There Were Giants Upon The Earth Sitchin

Zecharia download

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-giants-upon-the-earth-
sitchin-zecharia-230257914

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

There Were Giants Upon The Earth Gods Demigods And Human Ancestry The
Evidence Of Alien Dna Earth Chronicles Hardcover Illustrated Zecharia
Sitchin

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-giants-upon-the-earth-gods-
demigods-and-human-ancestry-the-evidence-of-alien-dna-earth-
chronicles-hardcover-illustrated-zecharia-sitchin-44887878

There Were Giants Upon The Earth Gods Demigods And Human Ancestry The
Evidence Of Alien Dna Zecharia Sitchin

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-giants-upon-the-earth-gods-
demigods-and-human-ancestry-the-evidence-of-alien-dna-zecharia-
sitchin-46361380

There Were Giants Upon The Earth Gods Demigo The Evidence Of Alien Dna
Sitchin Zecharia

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-giants-upon-the-earth-gods-
demigo-the-evidence-of-alien-dna-sitchin-zecharia-4003606

Once There Were Giants The Golden Age Of Heavyweight Boxing 2017
Izenberg

https://ebookbell.com/product/once-there-were-giants-the-golden-age-
of-heavyweight-boxing-2017-izenberg-33824780
Once There Were Giants The Golden Age Of Heavyweight Boxing Jerry
Izenberg

https://ebookbell.com/product/once-there-were-giants-the-golden-age-
of-heavyweight-boxing-jerry-izenberg-10132630

There Were Also Many Women There Lay Women In The Liturgical Movement
In The United States 192659 Katharine E Harmon

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-also-many-women-there-lay-
women-in-the-liturgical-movement-in-the-united-
states-192659-katharine-e-harmon-36048438

There Were No Windows 1st Edition Norah Hoult 18981984

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-no-windows-1st-edition-norah-
hoult-18981984-60764596

There Were Dinosaurs Everywhere A Rhyming Romp Through Dinosaur

History Howard Temperley

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-dinosaurs-everywhere-a-
rhyming-romp-through-dinosaur-history-howard-temperley-46334730

There Were Three Ships Christopher Richards

https://ebookbell.com/product/there-were-three-ships-christopher-
richards-48841210
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 “Why, my dear, you make me laugh. Really, if all the gentlemen
you see would only adapt themselves a little to your humor, there is
not one you could not turn into a hero of romance.”
“Not at all. The proof is that I have hitherto only seen men
unworthy of any serious consideration. When did I ever acknowledge
I had found a man of character such as I would like to see?...”
“And you think M. Louis this white blackbird?”
“I really do.”
“Well, I confess you astonish me. I never should have dreamed
of your noticing him. Perhaps you have taken a fancy to him.”
“Mother, we are accustomed to think aloud before each other. I
do not fancy him—understand that—in the least. I do not even
believe I ever could fancy him. This does not prevent me from
thinking him, as I said, different from other men. Whether in good
or ill, he differs from young men of his age. But is he better or
worse?—that is the question—a serious one I would like to have
answered. Till to-day, I have thought him worse.”
“It is not possible! The poor fellow has committed some errors,
as I have told you. I certainly do not wish to palliate them, but we
must not be more severe than God himself: he always pardons.”
“It is not a question of his sins.”
“What is the question, then? You keep me going from one
surprise to another this evening.”
“It is a question of knowing if he is the man he pretends to be—
that is, one who has forsaken his errors, acknowledges he has gone
astray, repents, and resolves to live henceforth in a totally different
manner. If he is such a man; if he can resign himself courageously to
his modest situation here, and, moreover, has the noble desire of
comforting the afflicted, instructing the ignorant, and reclaiming
those who have gone astray, I tell you M. Louis is worthy of the
highest esteem; we ought to encourage and aid him with all our
might. But if he is not the man I think—if these fine projects are only
a lure, an artful means....”
 “A means of doing what?... Goodness! Eugénie, you get
bewildered with your fancies. Do you imagine he wishes to
revolutionize the establishment, and supplant your father?...”
“Let us not exaggerate things, I beg, mother. What I wished you
to understand was a delicate point. I hoped you would guess it from
a word. Come, have you no suspicion of what so greatly troubles
me?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea.”
“Indeed!... I am astonished. Well, may he not manifest all this
zeal, and affect all these airs of disinterested benevolence, to bring
about a secret project?”
“What one, I ask you again? When you go to dreaming
impossibilities, you know I can never follow you. Explain yourself
clearly.”
“Well, since I am forced to call things by their right names, is he
not aiming at my hand?”
“What a droll idea!... Why, he has not a sou left! Everybody
knows that. He spent his property in six or seven years, and has
nothing more to expect for a long time. So you believe he resolved
to become religious, thinking that would be sufficient capital, in Mr.
Smithson’s eyes, to obtain his daughter? I think he has too much
sense to imagine anything so absurd; especially to give it a serious
thought.”
“But if he hoped to please me by this means?... to win my
esteem, my good will, my affection?...”
“All romance that, my dear.”
“But not impossible.”
“I prefer to think, for my own peace of mind and your father’s,
that things will turn out differently. We have never intended you to
marry a man without property. The idea of your having a husband
who, instead of being wealthy, has squandered all he had, and might
spend what you brought him!...”
“Ah! I understand you: you do not think him sincere.”
 “I do not say that! He may be changed for the present, but who
can be sure his conversion will be lasting?”
“It will if it is sincere; I am sure of that, for I have studied him.
He possesses one quality which I either admire or detest, according
to the use made of it: he has a strong will. He has been here a
month, and, having nothing better to do, I have observed him, and
have not discovered a single inconsistency in his conduct. He has
always shown, exteriorly at least, the same love of labor, the same
desire of doing all the good he can, and the same unassuming
deportment. Either he is a man of rare excellence, or is uncommonly
artful. I wish I knew exactly what my father thinks of him.”
“And why this persistency in discovering a mystery of so little
importance?”
“Because I do not wish to despise M. Louis if he is worthy of
esteem, and it would be wrong not to encourage him in well-doing if
he has entered on that path with a sincere heart. Besides, I regard
what he has undertaken and all he wishes to do as admirable as it is
useful. I had been wishing for such an attempt to be made here,
and could not be better pleased than to see my idea so speedily
realized. M. Louis is, in my eyes, either a saint or a hypocrite. I have
no fancy for loving either the one or the other; but, if he is a saint, I
should feel like aiding him to a certain degree. After all, mother, is
there anything in the world more desirable than to do good to those
around us, especially when we are so situated as to make it a duty?
Have you not often said so yourself?”
“You are right, my dear Eugénie. I feel what you say, and
approve of it. As I advance in years, I feel a constantly increasing
desire of laboring for Almighty God, for whom I have hitherto done
so little. You need not fear; neither your father nor I have any
doubts as to M. Louis. Nothing we have observed or have been told
leads us to think him a hypocrite. As you desire it so strongly, I will
tell you your father’s secret opinion, but do not betray me. He only
dislikes one thing in M. Louis: he is too devoted a Catholic. It is all in
vain: we cannot induce your father to like our religion. Catholics are
too ardent every way, too superstitious, he says. He distrusts the
engineer because he thinks him overzealous, that is all....”
When Eugénie went to her chamber, she selected the books she
wished to contribute to Louis’ library, and then retired to rest,
thinking of all the good that would now be done by him, as well as
herself, in a place where want and every evil passion were to be
found. Her noble, ardent soul had at length found its sphere.
Hitherto she had dreamed of many ways of giving a useful direction
to her activity, each one more impracticable than the rest. The right
way was now open. Louis had pointed it out. Eugénie longed to
become the benefactress of St. M——. Her imagination and her
heart were pleased. It seemed to her as if she had become another
being. She prayed that night with a fervor she had not felt for a long
time. Then she fell into a reverie. In spite of herself, Louis’ image
continually recurred to her mind. Before she fell asleep, she
murmured a prayer for poor Françoise. Her name recalled the last
words of that excellent woman: “In heaven, I shall pray for him and
for you!” And circumstances were tending that same day to link
them together as the dying woman had joined their names in prayer.
There was something singular about this that struck Eugénie’s
imagination. “Can her words be prophetic?” she said to herself. “So
many strange things happen!... But this would be too much. He
pleases me in no way except....” And she reviewed his good
qualities, then blushed for attaching so much importance to the
thought....
The next morning, she went with the books she had selected the
night before. Fanny accompanied her. Louis received her with the
exquisite politeness he never laid aside but with a cold reserve he
had resolved to maintain towards her. Their interview only lasted a
few minutes. Fanny, who had been easy for some time, was greatly
astonished when asked to accompany her mistress to the engineer’s
office. Their conversation showed they had recently seen each other,
but under what circumstances she could not make out. All this
redoubled her suspicions. On her way home with Eugénie, she
remarked:
 “That M. Louis is a charming young man; more so than I had
supposed. What respect he showed mademoiselle! I am sure
mademoiselle judges him with less severity than she did several
weeks ago.”
“I have never judged him with severity,” replied Eugénie, with
that lofty coolness which made those who did not know her accuse
her of pride. “Why should I judge M. Beauvais? that is my father’s
business.”
Fanny returned to the assault: “That is a queer notion of his to
wish to instruct all those ignorant people. Much good will it do them!
The more they know, the more dangerous they will be!...”
“Fanny, you should address such observations to M. Louis or my
father. It is they who have founded the library and school, and they
intend doing many other things without consulting you, I imagine.”
“Common people sometimes give good advice.”
“But they should give it to those who need it. All this does not
concern me, I tell you again.”
“O the deceitful girl!” said Fanny to herself when alone in her
chamber that night. “I always said she would deceive me. Where
could she have seen him?... Is she already in love with him?... She is
capable of it! But I will watch her narrowly, and, if it is not too late,
will counteract her projects! I have a good deal to contend with,
however. This M. Louis is an artful fellow. And on the other hand, it
is no easy matter to lead Mlle. Eugénie.... I only hope she is not yet
in love with him!... If she were to marry him instead of her cousin, I
should go distracted.... Poor Albert! if he knew what is going on
here. Fortunately, I am on the spot to watch over his interests. And
there is more reason than ever to be on the lookout.”

