it plain that we use it in the general
signification.

We are now prepared to state in a few words the relation of the
conception of God which is intelligible to reason, to the revealed
truths concerning his interior relations which are received by faith
on the authority of his divine veracity. How does the mind pass
through the knowledge of God to belief in God; through "_Cognosco
Deum_" to "_Credo in Deum_"?  [Footnote 127]

  [Footnote 127: "I know God." "I believe in God."]

We have already said that "_Cognosco_" is included in "_Credo_." The
creed begins by setting before the mind that which is self-evident and
demonstrable concerning God, in which is included his veracity. It
then discloses certain truths concerning God which are not
self-evident or demonstrable from their own intrinsic reason, but
which are proposed as credible, on the authority of God. The word
"_Credo_" expresses this. "I believe in God," means not merely, "I
affirm the being of God," but also, "I believe certain truths
regarding God (whose being is made known to me by the light of reason)
on the authority of his Word." {585} These truths must have in them a
certain obscurity impervious to the intellectual vision; otherwise,
they would take their place among evident and known truths, and would
no longer be believed on the simple motive of the veracity of God
revealing them. That is, they are mysteries, intelligible so far as to
enable the mind to apprehend what are the propositions to which it is
required to assent, but super-intelligible as to their intrinsic
reason and ground in the necessary and eternal truth, or the being of
God.

In the Creed these mysteries, foreshadowed by the word "Credo," and by
the word "Deum," considered in its relation to "Credo," which
indicates a revelation of mysterious truths concerning the Divine
Being to follow in order after the affirmation of the being and unity
of God; begin to be formally expressed by the word "Patrem." In this
word there is implicitly contained the interior, personal relation of
the Father to the Son and Holy Ghost in the blessed Trinity, and his
exterior relation to man as the author of the supernatural order of
grace, or the order in which man is affiliated to him in the Son,
through the operation of the Holy Spirit. These relations of the three
persons of the blessed Trinity to each other, and to man, include the
entire substance of that which is strictly and properly the
supernatural revelation of the Creed, and the direct object of faith.
Before proceeding, however, to the consideration of the mysteries of
faith in their order, it is necessary to inquire more closely into the
process by which the intellect is brought to face its supernatural
object, and made capable of eliciting an act of faith.

The chief difficulty in the case is to find the connection between the
last act of reason and the first act of faith, the medium of transit
from the natural to the supernatural. The Catholic doctrine teaches
that the act of faith is above the natural power of the human mind. It
is strictly supernatural, and possible only by the aid of supernatural
grace. Yet it is a rational act, for the virtue of faith is seated in
the intellect as its subject, according to the teaching of St. Thomas.
It is justifiable and explicable on rational grounds, and even
required by right reason. The truths of revelation are not only
objectively certain, but the intellect has a subjective certitude of
them which is absolute, and excludes all suspicion or fear of the
contrary. Now, then, unless we adopt the hypothesis that we have lost
our natural capacity for discerning divine truth, by the fall, and are
merely restored by divine grace to the natural use of reason, there
are several very perplexing questions on this point which press for an
answer. Rejecting this hypothesis of the total corruption of reason,
which will hereafter be proved to be false and absurd, how can faith
give the mind absolute certitude of the truth of its object, when that
truth is neither self-evident nor demonstrable to reason from its own
self-evident principles? Given, that the intellect has this certitude,
how is it that we cannot attain to it by the natural operation of
reason? Once more, what is the evidence of the fact of revelation to
ordinary minds? Is it a demonstration founded on the arguments for
credibility? If so, how are they capable of comprehending them, and
what are they to do before they have gone through with the process of
examination? If not, how have they a rational and certain ground for
the judgment that God has really revealed the truths of Christianity?
Suppose now the fact of revelation established, and that the mind
apprehends that God requires its assent to certain truths on the
virtue of his own veracity. The veracity of God being apprehended as
one logical premiss, and the revelation of certain truths as another,
can reason draw the certain conclusion that the truth of these
propositions is necessarily contained in the veracity of God or not?
If it can, why is not the mind capable of giving them the firm,
unwavering {586} assent of faith by its own  natural power, without
the aid of grace? If not, how is it that the assent of the intellect
to the truth of revealed propositions does not always necessarily
contain in it a metaphysical doubt or a judgment that the contrary is
more or less probable, or at least possible? If it is said that the
will, inclined by the grace of God, determines to adhere positively to
the proposed revelation as true, what is meant by this? Does the will
merely determine to act practically as if these proposed truths were
evident, in spite of the lesser probability of the contrary? Then the
assent of the intellect is merely a judgment that revelation is
probably true, and that it is safest to follow it, which does not
satisfy the demand of faith. For faith excludes all fear or suspicion
that the articles of faith may possibly be false. Does the will force
the intellect to judge that those propositions are certain which it
apprehends only as probable? How is this possible? The will is a blind
faculty, which is directed by the intellect, "Nil volitum nisi prius
cognitum."   [Footnote 128] There is no act of will without a previous
act of knowledge. The will can not lawfully determine the intellect to
give any stronger assent to a proposition than the evidence warrants.
[Footnote 129] In a word, it is difficult to show how the intellect
has an absolute certitude of the object of faith, without representing
the object of faith as coincident with the object of knowledge, or the
intuitive idea of reason, and thus naturally apprehensible. It is also
difficult to show that faith is not coincident with knowledge, and
thus to bring out the conception of its supernaturalness, without
destroying the connection between faith and reason, subverting its
rational basis, and representing the grace of faith as either
restoring a destroyed faculty or adding a new one to the soul, whose
object is completely invisible and unintelligible to the human
understanding before it is elevated to the supernatural state. The
difficulty lies, however, merely in a defective statement, or a
defective apprehension of the statement of the Catholic doctrine, and
not in the doctrine itself. In order to make this plain, it will be
necessary to make one or two preliminary remarks concerning certitude
and probability.

  [Footnote 128: Nothing is willed unless previously known.]

  [Footnote 129: This is the statement of an objection, not a
  proposition affirmed by the author.]

There is first, a metaphysical certitude excluding all possibility to
the contrary. Such is the certitude of mathematical truths. Such also
is the certitude of self-evident and demonstrable truths of every
kind. The sphere of this kind of certitude is diminished or extended
accordingly as the mind has before it a greater or lesser number of
truths of this order. Some of these truths present themselves to every
mind so immediately and irresistibly that it cannot help regarding
them just as they are, and thus seeing their truth. For instance, that
two and two make four. Others require the mind to be in a certain
state of aptitude for seeing them as they are, and to make an effort
to bring them before it. There are some truths self-evident or
demonstrably certain to some minds which are not so to others; yet
these truths have all an intrinsic, metaphysical certitude which
reason as such is capable of apprehending, and the failure of reason
to apprehend them is due in individual cases merely to the defective
operation of reason in the particular subject. The operation of reason
can never be altogether deficient while it acts at all, for it acts
only while contemplating its object or primitive idea. But its
operation can be partially defective, inasmuch as the primitive idea
or objective truth may be imperfectly brought into the reflective
consciousness. And thus the intellect in individuals may fail to
apprehend truths which can be demonstrated with metaphysical
certitude, and which the intellect infallibly judges to be absolutely
certain in {587} those individuals who are capable of making a right
judgment. In this operation of apprehending metaphysical truths there
is no criterion taken from experience, or from the concurrent assent
of all men, but the truth shines with its own intrinsic light, and
reason judges by its inherent infallibility.

Next to metaphysical certitude comes moral demonstration, resulting
from an accumulation of probabilities so great that no probability
which can prudently be allowed any weight is left to the other side,
but merely a metaphysical possibility. For instance, the Copernican
theory.

Then comes moral certainty in a wider sense; where there is probable
evidence on one side without any prudent reason to the contrary, but
not such a complete knowledge of all the facts as to warrant the
positive judgment that there is really no probability on the other
side. This kind of certainty warrants a prudent, positive judgment,
and furnishes a safe practical motive for action; but it varies
indefinitely according as the data on which the judgment is based are
more or less complete, and the importance of the case is greater or
less.

Then come the grades of probability, where there are reasons balancing
each other on both sides, which the mind must weigh and estimate.

To apply these principles to the question in hand.

First, we affirm that the being and attributes of God are apprehended
with a metaphysical certitude. Second, that the motives of credibility
proving the Christian revelation are apprehended, when that Revelation
is sufficiently proposed, with a varying degree of probability,
according to varying circumstances in which the mind may be placed,
but capable of being increased to the highest kind of moral
demonstration. Third, that the logical conclusion which reason can
draw from these two premises, although hypothetically necessary and a
perfect demonstration--that is, a necessary deduction from the
veracity of God, on the supposition that he has really made the
revelation--is really not above the order of probability, on account
of the second premiss. It is not above the order of probability,
although, as we have already argued, it is capable of being brought to
a moral demonstration by such an accumulation of proofs within that
order, that reason is bound to judge that the opposite is altogether
destitute of probability.

