Volume 27 — CONRAD AND WALBURGA. CHAPTER II.

On the way home Walburga stepped into the cathedral, the grand old Frauen Kirche, and remained a short while on her knees before the high altar. There Conrad and all that he had spoken passed out of her mind; she felt as if she were in another world, so changed was everything round about her, so solemn and still. Before her hung the ever-burning lamp, symbol of the Eternal Presence; and as Walburga’s eyes rested upon the sacred flame, she wondered at herself for bearing with so little resignation the troubles of this life.

“What I seek, what I yearn for,” she sighed, “is not to be found here below. Everything sooner or later passes away; the happiest home we may found on earth must in the end know tears and desolation. O eternity, eternity!”

Yet, strange to relate—and yet, no, not strange, but quite naturally enough—the moment Walburga emerged from this peaceful sanctuary and found herself once more in the noisy, airy, life-throbbing street, with the azure sky overhead and gladsome faces flitting to and fro, she felt very human again, ay, very human; and her craving for something human to love and be loved by grew none the less intense when presently she saw happy Ulrich and happy Moida advancing towards her arm-in-arm. It was not necessary for them to speak to tell that their hearts were throbbing in sweet harmony together, and that for them at least this world was all a paradise.

When Conrad and Ulrich found themselves back at Loewenstein again they talked of little else than their pleasant trip to Munich.

“The only harm ’twill do me,” said the artist, smiling, “is that I’ll lie awake a good while to-night thinking of Moida. The more I see of my betrothed, the more virtues do I discover in her. She is so full of common sense; she keeps store and keeps house too; nobody can make a better bargain when she goes to market, and it is a fortunate thing that Walburga has such a friend.”

“Miss Hofer is indeed a rare girl,” said Conrad, who was seated beside him watching the moon rise over the mountain; “and you have proved your own good sense in choosing her for your future spouse.” Then, assuming a graver tone: “But now let me tell you something which is of great concern to me. You remember that I spoke to you about a young lady whom I met with in the Pinakothek, and that it was in order to see her again that I went to-day to Munich. Well, she turns out to be your sister.”

“My sister! Walburga! Really!” exclaimed Ulrich, feigning surprise at this piece of news.

“And, Ulrich”—here Conrad took his hand in his—“I mean to try my best to win her heart.”

“And most sincerely do I hope you may succeed,” rejoined the youth.

“Well, is she quite free? Is any gentleman courting her?”

313“Nobody, sir, is courting her.”

“It must be because she is poor,” said Conrad inwardly, “and perhaps, too, a little proud. Well, a Loewenstein has a right to be proud.”

They remained thus conversing together until a late hour, until all the lights in the valley were out, until the moon was sailing high in the heavens, and every sound was hushed except the voice of the waterfall in the ravine back of the castle.

And when at length they withdrew to rest, Ulrich, instead of lying awake, as he had feared he might, soon fell asleep, and till cockcrow next morning did nothing but dream of his beloved Moida. He dreamt—O naughty dreamer!—that he was tearing off his buttons purposely, that he might see her plump, ready hand sew them on again; and when he opened his eyes and heard the monastery bell ringing the Angelus, Ulrich fell at once on his knees and prayed with fervor, because he knew that at that same hour in Fingergasse Moida was saying the Angelus too.

The day which now opened was to be a busy one at Loewenstein. Ulrich betimes set himself to work renovating the half-destroyed frescos; and, to his great delight, several beautiful and interesting pictures came to view as he carefully scraped the whitewash off the walls. They appeared in patches: here an eye would peep out upon him; there a hand, a foot, a tress of hair; until by and by a lovely damsel or a knight in armor would stand full-length before his admiring gaze. This whitewash had been daubed over nearly the whole interior of the tower by a simple-minded cobbler, who had intended to make the place his home after Ulrich and Walburga went away, but who only passed one night in it; then was scared off by ghosts.

And when Conrad, who was superintending a band of laborers outside, came in and saw the art treasures which had been brought to light, he clapped his hands for joy. But more even than with the fair lady and mailed warrior was he charmed with a wild, shaggy figure, underneath which in quaint Gothic letters was written the word “Attila.”

“And now, as I behold anew this fresco,” remarked Ulrich, “my childhood comes vividly back to me, and I remember once hearing my father tell my mother that the great-grandsires of those who laid the foundations of Loewenstein might have known the king of the Huns.”