CHAPTER XVI.
LOVE WITHOUT HOPE.
 Louis came to see us as often as his occupations allowed. He
made us a long call the very day after Eugénie gave him the books
for his library, and seemed more excited than usual. He related his
conversation with Mr. Smithson, and spoke of his pleasure at
meeting Eugénie and regaining her good opinion by a frank
explanation of his plans and the motives by which he was
influenced.
“Well,” said Victor, “does she continue to please you?”
“More than I wish.”
“Why this regret?”
“It is only reasonable. My happiness is involved in being pleased
with her.”
“Come, I see we shall not be able to agree on this point.”
“Yes, my dear friend; the more I reflect, the plainer it is that I
ought not to become attached to her; at least, to make her aware of
it, should such a misfortune happen. But I will not conceal it from
you: I fear I already love her....”
“You are decidedly tenacious in your notions. Why do you torture
yourself with scruples that are evidently exaggerated?...”
“All your friendly reasonings are of no avail. However
disinterested my love might be, it would seem to her only the result
of calculation; this is enough to justify me in my apprehensions.”
“I cannot agree with you. Delicacy of sentiment is a noble thing,
but it must not be carried to excess. I am willing you should conceal
your love for her till you can prove it sincere; that is, not the result
of calculation—I will go still further: till the time comes when they
voluntarily render homage to the nobleness of your intentions. But
when that day comes, and you see that Mlle. Eugénie esteems and
loves you....”
“She will never love me.”
“How do you know?”
“Mlle. Smithson has rare qualities which make her the realization
of all my dreams, but I see I am not pleasing to her. Before any
change in her sentiments is possible, she will have another suitor
with more to offer her than I, and without a past like mine to
frustrate his hopes. He will please her, and I can only withdraw. Well,
I confess I wish to reserve one consolation for that day, feeble as it
may be—the satisfaction of being able to say to myself: “She did not
know I loved her.”
“My poor friend, you take too gloomy a view of the future.”
“Do not imagine my fears will result in a dangerous melancholy. I
realize more fully than you may suppose the advantages of my
present position. I might at this very moment be in another world—a
world of despair.... To us Christians, such a thought is full of horror.
Instead of that, I see the possibility of repairing the past, and of
doing some good. When I compare my present life with that I was
leading a year ago, the favorable contrast makes me happy! I had
discarded the faith, lost the esteem of upright men, and given
myself up to ignoble pleasures!—useless to the world, an object of
disgust to myself. I had not the courage to look at myself as I was.
How all that is changed! How happy I ought to be!... But, no; the
heart of man is at once weak and insatiable. At a time when I ought
to be happy, I am so weak as to yield to a love I should have denied
myself. If I cannot overcome it, it will be a source of new regret. I
know there is one means of safety, or perhaps there is—that of
flight.... But, no; I will not, I cannot thus ensure a selfish security. It
would be cowardly to recede before the noble work God has
assigned me. There is no doubt now as to my future usefulness at
Mr. Smithson’s. I could not find elsewhere the same facilities for
doing the good I long to effect. I will remain....”
“I will not assert it would be cowardly to leave, but a man as
courageous as you are and have need to be ought to remain at his
post at whatever cost. Like you, I believe that is the post to which
God himself has called you.”
“I shall remain.... You cannot imagine how happy I am there
when my heart is not agitated. Provisions are dear this year, and we
have quite a number of hands forced by want to leave Paris. These
two things combined have produced unusual demoralization among
the men we employ. Some give themselves up to drunkenness by
way of relief; others, listening to the evil suggestions of hunger,
conceive an inward hatred against those who are rich. There are a
few ringleaders, and a good many disaffected men, all ready to yield
to the most criminal proposals. Mr. Smithson is aware of this, and
therefore fully approves of my plan for the amelioration of so mixed
a set. I must do him the justice to acknowledge he has been
generous. His wife and daughter are still more so. I shall therefore
remain as long as I can. I only beseech God for one favor—to bless
my efforts, and give me the courage necessary to make the great
sacrifice if it be required....”
“Ah! then you really love Mlle. Smithson. I thought at the most
you were only afraid of loving her.”
“No; I will no longer keep this secret to myself; it is too great a
burden to bear alone. Besides, this concealment would not be
worthy of either of us. I was still in doubt this morning, but have
since read the state of my heart more clearly. And this is what
enabled me to do so:
“I returned home from church this morning with Mlle. Eugénie
and her mother. The church, you know, is a kilometre and a half
from the mill, but the road is delightful. On coming out of church,
Mme. Smithson, who is an excellent woman, and quite pleasant and
easy in her manners, invited me, as it were, to accompany them.
Mlle. Eugénie at first remained apart with her waiting-maid, but still
near enough to hear what we said. We first discussed the things
suitable to give the poor, and the utility of familiar conversation with
them in their houses. I expressed a determination to perform this
act of charity as often as possible. I begged Mme. Smithson to
mention the families she thought it advisable to visit in this way, as
she knows them better than I. She promised to give me a list. Mlle.
Eugénie then drew near, and said she would add a few names to it;
then, taking a part in the conversation, and even directing it with the
grace she shows in everything, she spoke in turn of charity, religion,
and literature with an elevation of thought and in such beautiful
language that it was a pleasure to listen to her. From time to time
we stopped to look, now at one object, and then at another—the
large trees by the wayside, the bushes, or the cottages. Mlle.
Smithson found something charming to say of everything. We were
half an hour in going a distance we might have accomplished in
twenty minutes—a delightful half-hour, but it had its bitterness, as all
my joys will henceforth have. I see it is the will of God that I should
expiate my offences. Like you, I am persuaded that the privilege of
doing good—the most desirable of all privileges—is only to be
purchased at the price of suffering.”
“Yes,” said Victor; “but at the price of what suffering? Who can
assure you it is that of which you are thinking?... That is a secret
known only to God.”
“That is true, but I am sure I had to-day a foretaste of the
suffering I allude to. She was there beside me—that beautiful young
girl who would be a model of feminine excellence did she not lack
one quality—piety—a piety more womanly, more profound, and more
simple. She said many striking things—things that go straight to the
heart: there was perfect sympathy between her soul and mine, but I
watched over myself that I might not betray the admiration, the
delight, the emotion, with which I listened to her! In the expression
of her eyes, the tone of her voice, and whole manner, I could see,
alas! how indifferent she was towards me; that she regarded me as
her father’s agent—a mere employé, worthy only of passing
attention.”
“How do you know? You are so accustomed to reading hearts
that perhaps you take imagination for reality.”
“I do not think so.... She has changed towards me, I
acknowledge. She regards me as a sincere, upright person. I know
how to keep in my place, but there she allows me to remain, and
will continue to do so.”
Louis was extremely agitated when he left us that evening. My
poor Victor, ill as he was, and he was now worse than ever, was
thoughtful and sad for some time after Louis had gone.
“What is the matter?” I asked.
 “I am thinking of Louis,” he replied. “I fear things may turn out
badly for our poor friend. I do not know whether he will ever marry
Eugénie or not; but I have a presentiment, I know not why, that this
love is to cause him great suffering. And yet this attachment could
not fail to spring up. If it is God’s will that Louis should pass through
a severe trial, promise me to stand by him.”
“But you will also stand by him?”
“I shall no longer be here.”
Sad words! they were soon to be verified. Meanwhile, the hour of
trial was approaching our poor friend—the trial he himself had
foreseen.