From this it appears, both how far reason with its own principles can
go in denying, and how far it can go in assenting to revealed truth.
We see, first, how it is, that the truth of revelation does not compel
the assent of all minds by an overwhelming and irresistible evidence.
The first premiss, which affirms the being of God, although undeniable
and indubitable in its ultimate idea, may be in its distinct
conception, so far denied or doubted by those whose reason is
perverted by their own fault, or their misfortune, as to destroy all
basis for a revelation. The second premiss, much more, may be
partially or completely swept away, by plausible explanations of its
component probabilities in detail. And thus, revelation may be denied.
The influence of the will on the judgment which is made by the mind on
the revealed truth is explicable in this relation, and must be taken
into the account. It is certain that the moral dispositions by which
voluntary acts are biased, bias also the judgment. The
self-determining power of the will which decides positively which of
its different inclinations to follow, controls the judgment as well as
the volition. This is an indirect control, which is exerted, not by
imperiously commanding the judgment in a capricious manner to make a
blind, irrational decision, but by turning it toward the consideration
of that side toward which the volition or choice is inclined. This
influence and control of volition over judgment increases as we
descend in the order of truth from primary and self-evident
principles, and diminishes as we {588} approach to them. In the case
of truth which is morally or metaphysically demonstrable, its control
is exerted by turning the intellect partially away from the
consideration of the truth and hindering it from giving it that
attention which is necessary, in order to its apprehension. In the
case of divine revelation, various passions, prejudices, interests, or
at least intellectual impediments to a right operation of reason, act
powerfully upon a multitude of minds in such a way, that the mirror of
the soul is too much obscured to receive the image of truth.

But, supposing that reason and will both operate with all the
rectitude possible to them, without supernatural grace; how far can
the mind proceed in assenting to divine revelation? As far as a moral
demonstration can take it. It can assent to divine truth, and act upon
it, so far as this truth is adapted to the perfecting of the intellect
and will in the natural order. But it lacks capacity to apprehend the
supernatural verities proposed to it, as these are related to its
supernatural destiny.

The revelation contains an unknown quantity. The will cannot be moved
toward an object which the intellect does not apprehend. Therefore, a
supernatural grace must enlighten the intellect and elevate the will,
in order that the revealed truth may come in contact with the soul.
This supernatural grace gives a certain con-naturality to the soul
with the revealed object of faith, by virtue of which it apprehends
that God speaks to it in a whisper, distinct from his whisper to
reason, and catches the meaning of what he says in this whisper. It is
this supernatural light, illuminating the probable evidence
apprehended by the natural understanding, which makes the assent in
the act of faith absolute, and gives the mind absolute certitude. It
is, however, the certitude of God revealing, and not the certitude of
science concerning the intrinsic reason of that which he reveals. This
remains always inevident and obscure in itself, and the decisive
motive of assent is always the veracity of God. It is not, however,
altogether inevident and obscure, for if it were, the terms in which
it is conveyed would be unintelligible. It is so far inevident, that
the intellect cannot apprehend its certainty, aside from the
declaration of God. But it is partially and obscurely evident, by its
analogy with the known truth of the rational order. It is so far
evident that it can be demonstrated from rational principles that it
does not contradict the truths of reason. Further, that no other
hypothesis can explain and account for that which is known concerning
the universe. And, finally, that so far as the analogy between the
natural and the supernatural is apprehensible, there is a positive
harmony and agreement between them. This is all that we intend to
affirm, when we speak of demonstrating Christianity from the same
principles from which scientific truths are demonstrated.

Let us now revert once more to Jesus Christ and the pagan philosopher.
The pagan first perceives strong, probable reasons, which increase by
degrees to a moral demonstration, for believing that Christ is the Son
of God, and his doctrine the revelation of God. The supernatural grace
which Christ imparts to him, enables him to apprehend this with a
permanent and infallible certitude as a fixed principle both of
judgment and volition. He accepts as absolutely true all the mysteries
which Christ teaches him, on the faith of his divine mission and the
divine veracity. We may now suppose that Christ goes on to instruct
him in the harmony of these divine verities with all scientific
truths, so far, that he apprehends all the analogies which human
reason is capable of discerning between the two. He will then have
attained the _ultimatum_ possible for human reason elevated and
enlightened by faith, in this present state. Science and faith will be
coincident in his mind, as far as they can be. That is, faith will be
coincident {589} with science until it rises above its sphere of
vision, and will then lose itself in an indirect and obscure
apprehension of the mysteries, in the veracity of God.

In the case of the child brought up in the Catholic Church, the
Church, which is the medium of Christ, instructs the child through its
various agents. The child's reason apprehends, through the same
probable evidence by which it learns other facts and truths, that the
truth presented to him comes through the church, and through Christ,
from God, who is immediately apprehended in his primitive idea. The
light of faith which precedes in him the development of reason,
illuminates his mind from the beginning to apprehend with infallible
certitude that divine truth which is proposed to him through the
medium of probable evidence. This faith is a fixed principle of
conscience, proceeding from an illuminated intellect, inclining him to
submit his mind unreservedly to the instruction of the Catholic Church
on the faith of the divine veracity. It rests there unwaveringly,
without ever admitting a doubt to the contrary or postponing a certain
judgment until the evidence of revelation and the proofs of the divine
commission of the church have been critically examined. It may rest
there during life, and does so, with the greater number, to a greater
or lesser degree; or, it may afterward proceed to investigate to the
utmost limits the _rationale_ of the divine revelation, not in order
to establish faith on a surer basis, but in order to apprehend more
distinctly what it believes, and to advance in theological science.

Some one may say: "You admit that it is impossible to attain to a
perfect certitude of supernatural truth without supernatural light;
why, then, do you attempt to convince unbelievers that the Catholic
doctrine is the absolute truth by rational arguments?" To this we
reply, that we do not endeavor to lead them to faith, by mere
argument; but to the "preamble of faith." We aim at removing
difficulties and impediments which hinder those from attending to the
rational evidence of the faith; at removing its apparent
incredibility. We rely on the grace of the Holy Spirit alone to make
the effort successful, and to lead those who are worthy of grace
beyond the preamble of faith to faith itself. This grace is in every
human mind to which faith is proposed, in its initial stage; it is
increased in proportion to the sincerity with which truth is sought
for; and is given in fulness to all who do not voluntarily turn their
minds away from it. If we did not believe this, we would lay down our
pen at once.  [Footnote 130]

  [Footnote 130: The doctrine taught by Cardinal de Lugo and Dr.
  Newman, in regard to which some dissent was expressed in a former
  number, seems to the author, on mature reflection, to be, after all,
  identical with the one here maintained.]

{590}

From Once A Week.

A DAY AT ABBEVILLE.

BY BESSIE RAYNOR PARKES.

Twenty years ago, we posted into Abbeville by night, and were
deposited in an old-fashioned inn, with a large walled garden. In the
morning we posted further on across country to Rouen. Since then, many
a lime has the Chemin de Fer du Nord borne us flying past the ancient
city oft visited by English kings and English men-at-arms; not,
perhaps, deigning to stop to take in water; for Abbeville, once upon
the highway of nations, now lies just, as it were, a shade to one
side; just a shade--the distance between the station and the ramparts.
Yet this is enough to cause the _maître d'hôtel_ to shake his head and
say in a melancholy accent, "_Abbeville est presque détruite._"

On asking for the Hôtel de l'Europe, I was told that the Hôtel Tête de
Boeuf was "all the same." Which, however, was far from being the case,
as neither the building nor the master was what we had known twenty
years ago. _Query_ as to the degree of affinity required by the French
intellect to produce the degree of identity? In fact, the Hôtel de
l'Europe no longer existed. The house was possessed by a body of
religious, the sisters of St. Joseph, and their large school for young
ladies. The Tête de Boeuf had been a small château; two still
picturesque brick turrets bearing witness of its ancient state.

In the morning I walked over almost the length and breadth of
Abbeville, surprised to find it so large and, apparently, flourishing;
and yet, in spite of tall chimneys upon the circumference, full of the
quaintest old houses in the centre. Some of them have richly carved
beams running along the edge of the overhanging stories. Such may
still be seen in a few English towns; I remember them at Booking, in
Essex. The glory of the place is its great church, or rather the nave,
for this is all that ever got completed of the original design of the
time of Louis XII., the king who married our Princess Mary, sister of
Henry VIII. The choir has been patched on, and is about half the
height of the nave. The latter is a glorious upshoot of traceried
stone, with two towers; perhaps all the more impressive from having
been thus arrested in the very act of creation. It is like a forest
tree which has only attained half its development; and one feels as if
it ought to go on growing, pushing out fresh buttresses and arches,
till its fair proportions stood complete. There is an excellent stone
staircase up one of the towers, and from the top a wide view of the
town and the fields of Picardy, even to the sharp cliff marking where
the sea-line must be. The windings of the Somme may be traced for many
miles. I was told that the tide used to swell almost up to the town,
and that several little streams, once falling into the river, were
dried up. Even now, as there are several branches, one is here and
there reminded of Bruges, by the little old-fashioned bridges,
crossing a canal in the middle of a street. A broad girdle of water
seemed to me to surround great part of the town; but I could obtain no
map and no guide-book, though I anxiously inquired at the best shop.
Only a history of Abbeville was dug out of the museum at the Hôtel de
Ville, which building had a strong but plain tower reported of the
eleventh century. {591} The Abbevillois care little apparently for
their antiquities, though they are many and curious.