In short, these unlooked-for discoveries so excited Conrad that he could hardly go back to the open air, where the stones and earth which covered the site of three other towers were being cleared away; and ever and anon he would run in again to show Ulrich an old coin or other curious object which the workmen had found amid the rubbish. Whereupon the youth would point to still another long-concealed wall-picture gradually coming to view, till finally Conrad exclaimed: “God bless the stupid cobbler! I’ll not rail at him any more. But for his vile whitewash I should not have enjoyed all these surprises.”

Yes, it was a busy, happy day for them both. When the sun dipped behind the mountain in the west Conrad called to Ulrich to cease his labors and come out and watch the path leading down into the valley. “For I am expecting,” said he, “all the things I purchased of your betrothed to arrive this evening, and 314Miss Hofer is coming with them. I kept it secret, lest you might be too distracted if you knew it.”

“Really! is Moida coming?” cried Ulrich.

Scarcely had the words escaped his lips when they heard the bark of a dog—not a sharp, quick yelp, but the thick, husky bark of a dog that is aged—and in another moment who should be seen emerging from a clump of hazel bushes through which the pathway led but Caro and his mistress.

Down at a break-neck pace flew Ulrich, and, ere the girl had ascended a dozen steps further, she found herself clasped in his arms.

“My knight always takes me by storm,” said Moida, laughing merrily as soon as she recovered her breath.

“Nay, ’tis you who were taking us by storm at the pace you were mounting,” answered Ulrich; then, catching her hand, he assisted her up the rest of the way.

“Everything is coming, sir, everything,” were Moida’s first words to Conrad, who greeted her warmly when she reached the spot where he stood. “But the donkeys have a heavy load—a very heavy load—and so I determined to run ahead and tell you they were coming.”

“Bravo!” cried Conrad. Then, patting Caro’s woolly head: “And is this the good old poodle that I have heard so much of?”

“Yes, sir. And as my pet would be killed by the horrid police if they knew he was alive, I concluded to carry him away from Munich. I hope you are not displeased at my bringing him here?”

“Displeased? Why, nobody likes dogs more than I; and this one shall find a snug home in my castle. But why didn’t you bring the other pet, too?”

“What! the nightingale?” exclaimed Moida, with an air of surprise. “Oh! Walburga would not part with him for anything.”

“Well, the young lady only yesterday spoke of giving him his freedom.”

“Did she? Well, I trust, sir, you persuaded her not to do so,” answered Moida, smiling inwardly; for Walburga had related to her the whole conversation which had passed betwixt herself and Conrad at the Pinakothek, and ever since she had been full of hope that great good would result from her friend’s acquaintance with the new owner of Loewenstein. “And not only will Walburga not let her bird out,” she thought to herself, “but it may end by its joining Caro in this peaceful retreat.”

“But now, Moida, do come and see what I have been about since morning,” spoke Ulrich, drawing her gently along. With this all three passed into the tower, where verily a great change had been wrought in a few hours.

Not only were many frescos long invisible brought again to view, but it was now manifest that each figure and group of figures, from the barbarian Attila down to the most modern one of all, which was scarce a century old, were linked together and presented a tolerably good pictorial history of the house of Loewenstein; and Conrad observed to Moida with a roguish smile: “Your betrothed, miss, has for his remote ancestor a Hun.”

They were still examining these wall-paintings when the donkeys made their appearance, and, although the hour was rather late, Moida clapped her hands and said: “Let us put everything to rights at once. Do!” Accordingly, inspirited 315by her blithe voice, Conrad and Ulrich, without summoning others to help them, unpacked the loads, and so zealously did they work that in a very short while everything was in its proper place except the huge earthenware stove.

Then Conrad donned a suit of armor (rusty and dented, but all the better for being so), and, clutching firmly a heavy two-handed sword, laid about him right and left like mad for above a minute, to Moida’s great delight, and until he was fain to pause for breath.

“I have a friend in Cologne,” said he, “a republican like myself in his opinions; but I mean to write and warn him never to buy a castle—never; otherwise he’ll become a changed man. Oh! there’s nothing like buying a castle to make one an aristocrat.”