CHAPTER XVII.
A SOUBRETTE’S PLOT.

Meanwhile, Fanny was preparing sad hours for Louis.

Louis thought Eugénie maintained great reserve during the
conversation that took place on their way home from church—so
insatiable is one who loves! But Fanny received quite a different
impression. Never had she seen her mistress so inspired, or
converse with so much fluency and animation. Mme. Smithson’s
kindness towards Louis, the appreciatory remarks she and her
daughter made after their return home, and the dry, haughty
manner with which Eugénie put Fanny in her place when she
attempted to speak of the engineer, all excited the cunning servant’s
suspicions in the highest degree.
“There is nothing lost yet,” she said to herself; “perhaps there
has been no danger of it. Mademoiselle is not in love with him now,
but she may be soon, if care is not taken. To delay any further would
risk everything. I will hesitate no longer. How M. Albert would
reproach me were I to warn him too late! How much I should
reproach myself! Instead of having that excellent boy, so dear to me,
for a master who would allow me to govern his house in my own
way, I should be the humble servant of this gentleman, who is by no
means pleasing to me, and who appears determined to make
everybody yield to him. He is humble for the moment, because he
has nothing; but I can read in his eyes: the day he is master here it
will be in earnest. I shall then have to start. That would be
distressing. There is only one way of avoiding such a misfortune: I
must hasten to write Albert’s mother!”
So saying, Fanny seated herself at her table. An hour after, her
chef-d’œuvre was completed. She reminded Mme. Frémin, her old
mistress, of the affection she had always cherished for her and her
son—which was true; she spoke of having wished for several years
to see Albert marry Eugénie, and pointed out the perfect harmony of
taste there was between the two cousins. This point, however,
remained problematical. Fanny added that she should not be happy
till the day she saw her two dear children united and established,
and she herself living with them, entirely devoted to their interests.
Like all shrewd people, the soubrette reserved the most
important communication for the end of her letter. She then
remarked that Mlle. Eugénie seemed to be tired of the country, and
it was time for Albert to offer himself; for, if another suitor appeared
first, which she insinuated was by no means improbable, Albert
might regret his delay. She had serious apprehensions.... Albert must
really come. She would tell him all; he would never regret having
undertaken the journey. But he must be careful, if he came, not to
mention that she, Fanny, had urged him to do so. If she wrote thus,
it was only because she was in a manner constrained by her
affection for Albert and Eugénie. He must therefore be careful not to
risk everything by his indiscretion....
This letter, carefully corrected and copied, was taken to the post-
office in town the next day. No one suspected Fanny had written to
Tante Frémin. It is useless to speak of the impatience with which she
waited to see what her protégé would do. She trembled at the idea
that he might not be roused till it was entirely too late to come.

CHAPTER XVIII.
 A GLEAM BEFORE THE STORM.