This ground, though somewhat bare and barren in appearance, has been
thickly occupied by humanity from the earliest ages of history. Keltic
barrows have been found here in abundance, and though many of them
have been destroyed in the interests of agriculture, enough remain to
delight the antiquary by their flint hatchets and arrows, their urns,
and their burnt bones. One such barrow, near Noyelles-sur-Mer, when
opened, was found to contain a large number of human heads, disposed
in a sort of cone. In 1787, one was opened at Crécy, and in it were
found two sarcophagi of burnt clay, in each of which was an entire
skeleton. Each had been buried in its clothes, and one bore on its
finger a copper ring; its dress being fastened likewise by a brooch or
hook of the same metal. Endless indeed is the list of primitive
instruments in flint, in copper, in iron, in bronze, found hereabouts;
likewise vases full of burnt bones, not only of our own race, but of
various animals--mice, water-rats, and "such small deer;" and in the
near neighborhood, of boars, oxen, and sheep. Succeeding to these wild
people and wild animals came the Romans. Before they pounced down upon
us, before they crossed over to Porta Lymanis, and drew those straight
lines of causeway over England which make the Roman Itinerary look
something like Bradshaw's railway map, (only straighter,) they settled
themselves firmly in the north of France; notably, they staid so long
near St. Valery, (at the mouth of the river which runs through
Abbeville,) that they buried there their dead in great numbers,
whereof the place of sepulchre is at this day yet to be seen. Their
own nice neat road also had they, cutting clean through the Graulic
forests. It came from Lyons to Boulogne, passing through Amiens and
Abbeville, and was in continuation of one which led from Rome into
Gaul! And wherever this people of conquerors travelled, thither they
carried their religious ceremonies and their domestic arts, so that we
find still all sorts of medals, vases of red, grey, or black clay,
little statuettes, _ex votos_, and sometimes larger groups of
sculpture, such as one in bronze representing the combat of Hercules
and Antaeus. Carthaginian medals have also been turned up here,
brought from the far shores of the Mediterranean; and those of
Claudius, Trajan, Caracalla, and Constantine. This long catalogue is
useless, save to mark the rich floods of human life which have
successively visited the banks of the Somme.

In the first year of the fifth century the barbarians made their way
up to the Somme, fighting the Romans inch by inch. Attila burst upon
this neighborhood, and fixed his claws therein; the tide of Rome rolls
back upon the south, and new dynasties begin, and with them comes in
Christianity; not, however, without much difficulty. The faith appears
to have gradually spread from Amiens, where St. Finius preached as
early as 301; but even 179 years later, St. Germain, the Scotchman,
was martyred, and St. Honoré, the eighth bishop of Amiens, labored
daily, for thirty-six years, in conjunction with Irish missionaries,
to infuse Christianity into the minds of people equally indisposed,
whether by Frankish paganism or Roman culture, to accept the doctrines
of the Cross. Indeed, the learned historian of this part of the
country, M. Louandre, believes that even Rome itself had never been
able to destroy the old Keltic religion. He says that, as late as the
seventh century, the antique trees, woods, and fountains were still
honored by public adoration in this part of France; and St. Rignier
hung up relics to the trees to purify them, just as in Rome itself the
old pagan temples were exorcised. And after a time the old gods of all
sorts were known either as idols or demons; no particular distinctions
being drawn among them; they lie as _débris_ beneath the religious
soil of this part of Picardy, just as the bones of those who adored
them are confounded in one common dust.

{592}

Late in the seventh century appears St. Rignier, a great saint in
these parts. He was converted and baptized by the Irish missionaries,
and thereupon became a most austere Christian indeed; only, says his
legend, eating twice a week--Sundays and Thursdays. King Dagobert
invited the saint to a repast, which the holy man accepted, and
preached the Gospel the whole time they sat at table--a day and a
night!

We must now take a great leap to the days of Charlemagne, because in
his days the Abbey of St. Rignier, near to Abbeville, was very famous
indeed, both as monastery and school, and contained a noble library of
256 volumes; the greater part whereof were Christian, but certain
others were pagan classics; let us, for instance, be grateful for the
Eclogues of Virgil and the Rhetoric of Cicero. Of this library but one
volume remains; I have seen it, and with astonishment. It is a copy of
the Gospels, written in letters of gold upon purple parchment. It was
given by Charlemagne to the Count-Abbot, Saint Augilbert. This one
precious fragment of the great library is in the museum of Abbeville.
The school was, indeed, an ecclesiastical Eton and Oxford. The sons of
kings, dukes, and counts came here to learn the "letters," of which
Charlemagne made such great account.

Now the town of Abbeville first gets historic mention in the century
succeeding Charlemagne. It is called Abbatis Villa, and belonged to
this great monastery of St. Rignier; wherefore I have introduced both
the good saint and his foundation. It grew, as almost all the towns of
the middle ages did grow, from a religious root--a tap-root, striking
deep in the soil. Of course, having thus begun to grow, its history
has made interesting chapters a great deal too long to be copied or
even noted here; it will not be amiss, however, to look for its points
of occasional contact with England. Firstly, then, it was from St.
Valery, the seaport of the Somme, that William the Conqueror set out
for England. Then, in 1259, our Henry III. met St. Louis at Abbeville,
and Henry did homage for his French possessions. Then, in 1272, our
great King Edward I. married Eleanor, heiress of Ponthieu--she who
sucked the poison from her husband's wound; and the burgesses of
Abbeville, misliking the transfer, quarreled violently with the king's
bailiff, and killed some of the underlings. Eleanor's son, Edward II.,
married Isabel, the

  "She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs.
  That tearest the bowels of thy mangled mate."

This unamiable specimen of her sex lived at Abbeville in 1312; but
during her reign and residence, and that of her son Edward III., the
inhabitants of Abbeville ceased not to kick indignantly. The King of
France, her brother, struck into the contest "_pour comforter la main
de Madame d'Angleterre_." The legal documents arising from these
quarrels partially remain to us. So they go on, quarreling and
sometimes fighting, until the great day of Crécy, when Edward III.,
the late king's nephew, tried to get the throne. The oft-told tale we
need not tell again. In 1393, France being in worse extremities, we
find Charles VI. at Abbeville, and Froissart there at the same time.
Perhaps, in respect of battles and quarrels, those few notices are
sufficient; I only wished to indicate that Abbeville was on the
borderland between the English and the French, and came in for an
ample share of fighting. Two royal ceremonials enlivened it in the
course of centuries, whereof particular mention is made in the
history. Louis XII. here met and married Mary of England, in 1514:
"_La Reine Blanche_," as she was afterward called, from her white
widow's weeds. In the Hôtel de Cluny at Paris is still shown the
apartments she occupied. Louis was old, and Mary young, when they
married; but the French historian recounts her exceeding complaisance
and politeness to the king, and his great delight therein.

{593}

In 1657, young Louis XIV. came here with his mother, and lodged at the
Hôtel d'Oignon. Monsieur D'Oignon, the noble owner, had everything in
such beautiful and ceremonious order for their reception, that he
became a proverb at Abbeville--"As complete and well arranged as M.
d'Oignon." A sort of _rich_ Richard.

The antiquarian who goes to Abbeville and dips into the history (by M.
Louandre) at the Museum, will find plenty of interesting matter about
the manners and customs of the Abbevillois, rendered all the more
striking by so many of the old houses being yet just where they were,
and as they were. But few impressions of the book seem to have been
printed off, for it is no longer sold, though the obliging librarian
did say he knew where a few copies remained at a high price. This for
the benefit of any long-pursed antiquary, curious in local histories.
It is such a book as can only be written by a devoted son of the soil
digging away on the spot.

In the Revolution, Abbeville fortunately escaped any great horrors;
but the trials of the middle ages afford plenty; especially one of a
certain student, condemned for sacrilege. Now, it is a peaceful,
well-governed town, busy in making iron pots and cans, and other
wrought articles from raw materials brought by the railway. It proves
to be only in respect of the hotel interest that _Abbeville est
presque détruite_.

Translated from the French

"GOD BLESS YOU!"

BY JEROME DUMOULIN.