After joining in the hearty laugh with which he ended this speech, Moida said to him in a whisper, and as though she felt there was something touching in what she was about to communicate: “My friend Walburga entered the curiosity-shop to-day, sir, for the first time since I have had anything in it belonging to Loewenstein; and ere I packed up the various objects, she placed her hand on each one and stroked it, and even kissed yonder clock, for she said: ‘It stood in my mother’s chamber, it called many a happy hour, and now ’tis going back to the old home again.’”

“Well, now let me tell you a secret,” said Conrad, likewise in an undertone, but with a bright gleam in his eye: “I hope one of these days to see the young lady here herself.”

“Oh! wouldn’t that be charming! Wouldn’t that be glorious!” replied Moida, who understood what he meant. “Why, in the whole of Bavaria there is not her equal, and I am sure you will make her an excellent husband.”

“I hope so, Miss Hofer, even though I am no longer a believer in Christianity.”

“’Twill give Walburga the great happiness of making you a Christian again,” she added, with an arch smile. But Conrad’s expression did not respond to hers, and for a minute or two he was silent. When again he opened his lips the tone of his voice was changed, and, in order to shake off the gloom which he felt creeping upon him, he asked her to sing him a song.

“Yes, yes, do!” exclaimed Ulrich, turning away from the grated window through which he had been gazing while the others were whispering to each other. “Sing that wild ballad called the ‘Scream of the Eagle.’” Moida sang. Never before had Conrad Seinsheim heard anything half so thrilling, and the words were accompanied by such graceful motions as proved the girl to be no mean actress.

“Yes, it is a grand song,” she said when it was finished; “and I like to be in the country, where I may give it with my whole heart. In Munich our lodging is too small and the air out-doors too heavy with beer for such rousing, inspiring words.”

“Your grandfather composed it, did he not?” said Ulrich.

“Oh! no. But he and his riflemen used to chant it when they went into battle. ’Tis as old as the hills; perhaps it rang in the ears of the Roman legions.”

“Well, truly, you are a rare bird,” thought Conrad Seinsheim as he looked at Moida’s bright-blue eyes and cheeks glowing with health; “and if I had not already found my ideal I’d wish to marry you.”

316Then, praying her to sit down in one of the old family chairs: “Now please,” he said, “tell me a little of your history; for”—here Conrad dropped his voice—“I hope ere long that you and Ulrich, and Walburga and myself, as well as Caro and the nightingale, will all form one happy family together. Therefore I am curious to know more about you.”

This was spoken in such a kindly way that Moida could not refuse. Accordingly, she began and told him how she was descended from a race of mountaineers who had never been serfs, like the peasants in other parts of Europe.

“We did not dwell in castles,” said Moida, darting a sportive glance at Ulrich, who was patting her hand. “Still, for all that we were nobles.”

“Yes, yes, you were indeed,” cried the youth.

“But after grandfather was put to death our family quitted their native place in South Tyrol—’twas too full of painful memories—and came north to Innspruck; and finally we drifted to Munich, where I now live. My parents are dead, but Walburga is like a sister to me; and as for this boy—”

“He is a poor, dreamy fellow, but, thanks to you, is turning over a new leaf at last,” interrupted Ulrich. “And I mean soon to have a studio in Munich, where I’ll paint fine pictures, and my darling sha’n’t keep shop any longer.”

“Ay, you must be weary of that sort of life,” observed Conrad.

“Well, if people would only buy something when they pause to look at my curiosities, ’twould not be so trying to my feelings, sir. But you can’t imagine how it excites me when I see a gentleman eyeing the things in the window, even pressing his nose against the glass to obtain a better view. Sometimes he actually enters and scrutinizes every article in the store; asks the price of this and that; smiles approvingly; in fact, looks as if he were about to draw forth his purse; then he coolly turns and walks out. O sir! I have more than once cried for disappointment.”

“Well, except that I might never have met you,” said Ulrich, “I’d rather you had stayed hidden among your native hills than lead such a life.”

“Ay, nothing is so mean and slavish as trade,” remarked Conrad, “and I am very glad that I have given it up.”

“Ha! but if you or your father, sir, had not turned over a good many banknotes and thalers, you might never have become owner of Loewenstein,” said the wise Moida. “And then dear Caro wouldn’t have had a home here, and all these pikes and helmets and other venerable relics would have been for ever scattered to the winds. Whereas now, thanks to your wealth, there will soon be no castle in all Tyrol like this one.”