A week after, Louis was again invited to dine at Mr. Smithson’s,

whose birthday they were to celebrate. The only people invited out
of the family were the doctor and the Curé of St. M——. The curé’s
invitation was an affair of importance, as you will see.
Mr. Smithson, as I have remarked, was an Englishman by birth.
He had been induced by two motives to settle permanently in France
when about thirty years of age: the climate suited his constitution
better than that of his own country, and he could live more at his
ease on the same income than he could in England.
Taking a house in Paris occupied by several tenants, his attention
was drawn towards a young girl employed in a mercer’s shop on the
ground floor of the same building. This girl was no other than the
present Mme. Smithson. She lived with her mother, who was in
comfortable circumstances, but made no pretensions. They were
very estimable people, and gave the rich Englishman to understand
that he could only be admitted as a visitor on condition of
acknowledged serious intentions. Mr. Smithson at first hesitated. The
girl was not rich, she belonged to a class he considered inferior to
his own, and, what was more, they were of different religions. But it
was too late to call reason to his aid. For six months he had felt a
constantly increasing love for her. He therefore offered her his hand,
merely requiring one concession on her part before he could marry
her: she must embrace the religion he professed himself. Neither of
the women who listened to this proposition was pious, but they did
not lack faith, and they fulfilled the absolute commands of the
church. They therefore replied, without a moment’s hesitation, that
Mlle. Suzanne could not give up her religion for the sake of marrying
him. At this, Mr. Smithson hesitated anew, but, as before, love
carried the day. He renewed his offer, promising not to interfere with
Suzanne’s religious belief if she would become his wife. He only
made one condition to their marriage: they should respectively
practise their religion without making any attempt to convert each
other. As to the children, the boys must be brought up in their
father’s belief, the daughters in that of their mother. Deplorable
arrangement! showing the shameful indifference of both parties, or
their foolish and culpable inconsistency. You know the church
expressly forbids such concessions. It only tolerates mixed marriages
on a precisely contrary condition: the parties to be married must
pledge themselves that their offspring shall be brought up in the
Catholic religion. I do not know how Mlle. Suzanne, in becoming
Mme. Smithson, found means to evade this new difficulty. It is
possible that, through ignorance or culpable weakness, she yielded
to the terms without acknowledging it to any one. She doubtless
hoped, when the time came for testing the arrangement, to find
some means of extricating herself from it. At all events, they were
married. Mr. Smithson remained an Anglican, and, astonishing to
say, a thorough one. His attachment to the Church of England was
easily explained by those who knew him. He still cherished an ardent
love for his country, and almost reproached himself for leaving it. His
fidelity to the English Church was a last testimony of attachment to
the country he had abandoned.
When Eugénie was born, her father manifested a temporary
sullenness and ill humor at her baptism that frightened Mme.
Smithson. Nevertheless, she was firm. Eugénie was brought up very
strictly, and her father gradually became accustomed to her being a
Catholic, to see her practise her religion, and even hear her speak of
it with enthusiasm, for she was enthusiastic on all great themes.
These were, it must be said, the only concessions Mr. Smithson
made to the true faith. He never entered a Catholic church. He even
refused to acknowledge that which its very enemies are forced to
concede—the grandeur and utility of the enterprises she alone
successfully achieves; the efficacious assistance she renders each
one of us at critical moments in our lives; and the happiness—
earthly happiness even—that she bestows on all who are faithful to
her teachings. But the decided stand Mr. Smithson took against the
true faith was specially manifested by his antipathy to the
priesthood. Though he had lived a year and a half at St. M——, he
had never had any intercourse with the Abbé Bonjean, the curé of
the commune. Mme. Smithson and her daughter went to High Mass
every Sunday, made the curé a brief call on New Year’s Day, and
went to confession at Easter—that was all. I had some reason,
therefore, to say it was a thing of no small importance to see the
abbé at Mr. Smithson’s table. What had effected such a change in
the mind of this dogmatic Englishman?... Had his daughter begged it
as a favor?... By no means. Eugénie was not pious enough to care
for the society of the curé.... Had Mme. Smithson ventured to break
the compact which forbade her broaching, even remotely, the
subject of religion to her husband? Still less likely. Madame had not
the courage unless forced to revolt against some enormity like
apostasy. What led Mr. Smithson to invite the abbé was the result of
his own reflections. Since he had taken charge of a manufactory,
and been brought in contact with a large number of workmen, some
poor and others corrupt, he had felt an increasing desire of being
useful to them, both morally and physically. Mr. Smithson had really
a noble heart. Catholic benevolence excited his admiration more
than he confessed. It caused him to reflect, though he was careful
not to reveal his thoughts. These salutary reflections had gradually
convinced him that, if he wished to reform the place, he must obtain
the aid of some one not only of good-will like Louis, but of
incontestable moral authority.... Where find a person with more
means than the curé?... With the extreme prudence habitual to him
—and he was more cautious now than ever, as it was a question of a
priest—he was desirous of studying his future co-laborer. He could
not help it; this black-robed man inspired him with distrust. “I will
begin by studying him,” he said to himself; “and, for that, he must
come to my house.” This plan decided upon, he acted accordingly.
Without telling any one of his secret intention, without even giving a
hint of it, except to his wife and daughter at the last moment, he
invited the abbé.
Louis had already begun to understand his employer’s prejudices,
and was therefore extremely astonished when he arrived to find the
curé had been invited. But his astonishment was mingled with joy.
He had already become acquainted with the abbé, and had been to
confession to him more than once, and had more than one
conversation with him. The curé was even aware of all Louis’ plans,
and, as may be supposed, gave them his entire approbation.
There was some stiffness and embarrassment as the guests
seated themselves at table, and looked at one another; but, after a
few moments, the genuine simplicity of the abbé, who was no fool,
and the doctor’s facetiousness, broke the ice. Mr. Smithson alone
maintained his usual reserve. He had sent for the abbé that he
might study his character, and he was not neglecting it. As to Louis,
seated opposite Eugénie, he seemed to emulate the wise man of the
Scriptures who had made a compact with his eyes and his tongue.
He tempered the fire of his eye, restrained his flow of words, and
courageously filled the part he had imposed on himself—that of a
man serious unto coldness, calm unto insensibility.
Everything passed off very well till the dessert. Mr. Smithson then
directed the conversation to the condition of his workmen, and
spoke of his desire to ameliorate it. Eugénie warmly applauded what
her father said; she spoke of some visits she had made, and gave
many interesting details respecting the families she had assisted.
The good abbé had, alas! one fault. Priests have their faults as
well as we—fewer, without doubt, but still they have some. The
curé’s defect was a want of prudence. He was agreeable in
conversation, and had the best intentions in the world, but he did
not weigh his words sufficiently. He never troubled himself about the
interpretation, malevolent or otherwise, that certain people might
give to them. He was a good man, but not sufficiently mindful of our
Saviour’s counsel to be wise as a serpent and simple as a dove. He
was amiable and sincere, but lacking in discretion: that was a
misfortune. At a time of religious indifference and of impiety like
ours, more than usual prudence is necessary for all who love their