"Thank you, master Jerome!" my reader replies; "yes, to be sure, may
God bless me! But I have not sneezed, that I know of, for a quarter of
an hour, at least; and _apropos de quoi_ do you say that? or rather,
why and wherefore do they always say so to people who sneeze? I
suspect that you want to talk about it, and, in fact, I should not be
displeased to hear you discuss for a little while this odd custom; so
begin, master Jerome."

Very well, dear reader, such is my idea, and I think you will not find
uninteresting the little history of it which I intend to give; and I
assure you beforehand, that if I fail to convince you, you must be
very difficult.

Settle it first in your mind, that in whatever you may have heard
heretofore upon this subject, there was not one word of truth. Among
the most probable histories of this kind is that of a pestilence,
which in the time of Pope Saint Gregory, ravaged Italy, the peculiar
characteristic of which was to cause the sick person to die suddenly
by sneezing. When the patient sneezed, which was for him, the passage
from life to death, the assistants gave him this fraternal
benediction, saying to him, "God bless you!" which was the equivalent
or translation of _Requiescat in pace_. This account, I repeat, would
be much more acceptable, if it were not contradicted by a positive
fact, namely, that the use of the expression is many centuries
anterior to Pope Saint Gregory; anterior even to the Christian era,
and borrowed, of course, from the pagans, as I am about to prove from
authentic testimony.

{594}

But in the first place, let us remark that in the highest antiquity
sneezing was a circumstance in regard to which they drew auguries,
especially if a person sneezed many times consecutively. Xenophon
relates that one of his corporals having sneezed, he drew from it a
good augury by a process of reasoning which I did not quite
understand, but which his troops, apparently, found sufficiently
conclusive. Going back again some eight centuries, we find in the
"Odyssey" an adventure of the same kind, but more droll. In the
eighteenth book of this poem, the divine Homer relates that one day
Telemachus began to sneeze in such a manner as to shake the whole
house. That put madam Penelope in good humor, who calling her faithful
Eumacus the swineherd: "Do you hear, old fellow," she said; "he is
well cared for! and what an augury of happiness the gods have given
us. Jupiter has spoken by the nose of my dear Telemachus, and he
announces to us that we are about to be freed from these scamps of
gallants who bore me with their pursuits, and who beside put to sack
our poor civil list; for every hour our cattle, goats, and little
pigs, which you love like so many children, are sacrificed to the
voracity of these rascals. Now, my good fellow, I have an idea: go you
to the door of the palace, where for some days I have seen that beggar
that you know. Take him from me these pantaloons and this shirt, which
I am sure he needs very much; and promise him beside a magnificent
frock-coat, which he will have only if he shall answer in a
satisfactory manner the questions which I shall propose." In fact the
good queen suspected that the ragged peasant might be the wise Ulysses
in disguise. But let us proceed with our subject.

In the second chapter of his twenty-eighth book, the elder Pliny
expresses himself thus: _Cur sternumentis salutamus? Quod etiam
Tiberium Caesarem in vehiculo exegisse tradunt, et aliqui nomine
quoque consalutare religiosius putant._ Thus the custom was already
established among the Romans of wishing health and good fortune to
persons who sneezed, and the last word but one of the phrase indicates
that this wish had a religious character. In many authors health is
wished to persons who sneeze; _salvere jubentur_, is the consecrated
expression, which corresponds to "God guard you;" and according to the
passage cited above, it appears that when Tiberius, driving in his
chariot, sneezed, then, and only then, the populace were obliged to
cry. _Long live the emperor!_ a formula which included the impetration
of life and health by the protection of the gods. This custom existed
then at the time of Pliny, and going back still further among the
Romans, let us see what we find. Here then is a story extracted from
the "Veterum Auctorum Fragmenta,"' and inserted by Father Strada in
his "Prolusiones Academicae." I give a free translation, it is true,
but I will guarantee the perfect exactitude of the substance, and of
the formulas.

One day when Cicero was present at a performance at the Roman opera,
the illustrious orator began to sneeze loudly. Immediately all rose,
senators and plebeians, and each one taking off his hat, they cried to
him from all parts of the house: "God bless you! _Omnes
assurrexere--salvere jubentes_." Upon which three young men, named
severally Fannius, Fabalus, and Lemniscus, leaning upon their elbows
in one of the boxes, began the interchange of a succession of absurd
remarks, and finally started the question of the origin of this
custom. Each gave his own opinion, and the three agreed at once that
the usage dated back as far as Prometheus. It was then, at Rome, a
common tradition of very ancient date, as we see, according to some,
even as ancient as the epoch of the tower of Babel. {595} But if they
were agreed as to the groundwork, they embellished their canvas in
very different fashions. The stories related by Fannius, and by
Fabalus I will spare you for the sake of brevity and for other
reasons; contenting myself only with the version of Lemniscus, which
will suffice for our object.

Following then, this respectable authority: The son of Japetus
moulded, as every one knows, with pipe-clay, a statue which he
proposed to animate with celestial fire, and his work finished, he put
it into a stove in order that it should dry sufficiently; but the heat
was very great, and acted so well, or so ill, that independently of
other damages, the nose of the work became cracked and shrunken in a
manner very unfortunate for a nose which had the slightest
self-consciousness. When the artist returned to the stove and saw this
stunted nose, he began to swear like a pagan as he was; but perceiving
that the flat-nose gained nothing thereby, he took the wiser part of
re-manipulating the organ, adding thereto fresh clay, and in order to
facilitate the work of restoration, he conceived the idea of inserting
a match in one of the nostrils of his manikin. But the mucous
membrane, already provided with sensibility and life, was irritated at
the contact of the sulphuric acid, and the consequence was such a
tremendous sneezing that all the teeth, not yet quite solid in the
jaw, sprang out into the face of the operator. Dismayed by this deluge
of meteors, and expecting to see his little man get out of order from
top to bottom "Ah!" cried Prometheus, "may Jupiter protect
you!"--_Tibi Jupiter adsit!_ "And from this you see two things,"
continued Lemniscus: "First, why they always say to people who sneeze,
'May Jupiter assist you!' and also, why this morning, in a similar
case, I said nothing at all to this old mummy Crispinus, since from
time immemorial his last tooth has taken flight. He might sneeze like
an old cat without the slightest danger to his jaw."

Here terminates the colloquy of our young men. I am far from intending
to guarantee the contents, either as to the conduct and exploits of
Prometheus, or the misfortunes of his little man, since I have not
under my eye the authentic records; but what follows incontestably
from this recital, is, that at the time of Cicero, the usage of which
we speak was already very ancient, since they traced it back to one of
the most ancient heroes of fable. But moreover, and this it is which
renders this passage particularly precious, we find in it the precise
form of salutation which other passages contain in the generic
phrase--_salvere jubent_. This formula consists in these three words:
_Tibi Jupiter adsit!_ I do not intend to say that this wish and this
deprecatory formula were only used in the special case of which we
speak. Undoubtedly, in a thousand other circumstances, persons
addressed each other as a mark of good will. _Deus tibi faveat! Dii
adsint! Tibi adsit Jupiter!_ etc, etc.; but in the special case of
sneezing, the phrase was obligatory among persons of gentle breeding.

Now, reader, attention! and will you enter into a Roman school, in the
time of Camillus or Coriolanus? There we shall find in the midst of
about fifty pupils, an honest preceptor bearing the name of Stolo, or
Volumnus, or Pomponius, perhaps. Very well, let it be Pomponius. Now
on a certain day the good man began to sneeze, but magisterially, and
in double time, following the form still used among the moderns, that
is to say, he emitted this nasal interjection----_ad----sit_! which
you have observed and practised a thousand times. Upon which one of
the young rogues, remarking the homophony of the thing with one of the
three words of the deprecatory formula which he had heard in
numberless cases, added, in a mocking tone--_tibi Jupiter!_and
instantly all the crowd repeated in chorus after him, _ad--sit--tibi
Jupiter_.

Here you have, dear reader, the solution of the enigma. But let us
observe the sequel. What did master {596} Pomponius under the fire of
this gay frolic? Somewhat astonished at first, he immediately
recovered himself, and took the thing in good part; and being
something of a wag himself, that style of benediction suited his
humor. I see him now running his glance along the restless troops,
raising the right hand, then the fore-finger, which he carries to his
nose, then calming their terrors by these soothing words:

  Fear not, my little friends:
  You often have committed
  Offenses much more grave.
  Ah well! how often and whenever
  I shall happen to make--_ad---sit!_
  Cry you all: _Jupiter adsit!_

You will not suppose that the little boys failed in this duty. From
the school of Pomponius it passed through all the line of the
university establishments, and improving upon it, the children saluted
with--_Jupiter ad----sit_!----first the heads of their classes, then
fathers, mothers, and all respectable persons. The elders failed not
to imitate the little ones: it permeated the whole of society. Then
came Christianity, which changed _Jupiter_ into _God_; and the
formula, _Jupiter protect you!_ was naturally transformed into _God
bless you!_

Thus it is verified that this formula is of Roman origin; and if
anything is simple, natural, and manifest, it is its derivation from
the physiological phenomena with which it is connected, and of which
it represents phonetically the energetic expression. If any of my
readers can find a better explanation of it, I beg him to address me
his memorandum by telegraph.