religion: the impious are so glad to find a pretext for their calumnies!
The abbé now began in the heartiest manner, and very sincerely too,
to compliment Mr. Smithson for all he had said, and Mlle. Eugénie for
all she had done. He gave a thrilling but true sketch of the ravages
want and immorality were making among the working-classes, and
dwelt on the necessity of an immediate and efficacious remedy. All
this was proper. There was nothing so far to criticise. But the abbé
should have stopped there. He had, however, the indiscretion to
keep on, adding many things ill adapted to those before whom he
was speaking. “I know what remedies are necessary,” said he; “and
who of us does not? They are—instruction to a certain degree,
visiting the poor in their houses, dropping a good word, and, above
all, the infinite service of leading them back to the holy Catholic
religion, which alone knows how to influence the heart of man, and
inspire benevolent souls with the wisdom and perseverance
necessary for perfecting their noble enterprises. I hope I wound no
one’s feelings in expressing myself thus. What I have said is only a
well-known truth, readily acknowledged by a multitude of upright
souls who have not, however, the happiness of belonging to us.”
Mr. Smithson said nothing. He felt the shaft, however blunted,
that was aimed so directly at him. The curé himself seemed
conscious of having gone too far in the ardor of his untimely zeal.
The Englishman was one of those men who only retort when obliged
to: he remained silent. The poor curé hurt himself still more by
enthusiastically eulogizing Louis a few minutes after in these words:
“M. Louis, by another year, you will have shown yourself the good
angel of the whole country around.”
This appeared exaggerated to Mr. Smithson. It excited his
jealousy, already awakened. He imagined he saw proofs of an
understanding between the curé and the engineer in this
unfortunate remark. Their understanding had an evident aim, in Mr.
Smithson’s eyes, to diminish his moral influence, and even suppress
it. “That is the way with Catholic priests,” he said to himself. “They
are ambitious, scheming, eager to rule, and knowing how to find
accomplices everywhere.” The curé and Louis thenceforth became
objects of suspicion, though he was careful not to show it outwardly.
Louis had begun to understand human nature, and at once
realized all the imprudence of the curé’s remarks. He foresaw the
bad effect they would have on the master of the house. He tried in
vain, by some adroit turn in the conversation, to lessen, if not to
annul, the unfortunate impression the abbé’s conversation might
have produced. The curé persisted in his opinion, and only added to
his previous blunder. Louis felt he should not gain anything, and
stopped short with so distressed an air that it was pitiful to see him.
Mr. Smithson, led away by his prejudices, thought Louis’
depression the consequence of his accomplice’s betraying so
awkwardly the secret tie between them. “The engineer is, perhaps,
the more dangerous of the two,” he said to himself. “I should never
have suspected their plan, had it not been for the abbé’s imprudent
frankness.” Hence he concluded there would be more need than ever
of keeping an eye on his subordinate.
Eugénie, though not pious, understood her religion too well, and
loved it, or rather, admired it too much, to be astonished at what the
curé had said. She thoroughly agreed with him, but, as the
conversation became serious, she only attended to the most
important points, and paid but little attention to the abbé’s
imprudent remarks. The praise he bestowed on Louis did not seem
to her excessive. She rather approved than condemned it. She did
not, therefore, suspect the cause of Louis’ sadness, but attributed it
to a want of ease naturally occasioned by the inferior position into
which he had been thrown by his misfortunes. More than once she
came to his aid, politely addressing the conversation to him. Seeing
him still preoccupied, she ended by proposing after dinner that he
should sing something to her accompaniment. Louis excused
himself. “I insist upon it,” she said, in a tone of sweet authority that
instantly transported him into a new world. He forgot the curé’s
imprudence, its probable effect on Mr. Smithson, and his own
difficult position. The first time for a long while—ten years, perhaps
—he had one of those moments of cloudless happiness that rarely
falls to man’s lot, and can never be forgotten. It seemed as if a
mysterious, ravishing voice whispered that Eugénie was beginning to
love him. At least, he no longer doubted for the moment the
possibility of her loving him some day. Louis had the soul of an
artist, and possessed undoubted talent, and he sang that evening as
he had never sung in his life.
 When the song was ended, he turned toward Eugénie, and read
in her eyes sincere astonishment and admiration, but nothing else.
All his doubts, all his sadness, revived. An instant before, his heart
overflowed with joy: now he was so cast down that he was alarmed,
and wondered what misfortune was going to happen to him. I am
not exaggerating: ardent natures often pass through such
alternations of extreme joy and sadness. The evening passed away
without any new incident. Before midnight, the guests returned
home, and were free to yield to their own thoughts. The few hours
just elapsed had modified the sentiments of all who had dined
together at Mr. Smithson’s.
Eugénie, without allowing it to appear outwardly, had also had
one of those sudden revelations that like a flash reveal everything
with unexpected clearness. For the first time, she fully realized the
possibility of loving one whom she at first despised. Louis’ dignified,
melancholy air, his grave, earnest manner of conversing, his
remarkable musical talent, and the sympathetic tone of his voice, all
produced an effect on Eugénie she had never experienced before.
Not that she loved him yet, but she asked herself how long her
indifference would last. First impressions are hard to efface from
ardent souls. Eugénie was alarmed at the idea of loving one who
had at first inspired her with so much distrust. She resolved to watch
more carefully over herself, and keep an observant eye on one who
might take a place in her heart she did not wish to give, unless for
ever.
This was wise. One cannot take too much precaution when there
is reason to fear the heart is disposed to yield. The heart is the best
or the worst of counsellors, according as it is guided or abandoned
by reason. Besides, Eugénie was wholly ignorant of Louis’ feelings
towards her.
Poor Louis ended the evening in disheartening reflections. He
began by dwelling on a painful alternative: either Eugénie did not
suspect his love for her, or, if she perceived it, her only response was
a coldness that was discouraging. “And yet,” thought he, “if I am
mistaken!... If she already loves me in her heart!... If at least she
could some day love me!” ... He smiled. Then another fear, still
worse than the rest, crossed his mind. “Well, if it were so, there
would be another obstacle in the way more dangerous than the
indifference of Mlle. Eugénie herself—the opposition of her father. He
would never consent to the marriage. His antipathy to me has
always been evident. The abbé has completed my ruin. I am
henceforth a dangerous man—a fanatic—in Mr. Smithson’s eyes!”
“What shall I do?” added Louis, by way of conclusion. “Shall I
give up the work I have undertaken? Ought I to practise my religion
secretly, in order to give no offence?... No, indeed; that would be
cowardly, unworthy of a man of courage, and criminal ingratitude
towards God, who has been so merciful to me.... No hateful
concessions! With the divine assistance, I will do what I think is for
the best. Whatever happens will be the will of God.... Whatever it
may be, I shall be sure of having nothing to repent of....”
To be serious, I should add that Louis, in forming this resolution,
was not so heroic as he really believed himself to be. He was young,
he was in love: and youth and love have always some hope in store.
It is useless to speak of Mr. Smithson. We are aware of his
sentiments. Louis was not wrong in his fears respecting him. And
yet, however sad Louis’ position might be, it was soon to become
still more so. A new cloud was rising without his suspecting it.
TO BE CONTINUED.
MARRIAGE SONG.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Love begins upon the heights,
As on tree-tops, in the spring,
April with green foot alights
While the birds are carolling:
Aye, but April ends with May:
Love must have the marriage-day!