I owe you now the quotation from the "Anthology," which I promised
above. Among the Greek epigrams of all epochs, of which this
collection is composed, there is one which relates precisely to the
custom of which we speak. The _Zeu Soson_ of this epigram is the
translation of the _Jupiter adsit_ of the Latins. I say the
translation and not the original. For this is not one of those
fragments which may be of an epoch anterior to that in which we have
placed, and in which we have a right to place master Pomponius and his
little adventure. In extending their empire over the countries of the
Greek tongue, the Romans imported there a great number of their
customs and social habits: the _Jupiter adsit_ must have been of this
number, and therefore we find it under Greek pens. I dare not venture
here upon the Greek text of the "Anthology," which would perhaps
frighten our fair readers, and I give only the Latin translation in
two couplets:

  Dic cur Sulpicius nequeat sibi mungere nasum?
  Causa est quod naso sit minor ipsa manus.
  Cur sibi sternutans, non clamat, Jupiter adsit?
  Non nasum audit qui distat ab aure nimis.

Very well! I yet have scruples in regard to my Latin, which may not be
understood by some of the ladies and especially by the bachelors of
the bifurcation. Therefore, to put it into good French verse, I have
had recourse to the politeness of our friend Pomponius, and the
excellent man has willingly given the following translation of the
second distich, which alone relates to the circumstance:

  On demande pourquoi notre voisin Sulpice
  Eternue, et jamais ne dit: Dien _me_ bénisse!
  Serait-ce, par hasard, qu'll n'entend pas tres-blen?
  Du tout, l'oreille est bonne et fonctionne à merveille;
  Mais son grand nez s'en va--si loin de son oreille,
  Que quand il fait--_ad--sit!_ celle-ce n'entend rien.

  You demand why our neighbor Sulpice
  Sneezes and never says, God bless _me_!
  It is, perhaps, because he does not hear well:
  Not at all, his ear is good, and acts to a marvel;
  But his great nose goes away--so far from his ear,
  That when he makes--_ad--sit!_ this last hears nothing.

This epigram, undoubtedly, is not much more than two thousand years
old; and why may it not have been written by Pomponius the ancient?
For the Pomponius of our day, to him also, "how often and whenever,"
he shall sneeze--and without that even, God bless him!

{597}{598}

[ORIGINAL.]

THEREIN.

A SONG.

  I know a valley fair and green,
          Wherein, wherein,
  A dear and winding brook is seen,
          Therein;
  The village street stands in its pride
  With a row of elms on either side,
          Therein;
  They shade the village green.

  In the village street there is an inn.
          Wherein, wherein,
  The landlord sits in bottle-green,
          Therein.
  His face is like a glowing coal,
  And his paunch is like a swelling bowl;
          Therein
  Is a store of good ale, therein.

  The inn has a cosy fireside.
          Wherein, wherein,
  Two huge andirons stand astride,
          Therein.
  When the air is raw of a winter's night,
  The fire on the hearth shines bright
          Therein.
  'Tis sweet to be therein.

  The landlord sits in his old arm-chair
          Therein, therein;
  And the blaze shines through his yellow hair
          Therein.
  There cometh lawyer Bickerstith,
  And the village doctor, and the smith.
          Therein
  Full many a tale they spin.

  They talk of fiery Sheridan's raid
          Therein, therein;
  And hapless Baker's ambuscade
          Therein;
  The grip with which Grant throttled Lee,
  And Sherman's famous march to the sea.
          Therein
  Great fights are fought over therein.

  The landlord has a daughter fair
          Therein, therein.
  In ringlets falls her glossy hair
          Therein.
  When they speak in her ear she tosses her head;
  When they look in her eye she hangs the lid,
          Therein.
  She does not care a pin.

  I know the maiden's heart full well.
          Therein, therein,
  Pure thoughts and holy wishes dwell
          Therein.
  I see her at church on bended knee;
  And well I know she prays for me
          Therein.
  Sure, that can be no sin.

  Our parish church has a holy priest,
          Therein, therein.
  When he sings the mass, he faces the east.
          Therein.
  On Sunday next he will face the west,
  When my Nannie and I go up abreast,
          Therein,
  And carry our wedding-ring.

  And when we die, as die we must;
          Therein, therein,
  The priest will pray o'er the breathless dust,
          Therein;
  And our graves will be planted side by side.
  But the hearts that loved shall not abide
          Therein,
  But love in Heaven again.

C.W.

{599}

From The Lamp.

UNCONVICTED; OR, OLD THORNELEY'S HEIRS.

CHAPTER V.

THE VERDICT AT THE INQUEST

From the time that suspicions as to the manner of Gilbert Thorneley's
death had been communicated to Scotland Yard, the house in Wimpole
street was taken possession of by the police, and all egress or
ingress not subject to the knowledge and approval of the officer in
charge was prohibited. Merrivale had been allowed on the previous day
to see the body of poor old Thorneley, but with much difficulty, as
the police had strict orders not to allow any strangers access to the
chamber of death. He told me this on our way to the inquest.

"By the by," he said, "did you know that Wilmot is acting as sole
executor of his uncle, and has taken upon himself the responsibility
of ordering everything about the funeral? I asked Atherton about it
yesterday evening, and he says Wilmot came to him and asked what was
to be done, as Smith and Walker had said that he and Atherton, as only
relatives of the deceased, were the proper persons to open the will,
and see who were left his executors. Atherton, with his usual
thoughtlessness for his own interests, bade him act as he considered
right in everything, and was too much overwhelmed with his own sorrow
to think of anything else. Wilmot then went to Smith's and opened the
will, which was deposited there, and finds he is left sole executor;
and, mind you, I fancy he's sole heir likewise, for he's as coxy as
ever he can be. Mark my words, Kavanagh, there'll be a hitch about
that will as sure as I'm alive."

I felt that Merrivale spoke with a purpose; but I answered him coolly:
"I think so too; and Wilmot will find himself in the wrong box."

"If I thought it was any use," continued he, "I would ask you once
more to confide to me the nature of the business which took you to
Thorneley's on Tuesday evening."

"It will transpire in due time, Merrivale. I pass you my word it is
utterly useless knowledge now; nor does it in any way affect Hugh
Atherton's present position. God knows that nothing should keep me
silent if I thought that silence would injure in the smallest degree
one so dear to me--Will he be present to day?" I asked in a little
while.

"Yes; he seemed very anxious to watch the proceedings; and on the
whole I thought it better he should. I never saw such a man," said
Merrivale, with a burst of enthusiasm very unlike his usual dry, cold
manner; "he thinks of every one but himself. He is principally anxious
to be there that he may detect any flaw in the evidence, or find any
clue that may lead to the discovery of the real murderer of his uncle,
apparently without any thought of saving himself, as if that were a
secondary consideration. He seems to think more of the old man's death
and take it to heart than of anything which has happened to himself;
except when he speaks of Miss Leslie, and then he breaks down
entirely. I have prepared him for having to hear your evidence, and I
likewise mentioned that his uncle had sent for you the night of his
death; and that you considered yourself bound in honor not to mention
yet what transpired at the interview, but you had assured me it would
throw no light upon our present darkness."

{600}

"Darkness, indeed! O my poor Hugh!"

"He expressed great surprise, and said; 'Well, this will be the first
and only secret affecting either of us which John has ever kept from
me. Wilmot hinted that some one had been at work who was not friendly
to me; but I told him I didn't believe I had an enemy: and I don't and
won't believe it now.' Then I asked him if he wouldn't like to see
you, and I think in his heart he would; but he seemed to hesitate, and
at last said: 'No, it is best not, best for us both--at least until
after this,'--meaning the inquest--'is over.'"

The first secret! No, not the first, Hugh, not the first; but the
other could never have divided us, could never have raised one shadow
between us, I had buried it deep down in its lonely grave, and laid
its ghost by the might of my strong love for you, my friend and
brother!

The house in Wimpole street looked gloomy enough, with its close-shut
blinds and the two policemen keeping guard on either side the door,
suggestive of death--of murder! There was a small crowd collected
round; not such a crowd as had assembled before the police-station,
but something like. Street-children, errand-boys, stray costermongers
with their barrows, passing tradesmen with their carts or baskets, and
women--slatterns from neighboring alleys and back-streets, Irish
women from the Marylebone courts and slums; and each arrival caused
fresh agitation and excitement amidst that crowd of upturned eager
faces gathered there, _waiting for the verdict_.