II.
Love begins upon the heights,
As o’er snowy summits sail
First the dewy matin lights
Destined soon to reach the vale:
Love-touched maidens must not grieve
That morn of love hath noon and eve!

III.
Love begins with Fancy first,
Proud young Love the earth disdains
But his cold streams, mountain-nursed,
Warm them in the fruitful plains
Ere the marriage-day be sped:—
Peal the bells! The bride is wed!
 PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.
A LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF “THE CATHOLIC WORLD.”

The suggestion often made in your excellent magazine, that

Americans in general, and American Catholics in particular, should be
supplied with some means of acquiring sound knowledge of
philosophical truth, led me to consider what particular plan might be
most adapted to this end, and what resources were at our disposal
for carrying out successfully such a praiseworthy undertaking. The
result of this my investigation is not calculated, perhaps, to excite
that degree of interest which the subject deserves; yet, as it may be
the occasion of other useful reflections on the part of those who
wish to promote this enterprise, I have decided to offer it to your
philosophical readers.
I assume that our plan should unquestionably embrace either all
that is worth knowing in philosophy, or at least all that is needed for
the explanation and vindication of all important truths, as well as for
the radical refutation of all modern errors.
To carry out such a plan, a writer would need an extensive
knowledge and a keen appreciation of the teachings of the scholastic
philosophers and theologians, and especially a masterly
comprehension of the general principles on which those teachings
have their rational foundation. Such a writer, I think I may safely
add, should be of that sort of men who not only know the doctrines
of the great masters of the old school, but who also feel the greatest
respect for those eminent thinkers; and he should be prepared
boldly to follow their leadership in all fundamental questions
concerning principles, without the least regard for what is now
circulated as “modern thought.” His style should be modern, but his
principles should be the principles sanctioned by the wisdom of all
past ages.
Every one, of course, will allow that we modern men, in many
branches of natural science, have attained to a degree of
information vastly superior to what the ancients even dreamed of.
Accordingly, we may not improperly consider ourselves better
qualified than they were for the solution of a great number of
physical questions, of which they are known to have either
overlooked the very existence, or missed the true interpretation. It is
quite certain, however, at the same time, that we are immensely
inferior to them with regard to strictly philosophical knowledge; and
this is the more surprising as one would suppose that our superior
information concerning the laws of nature would have enabled us to
reach truth from a higher standpoint, and to correct and improve,
even to perfection, the philosophical theories of the old school. Yet
the fact is certain and notorious: we have only a few good
philosophers, while we need a great many to stand against the
torrent of infidelity.
As it is, I think that no man of judgment will deny that we cannot
raise ourselves to a competent philosophical level and secure the
triumph of truth unless we learn again, and turn to account in our
war against our modern barbarians, those doctrines that triumphed
over the barbarians of old, and made Europe remain for centuries
the shining centre of the civilized world. Wisdom was not born
yesterday, and philosophical principles are as old as mankind; hence,
new facts may be seen, but no new principles of philosophy can be
invented.
It therefore remains for us, if we wish to spread sound
knowledge and foster true wisdom, to cling to the old philosophical
principles, to vindicate them so far as in our present struggling
condition it may be necessary, and to apply them judiciously to the
close discussion and consistent settlement of arising questions. This
is the road that will lead us to the goal; and it is a short and easy
one, too; for the first principles of all things are not very many, and
can be mastered with ease, while their application needs only two
conditions, namely, first, a sufficient knowledge of the primitive facts
and laws of the physical order; and, second, a rigorous logic.
As the main object we should have in view is the improvement of
American thought concerning moral and social truths, it might seem
that the work of which I am speaking should mainly be a work of
moral philosophy, comprising the treatment of all natural rights and
natural duties whether of individuals or of societies, and leaving
dialectics and metaphysics mostly in the background as idle
speculations, or at least as teaching nothing that is essential to the
happiness and prosperity of private and public life. It is a fact that
the general reader is inclined to look upon all logical and
metaphysical subtleties as a string of mere quibbles or an array of
unsubstantialities. Though I am sure that, in the present wretched
state of our public education, many would be found, even among
our best citizens, ready to adopt and countenance such a view of the
subject, I must say that the view is intrinsically wrong.
Philosophy is a whole whose parts are not merely integrant, but
constituent; for each of these parts is essentially linked with the
others. As time cannot exist without motion, so neither can moral
philosophy without logic and metaphysics; and so sure as no velocity
can exist apart from a moving body, even so rational philosophy
cannot exist apart from all metaphysical truth. To see this the more
clearly, let us examine what are the relations that bind together the
parts of philosophy.
The old division of this science into rational, real, and moral,
which we find to have been given by Plato,[147] is drawn from the
inmost nature of things and the very constitution of philosophy.
Everything that is perfect, whether it has an existence in the fields of
reality, or only in the region of thought, is found to involve in its
constitution, 1, something competent to give a certain
determination; 2, some other thing liable to receive such a
determination; 3, some third thing which is the immediate result of
the concurrence of the other two. That which gives a determination
is called the “formal” constituent of the thing; that which receives
such a determination is called the “material” constituent of the same
thing; finally, that which results is called the “formal complement,”
and is the actual constitution or the very actuality of the thing thus
constituted. Thus, for example, the human soul, inasmuch as it gives
life to the human body, is the formal constituent of man; the organic
body, inasmuch as it receives life through the soul, is his material
constituent; and actual conscious life, which is the immediate result
of the concurrence of soul and body in one compound nature, is the
actuality of the being thus constituted, and makes it formally
complete in its individual reality.
Now, philosophy is similarly made up of three such constituents.
The formal constituent and, as it were, the soul of philosophy (and
of all other sciences, too) is logic, or rational philosophy. Its duty is
to impress a kind of rational stamp on the objects of science by
applying to them the process of definition, division, and
argumentation, which is the scientific process, and constitutes the
“form” of science. For this reason, logic holds that place in regard to
any object of science which the soul holds in regard to its body, and
is therefore to be considered as the formal constituent of philosophy.
The material part, or the body, of philosophy is “all real being as
such,” or, in other terms, all the subject-matter of metaphysics, or
real philosophy; for metaphysics is nothing but the knowledge of real
things acquired through the consideration of their intrinsic
constitution; hence, all reality, be it created or uncreated, matter or
spirit, substance or accident, is the “material” constituent of
philosophy inasmuch as it is subjected to the scientific form by the
application made to it of the logical process. The objective truth of
things, so long as it is not subjected to the searching scrutiny of
speculative reasoning, mostly belongs to the lower region of
experimentalism, which scarcely deserves, though it has usurped,
the high name of science; but, when pervaded by intellectual light,
rises suddenly as vivified by it, and takes up its place in the serene
region of metaphysics, where it shows itself in all the glory of its
ontological beauty. Hence it is that metaphysics may be compared to
a living body, of which logic is the soul.
Finally, by the application of logic to objective realities, namely,
by the study of metaphysics, a wonderful bond is established
between the rational faculty and objective truth, the first getting
hold of the second, and the second reacting after its own manner on
the first; so that reason, enlightened by objective truth, knows how
to pronounce a right judgment on the merit of things, and in its
natural rectitude feels compelled to give them that relative place in
its estimation to which each of them is reasonably entitled. As the
soul, therefore, owing to its intimate connection with the body,
“feels” what suits or suits, not the requirement of the animated
organism, and is pleased with the one, and displeased with the
other, so also reason, owing to its clear possession of objective truth,
“perceives” what agrees and what clashes with: the objective order
of things, and, with the authority of a judge, pronounces its
sentence that the first must be approved, and the second
condemned. Such dictates of reason form the object of moral
philosophy; and it is through them that the moral law is naturally
communicated and promulgated to all rational creatures.
Hence, it is evident that the knowledge of morality is the result of
an intellectual knowledge of the real nature of things, and of their
intrinsic perfection, exigencies, and manifold relations. Hence, also,
the conclusion that the rational, the real, and the moral order,
though distinct objects of knowledge, are so bound together in one
general science that it would be scarcely possible to speak of the
one without referring to the other. Hence, finally, the further
conclusion that the greater the importance of a true and thorough
knowledge of morality, the more stringent is the necessity of
securing to it the foundation of good, sound, and intelligible