"That's him," cried a voice as our cab drove up to the door--"that's
Corrinder Javies!"' "No, it an't, bless yer innercence! the corrinder
wears a scarlet gownd and a gold-laced 'at." "Tell ye he don't; he
wears a black un, and ers got it in his bag." "Yah!--the lawyer, the
nevy's lawyer!" followed by a yell of imprecations. The nearest
_gamin_ on the door-step had heard Merrivale give his name to the
policemen and demand admission, and had handed it down to his fellows.
So, with the sounds of the brutal mob ringing in our ears, we passed
the threshold of the murdered man's house. A cold shudder seized me as
I stood in the hall, and I seemed to feel as if the spirit of the dead
were hovering about in disquiet, and unable to rest. A superintendent
of the police received us in the hall, and we asked him if we could go
up to see the body. After some demur he went up-stairs with us, and
unlocked the chamber of death. There in his shell lay all that
remained of Gilbert Thorneley, he whose name and fame had been
world-wide. Fame, for what? For amassing wealth; for grinding down the
poor; for toiling, slaving, wearing himself out in the busy march of
life, with no thought but for that life which perishes heaping up
riches which must be relinquished on the grave's brink; which could
bring him no comfort nor solace in the valley of the shadow; which
perchance, in the inscrutable designs of providence, had been used as
an instrument of retribution against him. I looked at his worn
face--seamed with the lines of care, furrowed with the struggles that
had brought so little reward--and remembered that last evening when I
had seen and spoken with him--of the secret he had confided to me, of
what he had so darkly hinted at; and I fancied I could read in his
unplacid face that death had visited him in all its intensity of
bitterness, that the bodily suffering had been nothing compared to the
ocean of remorse which had swept over his soul. He rested from his
weary labors, and the fruits of them had not followed him. God alone
knew the complete history of his life; God only could supply what had
been wanting from the treasures of his mercy; God only could tell
whether that last flood of remorseful anguish had been the sorrow that
could be accepted for the sake of One who had died for him.

{601}

Whilst we yet stood gazing on the corpse, word was brought us that the
coroner had arrived, and was going to open proceedings. The
superintendent once more turned the key upon the dead; and we
descended to the first-floor.

"I must divide you, gentlemen, now," said he. "You, sir," to
Merrivale, "will please to come with me to the inquest-room; and you,
Mr. Kavanagh, must wait in this back drawing-room until we send for
you. I thought you'd prefer being alone, to going along with the other
witnesses."

"Yes," I said; "I should much prefer it."

I avail myself of the newspaper-reports, together with Mr. Merrivale's
notes, for an account of the inquest; and I have also used his
observations made on the personal appearance, manner, etc, of the
witnesses and others who took part in it. For myself, I remained in
that dark dingy back-room until my turn came to give evidence.

I heard the dull tramp of the jury-men as they went up-stairs and
entered the room overhead to view the body, and their hushed murmurs
as they came down. I heard the hum of voices in the front
drawing-room, where the witnesses were assembled, and the distinct
orders issued at intervals by the police. I remember standing at the
window looking into the dismal back-garden, noting mechanically the
various small sights in the back-gardens opposite. I remember staring
for a quarter of an hour at two cats fighting on the wall--a black and
a tabby; and listening to their dismal squalls. If they had been two
tigers tearing each other to pieces on that back garden-wall in the
midst of this eminently civilized city, I don't think it would have
made more impression on my brain than did those two specimens of the
feline race. And last, I remember walking, as in a dream, into the
dining-room, where sat the coroner at the head of the long table, and
ranged on either side of him the twelve jury-men. I remember seeing a
man whom I recognized as one of the deceased's solicitors, Mr. Walker,
occupying a chair at a small side-table with his clerk, and on the
opposite side of the room at another table sat Merrivale: while just
behind him, guarded--ay, _guarded_--by a policeman, sat Hugh Atherton;
and that as I came and took a chair placed for me at the other end of
the long table, he raised his eyes and looked full upon me, and that I
knew then the deadly influence which had been at work--for it was no
longer the friendly, trustful look of old; I knew--yes, I knew that
our warm friendship had died the death, that a traitor's hand had
helped to slay it. I knew, and knowing it the pain was so intense, so
like a knife entering my heart, that unconsciously I raised my hand as
though to ward off the agony that had come upon me, and a cry escaped
my lips--"Hugh, Hugh!" And then I heard the coroner addressing me in
the calm business tones of a man accustomed to do his terrible work.

The first witness called was Mr. Evans, surgeon. He said:

"I am a member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and live at 138
Wimpole street. I was summoned to Mr. Thorneley's house about seven
o'clock on the morning of the 24th; and was taken up into deceased's
room. He was in bed, lying on his back, the eyes partially open, and
the forehead and mouth contracted, as though great pain had preceded
death. He had apparently been dead some hours. There was a stiffness,
however, about the body, and an unusual rigidity of the limbs, which
excited my suspicion. The feet were likewise arched. The housekeeper
and the man-servant were in the room with the deceased at the time I
arrived. I asked what he had taken last before going to bed. The
housekeeper replied he had taken his bitter {602} ale as usual about
nine o'clock. I asked to see the bottle out of which he had taken the
ale. The housekeeper bade the man go down to his master's study and
fetch up the tray. On it were a pint-bottle of Bass's bitter ale, a
tumbler, and a plate of hard biscuit. There were a few drops at the
bottom of the glass. I smelt and tasted them; there was no peculiar
smell, but the taste was unusually bitter. It suggested to me that
strychnine might have been introduced. In the bottle about half a
tumblerful of ale was left. I took possession of it for the purpose of
analysis, with the tumbler still containing a few drops. I said to the
housekeeper: 'Information must be sent at once to the police.' This
was done. I remained until the superintendent arrived, and then
proceeded to my house with the ale-bottle and glass. I immediately
subjected the contents of both to the usual process. In the few drops
contained in the glass I discovered the appearance of strychnine. The
contents of the bottle were perfectly free." (Sensation.) "I then went
back to Mr. Thorneley's house, and reported the results to the
police-officer, who communicated with Scotland Yard, the deceased's
relative Mr. Wilmot, and his lawyers. I demanded that the family
medical man should be summoned. On his arrival we made a _post-mortem_
examination, and removed the stomach with its contents, sealed and
despatched them to Professor T---- for analysis. We both refused a
death-certificate until the results of that analysis had been
ascertained. We agreed ourselves in suspecting death had originated
through poison, and that the poison had been strychnine. There was no
appearance of any disease in either heart, lungs, or brain, which
should cause sudden death. All three organs were in a perfectly
healthy state."

Dr. Robinson, physician, and the usual medical attendant of deceased,
corroborated the above evidence in every particular.

Professor T---- next deposed that he received the stomach of deceased
with its contents from Dr. Robinson and Mr. Evans. That he had
analyzed the latter, and had detected and separated strychnine in very
minute quantities; on further test, positive proof of the existence of
the poison was afforded by the colors produced. Upon introducing some
of the suspected matter into the body of a frog, death had been
produced from tetanic convulsions; thus demonstrating the existence of
strychnine. His opinion was that deceased had died from the effects of
strychnine administered in bitter ale; that the quantity administered
had been about one grain, not more--it might be less.

Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, was then examined. She was a woman past
fifty in appearance; her face was remarkable; so perfectly immobile
and passionless in its expression. Her hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes
were of a pale sandy color; and her drooping eyelids had that peculiar
motion in them which novelists call "shivering." She gave her answers
in clear low tones; but seldom raising her eyes to the interrogator;
they were of a cold bluish-gray, with a dangerous scintillating light
in them. Her manners and appearance were those of a woman above her
station in life; her language quite grammatical, though tinctured by a
slightly foreign idiom and accent; her deportment perfectly
self-possessed. She deposed that the deceased had appeared in the same
health as usual up to the evening previous to his death, when on
taking in his bitter ale and biscuits she observed that he looked very
much flushed and agitated, and his voice had sounded loud and angry as
she came up the stairs. He and Mr. Atherton seemed to be having a
dispute; and as she came into the room she distinctly heard Mr.
Atherton say to her master, "You will bitterly repent to-morrow what
you have said to-night." She could swear to the words, for they made
an {603} impression upon her. Had not heard Mr. Wilmot speak whilst in
the study. The ale had been brought up from the cellar by Barker, who
uncorked it down-stairs, as usual, in presence of the other servants.
Barker had accompanied her to the study-door, and opened it for her.
Always took in the ale when her master was alone, or when only the
young gentlemen (Wilmot and Atherton) were there; and waited to
receive his orders for the next day. Deceased always took bitter ale
at nine o'clock, with hard biscuits.

Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not pour some ale out into the tumbler before
taking it up-stairs?"

"I did not."

"Would you swear you did not?"

"Certainly I would swear it."

Evidence continued: To her knowledge he had taken nothing since the
ale. The young gentlemen never took bitter ale: Mr. Atherton didn't
like it, and Mr. Wilmot could not drink it. Only one tumbler had been
brought up. The tray had remained in the study just as Mr. Thorneley
had left it, and had not been touched until the following morning,
when the doctor asked to have the bottle and glass brought to him.
Barker, the man-servant, had fetched the tray from the study. No one
had entered the study from the time Mr. Thorneley had gone to bed,
until Barker had gone there for the tray the next morning. She had
locked the door on the outside as she went up to bed, but had not gone
into the room. On the morning of the 24th she was roused by a violent
knocking at her door, and by Barker saying, in a very agitated manner,
"For God's sake get up directly, Mrs. Haag, and come to master; for I
fear he's dead!" Had hurried on a few clothes, and gone instantly to
Mr. Thorneley's room. The deceased was in bed, the eyes partially
open, and the mouth contracted, as if in an agony of pain. She had
touched his hand and found it quite cold. Then they both had stooped
to listen if he breathed; but he did not. Barker said: "I fear it's
all up with him; he must have had a fit and died in the night. What's
to be done, Mrs. Haag?" Replied, "Send at once for a doctor." The
other servants now came crowding in, and one of them ran off
immediately for the nearest surgeon. He arrived in less than half an
hour. No one had touched the body until the arrival of the doctor;
they had all feared lest they might do harm by touching it. Had lived
in the service of deceased nearly thirty years; he had been a severe
but just master to her. Was a Belgian by birth; but had lived nearly
all her life in England. Was a widow; had no children living, nor any
relations alive that she knew of. Examined as to what had transpired
before taking the ale to the study, Mrs. Haag deposed that Mr. John
Kavanagh had called on Mr. Thorneley at seven o'clock, and been
closeted with him for an hour; that a short time before he went away
the study-bell rang, which was answered by Barker, who came down into
the servants'-hall and told Thomas the coachman to go up with him to
his master's room. When they came down, they said they had been
signing their names as witnesses to some paper, which both of them had
supposed was a will; but that neither their master nor Mr. Kavanagh
had told them so. She had put on her things whilst they were upstairs,
and just after they returned she went out--Questioned as to her
errand, said she went to buy some ribbon she wanted at a shop in
Oxford street; that returning home by Vere street she saw Mr. Atherton
coming out of the chemist's shop at the corner of Oxford street, and
heard him speak to Mr. Kavanagh. Heard the words "Kavanagh,"
"Atherton," and saw them shake hands. Could swear to their
identity.--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale, solicitor for the prisoner,
as to how it had come about that she had been witness to the meeting
between the two gentlemen at {604} the corner of Vere street and
Oxford street, and yet was met only in the middle of Vere street--a
very short street--at least five minutes afterwards by Mr. Kavanagh,
denied meeting Mr. Kavanagh at all in Vere street; had passed the two
gentlemen at the corner, and gone straight home. Had worn no veil that
evening.--Examination resumed by the coroner: Had not seen her master
since taking the ale into the study; had gone to the door after the
gentlemen had left, but found it locked, and received for answer, he
was busy, and did not require anything. Mr. Wilmot had left some time
previous to Mr. Atherton; she had seen neither to speak to them that
evening. This was the pith of the housekeeper's evidence.

John Barker was the next witness called, who corroborated everything
deposed by Mrs. Haag. Asked by a juryman if it was he who signed the
paper on the evening before Mr. Thorneley's death, replied it was. Was
he aware of the nature of the document? No; but both he and Thomas the
coachman, who had likewise signed, fancied it must be a will. Had
lived nearly twenty years with his master, and often witnessed
business papers, but never asked what they were.--Questioned by Mr.
Merrivale as to whether he had noticed any conversation which passed
between Mr. Wilmot and Mr. Atherton in the hall the night before the
deceased died, replied he had caught one or two words.--Told by the
coroner to repeat them. After seeming to recollect himself for a
moment or two, said he had heard Mr. Wilmot say he must get some money
out of the governor; to which Mr. Atherton had replied in rather a low
voice; but he had heard the words, "won't live long," and "to be
worried," and "our affairs."--Asked by the prisoner if the sentence
had not been, "He is getting very old, and won't live long; he ought
not to be worried with our affairs"? Replied he could not say; it
might have been so; but what he had repeated was the whole of what he
had distinctly heard. He wished to say that he believed Mr. Atherton
to be innocent; for he was very fond of poor master, and his uncle
always seemed more partial to him than to any one else--much more
than to Mr. Wilmot.

Thomas Spriggs the coachman, the cook, and the housemaid, were then
examined respectively, and their evidence corroborated every statement
made before; only one fresh feature presented itself. The cook
volunteered to state that she had been awoke, in the middle of the
night on which her master died, by some noise, and had fancied she
heard stealthy footsteps on the stairs.--Questioned upon this, said
that she meant the stairs leading from the third story where the
women-servants slept, to the second story..

Were they front or back-stairs?

Front-stairs; the back-stairs only reached the second floor. That the
housekeeper occupied one room to herself, she and the housemaid
another, and the third was empty. She had not dared to get out of bed,
believing it was the ghost.

What ghost?

Oh! the house was haunted; all the servants know it and believed it,
except the housekeeper, who had laughed at her shameful, and called
her a superstitious woman. But then they had never been what she might
call comfortable nor friendly together; for Mrs. 'Aag 'eld herself
'igh and 'orty with all the company in the 'all. Couldn't say at what
hour she had been awoke; had drawed the clothes over her 'ed, and said
her prayers, and supposed she had fell asleep again, being that way
inclined by natur'.

Mr. Merrivale: "Have you and the housekeeper ever fallen out, cook?"

Witness: "Well, no, sir. I can't say as we ever 'ave; and I've nothing
to bring against her except as she was 'igh and close, which isn't
agreeable, sir, when the position of parties is {605} ekally
respectable, which mine is, sir, 'aving come of a greengrocer's family
as kep' their own wehicle and drove theirselves; and whose mother
could afford to be washed out, and never sat down to tea on Sunday
without s'rimps or 'winkles or something to give a relish."

Coroner: "That is enough, cook.--Bring in the next witness."

Mr. Lister Wilmot, who appeared much agitated, next deposed: "I went
to visit my deceased uncle on the evening of Tuesday last, and whilst
taking off my outer coat in the hall, my cousin, Mr. Atherton,
arrived. We went into my uncle's study together. Very little
conversation passed between us. I mentioned my intention of asking my
uncle for some money that evening, which I needed, having some
pressing bills to pay. My cousin replied something to the effect that
he, my uncle, would probably not live long, and we ought not to worry
him with our affairs. I think he simply said it with a view to
stopping me from making the application: he thinks I am extravagant.
He asked me how much I wanted. I said, £500. He said: 'That is a large
sum, Lister; we shall never get the governor to come down as handsome
as that.'"

Mr. Merrivale: "Did Mr. Atherton say, 'we shall,' or 'you will'?"

Witness (hesitating:) "I am not quite clear, but I think he said 'we
shall.' It was simply a kindly way of speaking. We found my uncle more
than usually taciturn and abstracted; but I was so hard pressed I was
obliged to brave him, and ask him for money. To my astonishment,
instead of venting his anger on me, he turned it all upon my cousin
Hugh, and accused him of leading me into extravagance."

Coroner: "Was this so?"

"It was not. Hugh and I are the best of friends; but our pursuits and
tastes are totally opposite. I said so to my uncle, and tried to
appease him in vain. At last he worked himself into such a rage that
he seemed quite reckless of what he said; and hinted that Hugh might
pay my debts for me, and if he couldn't do so out of his own pocket,
he might get Kavanagh to advance me some out of his future wife's
dividends; that I might have got the girl for myself if I had chosen;
but as it was, he dared say Kavanagh would marry her in the long-run,
for it was easy to see how the wind lay in that quarter."

Mr. Merrivale: "Can you swear to those words?"

"I can. My cousin got very angry at this, and said: 'You have no right
to make such remarks or draw any such conclusions; they are false. You
will repent of this to-morrow.' I can swear to those words. Just then
Mrs. Haag, the housekeeper, brought in my uncle's ale and biscuits, as
usual. Barker opened the door for her: I remember that fact. There was
only one tumbler with the bottle brought up. Neither myself nor my
cousin ever touch that beverage. When Mrs. Haag had left the room,
Hugh got up and went to the table where the tray had been placed, and
brought a glass of ale to my uncle with a plate of hard biscuits."

Coroner: "Did you see the prisoner pour out the ale? Where was he
standing with regard to yourself?"

"He had his back toward us; I was sitting by the fire opposite my
uncle; the table was in the middle of the room. To get the ale Hugh
must turn his back to us."

"How long was he at the table?"

Witness, (after a moment's thought:) "A minute or more; but I could
not speak positively."