metaphysics. To neglect the latter would be to tamper with the most
vital interests of the former.
Perhaps I might go even further, and say that what we need just
now is not so much a new book of logic or of ethics as of
metaphysics. A good metaphysical work is the surest foundation
both of a good logic and of a good moral philosophy. The laws of
thought and the laws of morality must be explained in accordance
with the laws of real being; and the better we understand these last,
the more truly conversant shall we become with the first. Besides,
with respect to logic and ethics, we have no new doctrines to teach,
whilst in metaphysics we have to settle a number of old and new
questions regarding the constitution of natural things, and their
causality, and their mutual connection, as we find that such
questions are not satisfactorily treated either by the ancient
metaphysicians or by our modern unphilosophical physicists. Such
questions regard, as I said, natural things; but their solution has a
bearing on many other philosophical doctrines, because it materially
effects the terminology by which those doctrines are to be
expounded.
I do not wish, nor would this be the place, to enter into
particulars with regard to the method which might be followed in the
treatment of different philosophical subjects; yet I think it worth
remarking in general that the fewer the principles on which a
philosopher shall build his reasonings, the more clear, uniform, and
satisfactory will his demonstrations generally prove; and, on the
other hand, in proportion as these principles shall be higher, the
fewer will be needed. This leads me to believe that one of the best
means which could be made available for the much-desired success
of the undertaking would be to take our standpoint as high as
possible (according to the very nature of philosophy, which is
scientia per summas causas), and to base our demonstrations on the
very first constituent principles of being. Looking down from such a
height, we could easily dissipate the vague phantasmagory, and
control the dangerous influences of many other so-called principles
or axioms whose intrusion into the body of philosophy is due to
ignorance or wrong interpretation of the facts and laws of the
physical world. It is through these assumed principles that a very
lamentable discord has been fostered and perpetuated between the
votaries of physics, on the one hand, and those of metaphysics, on
the other; and it is through the same cause, that even now the same
student, after learning one thing as true in his class of metaphysics,
is obliged to hear it declared false in his class of natural philosophy.
This should not be; and we may hope that it will not be when our
philosophical reasonings are ultimately grounded on first principles,
and when no secondary principles are admitted which are not
demonstrated, or corrected, or restricted by some evident and
adequate reduction to first principles.
But now a question is to be answered which professors of
philosophy will perhaps be the first to propose. The question is this:
Can a sound and thorough work of philosophy, such as we want, be
written in common and popular English, so as to prove easy reading
for the average American student? Or must a special language be
used which none but trained philosophers will understand?
Every one who knows how peculiar is the language of other
sciences and arts will anticipate the answer. Of course, the English
tongue is as fit as any other to express common thoughts; but
common thoughts are the thoughts of common people, who do not
commonly think with the utmost philosophical precision, nor talk of
matters (of which there are many in philosophy) that transcend the
common wants of their ordinary avocations. This being the case, it is
obvious that, in writing a philosophical work (especially if it be
intended to serve as a text-book for our higher Catholic institutions),
it will be necessary to make use of a special language, which,
though English, cannot be that easy-going and popular English
which we find in common use, but must be a precise, guarded, dry,
methodic, abstract, and perhaps stiff language, such as the gravity,
subtlety, and difficulty of philosophical investigations often require.
I said, “Especially if the work is intended to serve as a text-book,”
because, in this case, it will be absolutely necessary to adopt in it
the whole of the philosophical terminology that has been handed
down to us by our Catholic ancestors. Terminology, in all branches of
study, is the faithful exponent of the various achievements of
science, and contains, as it were, a summary of all that mankind has
succeeded in learning in the course of centuries. To ignore more or
less the philosophic terminology is therefore to ignore more or less
the wisdom of all past ages. Moreover, it is only by means of an
exact terminology that a teacher can convey the knowledge of exact
truth to his pupils’ minds; and accordingly, all who study philosophy
ex professo need to be well acquainted with its language, that they
may acquire a clear, distinct, and precise knowledge of things; so
that, when called upon in after-life to discuss or expound
philosophical matters in a plain and popular way for the benefit of
the unlearned, they may use such circumlocutions as will not
essentially conflict with the truth of things. Experience shows that
those who have not a clear and distinct conception of things,
however much they may try to explain themselves, are never well
understood.
But what if our work be not especially intended for the class-
room, but only for common reading? Would it still be difficult to have
it written in a plain and intelligible manner? I think it would, unless,
indeed, we leave out the most fundamental questions of
metaphysics. If we were asked only to write a few “academical”
essays on philosophical subjects, without concerning ourselves with
the intimate nature of things, it would not be very difficult to
perform such a task in tolerably readable and popular English; but if
we are asked to go to the root of things, and to give a consistent,
clear, accurate, and radical account of them and of their objective
relations; if we are expected to lay down and explain those grounds
of distinction between similar things that will enable us to avoid
latent equivocations, to detect paralogistic inferences, and to expose
the sophistry of our opponents; if, in short, we must prepare a
standard work which will create a deep and lasting interest, and take
hold of the public mind by its fitness to uproot prejudice, to
confound error, and to silence, if possible, all philosophical knavery,
then, I say, we cannot do this in the language with which people are
generally familiar, without filling it with a number of other words,
phrases, and formulas of our own. This, however, should not be
looked upon as discouraging; for the popularity to which a work on
philosophy aspires is not the general popularity of the newspaper or
the novel, but a popularity confined within the range of deep-
thinking minds. Philosophy is not intended for blockheads nor for the
general reader; hence, if these have no relish for our philosophical
style, we shall not, on that account, complain of any want of
popularity.
We must own, however, that a number of philosophical words
have become popular in other modern languages which are still
above popular comprehension in the English; and on this account
the range of popularity of a philosophical work will be less in our
country than it would, all other things being equal, in France, Italy,
or Spain. In these last countries, where languages are so nearly akin
to the philosophic Latin, and where the study of philosophy under
the supervision of the Catholic Church formed for centuries a
prominent part of public education, every educated person soon
learned how to express in his national idiom what he had been
taught in the Latin of the schools. It is through this process that the
language of philosophy gradually became, in those countries, the
language of all educated people. In England, the same process was
going on up to the XVIth century, and, if continued, would have led
to the same results; but it was checked at the time of the
Reformation, to the unphilosophical and maleficent genius of which
it must therefore be ascribed that all further popular development of
the philosophic language has been arrested for three centuries in the
Anglo-Saxon race.
Had England remained Catholic, and continued, like her sister
nations, to cultivate the fields of speculative knowledge, there is little
doubt that English writers, and the clergy in particular, would have
popularized and brought into common use those philosophical and
theological expressions which had been received already in their
dictionaries, and might have been a most valuable instrument for
improving the intellectual education of the country. But while this
process of familiarizing speculative knowledge was carried on
throughout Catholic Europe, England had something else more
pressing to do: she busied herself with tearing to pieces and burning
the metaphysical and theological books she had inherited from the
great Catholic founders and luminaries of her universities. How could
the Anglo-Saxon race attain to even a common degree of philosophic
development under the sway of a system which was the very
negation of philosophy? Could any one be a philosopher, and yet
“protest” against conclusions of which he had to concede the
premises? Protestantism was not the offspring of reason, but of
passion and tyranny; it is carnal, not intellectual; it popularizes
matter, and studies material comfort, but cannot raise the people to
the contemplation and appreciation of eternal and universal truth.
Hence, whilst in all the branches of knowledge which are connected
with their senses the English people made remarkable strides, in
philosophy they remained infants; and it was only by rowing the
boat against the stream that a few privileged beings saved some
relics from the great national wreck. Even now the Anglo-Saxon
Protestant is fated to admire Hume and Bain, Darwin and Huxley,
Mill and Herbert Spencer; and it will be long before he realizes that it
is a shame to talk of these sophists as “our great national
philosophers.”
The same evil that stayed in England the process of
popularization of the philosophical language, caused this language to
remain deficient in many useful and some necessary words
wherewith other nations wisely enriched their vernacular tongues.
This is equivalent to saying that the English idiom, even as used by
the learned, does not always afford sufficient facilities for the exact
expression of metaphysical relations, and that, therefore, a writer
who wishes to be quite correct in treating of them will be tempted to
take liberties with the language, and will yield to the temptation.
As an example of this, suppose we wish to say in plain English
what S. Thomas Aquinas teaches in the following sentence (in 1.
Sentent. Dist. 2. q. 1, a. 2): “In Deo est sapientia, et bonitas, et
hujusmodi, quorum quodlibet est ipsa divina essentia; et ita omnia
sunt unum. Et quia unumquodque eorum est in Deo secundum sui
verissimam rationem, et ratio sapientiæ non est ratio bonitatis in
quantum hujusmodi, relinquitur quod sunt diversa ratione non
tantum ex parte ipsius ratiocinantis, sed ex proprietate ipsius rei.”
 How should we here translate the word ratio? Andrews’
Dictionary gives reason, account, business, relation, regard, concern,
care, manner, plan, reasonableness, proof, and such like; to which
we may add the very word “ratio” used by the English geometricians
to express the quotient of a quantity divided by another of the same
kind. Now, which of these terms can we employ in the present case?
There is not one of them which would not transform this beautiful
and important passage of the angelic doctor into a clumsy piece of
nonsense. To speak of the reason of wisdom, of the concern of
goodness, of the manner of eternity, or of the business of immensity
would be absurd. The temptation to infringe on the rights of
lexicographers is therefore evident. But what other English word can
we employ? Should we translate, the concept of wisdom, and the
concept of goodness? By no means. Not that this last meaning of
the word ratio is not legitimate, but because it is not what we need
in the present case; for the holy doctor does not say that God’s
wisdom and goodness are distinct only on account of our
conceptions, but explicitly teaches that they are distinct on their own
grounds, “ex proprietate ipsius rei.” Hence, “concept” is not the right
word; and, instead of “concept,” we should rather say “that which is
the ground of the concept.” Yet this circumlocution, besides being
too long to replace a single word, does not exactly correspond to it,
as every intelligent reader will easily perceive. The force of the word
ratio might be sufficiently rendered by the compound expression
“objective notion”; but this is forbidden by our dictionaries,
according to which the word “notion” has only a subjective sense.
We cannot translate “the nature” of wisdom and “the nature” of
goodness, because it would then seem that divine wisdom and
divine goodness are of a different nature objectively, and therefore
really distinct; which is not the case, as they are only mentally
distinct, though on their own real grounds. Perhaps, to avoid
misconceptions, we might add an epithet to the word “nature,” and
translate ratio sapientiæ as “the notional nature of wisdom,” that is,
as that formality which is distinctly represented by the notion of
wisdom. This last expression might be considered tolerably correct;
yet I should prefer to stick to the Latin ratio, which is so much
simpler and clearer, and which has, moreover, a general and uniform
application to all objects of thought; as we everywhere find ratio
intelligibilis, ratio entitativa, ratio generica, ratio specifica, ratio
personæ, ratio substantiæ, and a great number of similar ratios.
And, again, the word ratio has another very superior claim to
adoption, inasmuch as it is the only word that exactly expresses the
transcendental unity resulting from the conspiration of a material
with a formal principle, and implies in its concrete meaning the two
principles from which it results as actually correlated; for, as the
geometric ratio implies a numerator and a denominator correlated as
“that which is mensurable” and “that by which it is measured,” so
the ratio intelligibilis, the ratio entitativa, and all the others, imply
and exhibit a potential and a formal principle, correlated as “that
which is determinable” and “that by which it is determined”; and as
the terms of a geometric ratio, inasmuch as they are correlated, give
rise to a simple result which is the value of the ratio, so also the
constituent principles of all beings, inasmuch as they are correlated
according to their mutual ontological exigency, give rise to the
actuality of the ontological ratio. It would therefore appear that, if
mathematicians are allowed freely to use the word “ratio,” as they
do, in the peculiar sense just stated, metaphysicians too, a fortiori,
may be allowed the free use of the same word in that general sense
which I have pointed out, and which, solely through English
philosophical apathy, was unduly restricted to its present narrow
mathematical meaning.
What I have said of this word may suffice as an instance of the
poverty of our philosophical language. There are other words which
philosophers are sometimes disappointed not to find in our
dictionaries, and which it will be necessary to borrow from other
sources, or to translate from the works of the schoolmen; but, as I
cannot come to particulars without entering into discussions which
would lead me much further than I at present intend to go, I will say
nothing more on this point.
I beg to conclude with a last remark which some readers may
deem superfluous, but which should not be overlooked by the
teachers or the friends of philosophy. It is not so much the want of
proper words as the vague and improper use of the words which we
already possess that is calculated to impair the merit and mar the
usefulness of an English work of philosophy. If I knew that any one
was engaged in such a work, I would earnestly entreat him to spare
no efforts to the end that all indefiniteness or looseness of
expression may be excluded from it, and to take care that his
philosophic language be, if possible, as precise and as carefully
wielded as that of the mathematician. In philosophy, nothing is so
dangerous as loose reasoning; and loose reasoning is inevitable with
a loose terminology. Truth, by careless wording, is often changed
into error, and even great heresies are frequently nothing but the
incorrect expression of great truths; according to the remarkable
sentence of S. Thomas: Ex verbo inordinate prolato nascitur
hæresis. Hence, all those terms which in the popular language have
a vague meaning should in philosophy be either avoided or strictly
defined, and constantly taken in the strict sense of the definition.
I remember having found years ago, in the works of an Italian
philosopher whose celebrity has since vanished, nine or ten different
definitions of the word idea. Which of such definitions he adopted as
his own I could not discover; but it seemed to me that he adopted
them all in succession, according as they suited the actual needs of
his multiform argumentation—a proceeding which, while
confounding the minds of his readers, was certainly not calculated to
give weight to his conclusions. This same word idea in our popular
English is extremely indefinite; it stands for object of thought, plan,
judgment, opinion, purpose, and intention, none of which would be
the correct philosophical meaning of the word; for “idea,” in all the
approved treatises of psychology, means the knowledge of a thing
directly perceived in any object of first apprehension. Hence, no
accurate philosopher would say that we have an “idea” of God, or of
his immensity, or of virtue, but only that we have a “concept” of
God, of his immensity, of virtue, and of all those other things that
are not objects of first apprehension, and the notions of which can
be acquired only by a special operation of the intellect on pre-
existing ideas. This distinction between “idea” and “concept” is very
important in psychology, and should therefore be adopted in a
philosophical work at the very first beginning of logic, as a first
precaution against the equivocations of the ontologists.
It is not my intention to point out other words the popular
meaning of which must be sharply looked into by a philosopher
before he makes use of them; I will only add, in connection with the
word “idea,” that, in the classical books of philosophy, the direct
knowledge of the existence of a thing was not called “idea,” but
notitia. In English, we have the word “notice”; but this word means,
according to Webster, the act by which we have knowledge of
something within the reach of our senses, whilst the Latin word
notitia means rather the permanent knowledge acquired by that act;
whence we see that the Latin notitia facti cannot be translated “the
notice of the fact,” and yet why should not a philosopher be allowed
to use the word “notice” in the sense of the Latin notitia when he
wishes to contrast the knowledge of the existence of a thing with
the knowledge of its properties? This would be, after all, only a late
justice done to the word by again recognizing its primitive legitimate
meaning.
On the contrary, the word conscientia, which in Latin has two
distinct meanings, the psychological and the moral, in English has
been represented by two distinct words, “consciousness” and
“conscience.” This is a real improvement, so far as it goes. But the
word “consciousness,” which properly expresses the knowledge of
self and of the affections of self, has already acquired, as used by
modern authors, a very indefinite meaning, inasmuch as it already
replaces not only the Latin conscientia, but every kind of knowledge
as well; so that our educated men do not scruple to declare their
consciousness of the rotation of the earth, or their consciousness of
your presence in the room. In philosophy, where no word should be
liable to two interpretations, such a promiscuous and illogical use of
the word is really intolerable; and I respectfully submit that the word
should by all means be again restricted to its natural signification.
 Not to tire the reader with other considerations of a similar
nature, I will come to an end. My object has been to point out in a
general manner what I considered to be most needed in a good
English philosophical work. Certainly, a work based on
unobjectionable principles, ample in its scope, complete in its parts,
and precise in its terminology, would be a great boon to the higher
classes of American society. Let a writer come forward who, besides
a sound knowledge of philosophical truths, possesses the rare art of
expressing them correctly and forcibly in plain language, and he will
see his efforts so fully rewarded that he will never regret the labor
he may have endured in such a difficult undertaking.
A Friend of Philosophy.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com