"Sufficient time to have put anything in the ale?"

Witness, (much agitated:) "Am I obliged to answer this?"

"You are not obliged; but an unfavorable interpretation might be put
upon your silence."

Witness (in a very low voice:) "There _was_ time."

{606}

Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not observe that some ale was poured out in
the tumbler when it was brought up?"

"I did not observe it; it might have been so, but I could not say for
certain either way."

Mr. Merrivale to the coroner: "My client desires me to state
distinctly that a small quantity, about a quarter of a glassful, was
already poured out when he went to the tray. He supposes it was done
to save the overflow from the bottle."

Coroner: "I will note it."

Evidence continued: "My uncle drank half the ale at a draught, shook
his bead, and said: 'It is very bitter, to-night.' We neither made any
remark upon it. He likewise took a biscuit and ate it. Soon afterward
I rose to go. He would not say good-night to me. Hugh came to the door
with me--the study-door--and whispered, 'I'll try to appease him and
make it all right for you.' I went straight down-stairs and out of the
house. I remember seeing my cousin's coat hanging in the hall; it was
a brown-tweed waterproof one; but I did not touch it. The coachman
came the following morning with the sad news to my chambers."

Mr. Merrivale: "Are you acting as sole executor, Mr. Wilmot?"

"I am; my cousin is aware of it."

Mr. Walker: "It is illegal to ask for any depositions about the
deceased's will here."

Coroner: "I am the best judge of that, Mr. Walker. Anything which
throws light upon what we have to find out must be received as
evidence."

Mr. Merrivale: "Were you aware what the contents of your late uncle's
will were before you opened it at Messrs. Smith and Walker's?"

"I was not; but both Hugh Atherton and myself were led to anticipate
what the tenor of it would be."

"Have the results fulfilled your anticipations?"

"I don't consider myself warranted in answering such a question."

Coroner: "Have you any thing else to state, Mr. Wilmot?"

"Nothing, except that I believe in my cousin's innocence."

Mr. John Kavanagh was then called, and, after the usual preliminaries,
stated that on his return from a tour in Switzerland on the afternoon
of Tuesday, the 23d, he found a note from Mr. Thorneley, which he now
produced. (Note read by the coroner and passed on to the jurymen.)
That upon receipt of it he had gone to Mr. Thorneley's at the hour
appointed, and had been shown at once into that gentleman's study. Had
found him very much altered for the worse and aged since last he had
seen him, some months since. He looked as if some heavy trouble were
upon him, weighing him down. He had transacted the business required,
which occupied, he should say, an hour, and had then left him as calm
and as well as when he (witness) first entered the room. He had chosen
to walk home, and, stopping to light a segar at the corner of Vere
street, had met Mr. Atherton _coming out of the chemist's shop_. Mr.
Atherton had offered to accompany him home, but he (Witness) had
refused, and they had parted, Mr Atherton stating his intention of
coming to see him on the morrow. That the moment after, he had
repented his refusal and hurried back to ask him to return; but being
near-sighted and the night dark, had not been able to distinguish his
figure, and had given up the pursuit. Returning down Vere street,
about half-way he had met a female walking very fast, but who in
passing had almost stopped, and stared very hard at him. She had on a
thick veil, so he could not see her face, nor did he recognize her
figure. The circumstance had passed from his mind until detective
Jones had told him that Mr. Thorneley's housekeeper had been in Vere
street that evening, and seen his meeting with Mr. Atherton, and then
it had struck him it might have been she.--(Here Mr. Merrivale was
seen to confer very earnestly with the {607} prisoner, and afterward
to pass a slip of paper to the coroner, who after reading it bowed, as
if in assent, and then beckoned to a policeman, who left the room.) He
had gone straight home to his chambers, and being tired went early to
bed, and did not wake till very late the following morning, when his
clerk had told him the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, and detective
Jones had called upon him shortly afterward.

By the coroner: "What was the nature of the business which you
transacted with deceased?"

"I am bound over very solemnly not to mention it until a certain
time."

"Was it a will you called the two servants to witness?"

"I am not at liberty to answer. I pass my word as a gentleman and a
man of honor that in no way do I consider this to affect my friend Mr.
Atherton's present position; and that when it does I shall consider
myself free to speak."

Mr Walker: "We shall compel you, Mr. Kavanagh, to speak in another
place than this. The breach of etiquette you have committed will not
be passed over by us as the family and confidential legal advisers of
the deceased gentleman."

"We shall both act as we think right, Mr. Walker."

The prisoner here in a very hollow voice said "For God's sake, and for
the sake of one who is dear to us both, I entreat you, John Kavanagh,
to reveal any thing that may help to clear an innocent man from this
frightful imputation."

"I will, Hugh, so help me God! But it would avail you nothing to speak
now."

Coroner: "Have you anything further to state?"

"Nothing, save my most solemn religious conviction that Mr. Atherton
is innocent, and that he is the victim of the foulest plot."

Mr. Walker here appealed to the coroner, and said he objected to such
insinuations being made there; that Mr. Kavanagh had done his best to
criminate the prisoner, and that he was now trying to cast the blame
upon others.

Mr. Kavanagh was about to make some violent answer, when the coroner
called to order.

Mr. Merrivale: "Will you have the goodness, Mr. Kavanagh, to look
toward the end of the room, and see if you identify any one there?"

Mr. Kavanagh: "My God! _It is she!_"

Coroner: "Who?"

"The woman I met in Vere street that night."

Standing opposite to the witness, with the light full upon her, was a
female figure, closely veiled.

"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" it was the woman who spoke, loudly,
vehemently.

Coroner to witness: "I see you are using your eyeglass now; were you
using it when you say you met this person in Vere street?"

"I was."

"Could you swear that the figure standing before you now and the woman
you met are one and the same?"

"I would swear that _the appearance_ of that woman standing before me
now and that of the figure I met is one and the same--the same height,
the same carriage, the same veiled face."

"I never met you, Mr. Kavanagh!" repeated the woman, with a passionate
gesture.

Coroner: "Mrs. Haag, you can retire." (It was the housekeeper.)

Mr. Walker: "I don't see how this affects the case."

Mr. Merrivale: "Probably not, sir; but you will see by and by. I am
much obliged to you, Mr. Coroner."

Mr. Kavanagh is replaced by Inspector Jackson, detective officer, who
deposed that from information received at Scotland Yard on the morning
of the 24th instant, he had been desired by his superintendent to
proceed to 100 Wimpole street, the residence {608} of the deceased
gentleman, and examine into the case, accompanied by detective Jones.
From information received from the housekeeper and other servants, and
after a conference with the surgeon called in, his suspicions had
fallen upon Mr. Atherton. He had left a policeman in charge from the
nearest station-house, and gone with Jones direct to Mr. Atherton's
chambers in the Temple. On breaking the nature of his visit to that
gentleman, together with the news of Mr. Thorneley's death, he had
been terribly overcome, and exclaimed that he was an innocent man, God
was his witness; that he would not have hurt a hair of the old man's
head; but certainly he _had_ been angry with him the night before.
Cautioned not to say anything which might criminate himself, Mr.
Atherton had again said, in very solemn tones: "My God, thou knowest I
am innocent!" Witness had searched Mr. Atherton's room and clothes; in
the pocket of his coat had found a small empty paper labelled
STRYCHNINE--POISON; with the name of "Davis, chemist, 20 Vere street,
corner of Oxford street."--Questioned by Mr. Merrivale as to which
coat-pocket the packet was found in, replied the overcoat which Mr.
Atherton wore on the previous evening.

By a juryman: "How do you know it was the identical coat worn that
evening?"

"The man-servant, John Barker, swears to it; he took it from Mr.
Atherton when he came to Mr. Thorneley's house, and hung it up in the
hall to dry."

The prisoner: "Yes, I did wear that coat; but I know nothing of the
paper found in it."

By the coroner: "Have you been in communication with the chemist in
Vere street?"

Witness: "I have, sir; he remembers--"

Mr. Merrivale: "I object to this evidence coming from the mouth of Mr.
Inspector. The chemist is here and should be examined himself."

Mr. Walker, one of the solicitors of deceased "I think that the
evidence should be received from both the inspector and the chemist."

Mr. Merrivale: "I still object."

The coroner: "On what ground, Mr. Merrivale?"

Mr. Merrivale: "On the ground that the inspector having a preconceived
notion when he communicated with the chemist, the latter may have been
misled by his questions. I should at least wish that Davis should be
examined first, and his evidence received direct."

The coroner: "Very well. Is there anything else, Mr. Inspector?"

"Nothing else, except that Mr. Atherton denied all knowledge at once
of the paper found."

By Mr. Merrivale: "Did you not find also a bottle of camphorated
spirits?"

"I did; but on the table. It was a fresh bottle, unopened, and bore
the same label, from Mr. Davis's." (Witness dismissed.)