“Well, tell me, Miss Hofer, what would you have me do now that I am out of business?” asked Conrad. “A man ought not to be idle.”

“Do? Why, I’d hunt chamois, and fish in the Inn, and climb the glaciers, and I’d find happiness in making others happy, for there are many poor people in the Innthal.”

“But would that suffice? Oh! you do not know what a restless mortal I am. I have always been sighing for something, but no sooner do I attain my heart’s desire—and thus far I have been very fortunate—than straightway I begin to 317yearn for something else. Suppose now I devote myself to science, say to astronomy, and build a telescope, a gigantic one, bigger than the biggest, and sweep the heavens millions of miles beyond the farthest star now seen?”

“Well, I’d rather busy myself with the things near me,” returned Moida. “However, if you like to look through a telescope, why I’d build one. But, telescope or no telescope, I’d do nothing but laugh from sunrise till sundown if this castle belonged to me.”

And this was true enough. Hers was a happy nature; nothing ever disturbed her serenity. Although poor, she did not envy the rich. Although a very good girl, she was never troubled by religious scruples; the most fiery sermon on eternal punishment could not keep Moida’s head from nodding after the preacher had been preaching more than twenty minutes, and Walburga used to envy her from the bottom of her heart. And now Ulrich’s betrothed felt inclined to smile at Conrad, who was so rich and free from care, but whose visage had assumed a grave look, and she thought to herself: “’Tis a pity he has moody spells, for dear Walburga is prone to them, too; she should have a laughing, jovial husband.”

Then, to cheer her host, Moida sang another song, which presently drove away the cloud from his face. But the girl paused not with one; the music continued to flow in an unbroken stream from her lips, until the oil in the lamp burned low and warned them that it was time to seek repose.

“And now good-night,” said Conrad, after showing his fair guest to a little room near the top of the tower. “I hope the moonbeams shining in through the chinks in the wall will not keep you awake. Good-night.”

“Nothing ever keeps me awake; I’ll soon shut out the moon. Good-night, sir,” she answered. And in a very short while Moida was fast asleep, with her rosary in her hand—for she always closed her eyes before she had half finished, and let her guardian angel say the rest of the prayer.

“Why, what an early bird you are!” exclaimed Walburga the following morning, as she was preparing to set off for the Pinakothek. “Back already?”

“Yes,” answered Moida. “I took the first train. Not that I didn’t wish to stay longer, but—”

“Ah! true, you have to look after the dinner—my breakfast was miserable without you—and keep store, and one night was quite as long as you could be spared,” added the other, smiling; and good-natured Moida smiled too; then with an arch glance said: “By the way, he came with me.”

“He! Whom do you mean?” asked Walburga, pretending not to understand.

“Why, Conrad Seinsheim. And really, I advise you to accept him if he proposes. The short time I passed in his company has convinced me that he is a good man, and I doubt not but you will bring him back to the faith. Yes, love and prayer will make a Christian of him again sooner than anything else.”

“But what makes you think he has any notion of courting me?”

“Oh! I can tell by the way he talks, and by what you yourself told me about him the other day. So you’ll surely see him this forenoon; he may be already at the gallery awaiting you.”

318“Well, true, Mr. Seinsheim did ask my leave to come and renew our conversation. Therefore I presume he will be there.”

“Yet a moment since you feigned not to know that he cared for you,” continued Moida, twitching her sleeve.

“Oh! he merely wishes to converse on art. Besides, some men enjoy being near a woman, without having any thought of matrimony. There are full as many flirts in one sex as in the other; however, if Mr. Seinsheim imagines he can throw dust in my eyes, he’ll be mistaken. It shall be all art between us—nothing but art; not a single silly syllable.”

“Well, he doesn’t look like one to pay foolish compliments; you have owned as much yourself,” said Moida. “Now, remember his words when you spoke of uncaging your nightingale; and if I can read character, Mr. Seinsheim is just the man to ask a girl to be his wife at the second or third interview. So, dear friend, you may return at noon engaged.”

“How can you dream of such a thing!” said Walburga, half reproachfully.

“Oh! now don’t be vexed. But let me calmly inquire why I should not dream of it; for where could he find a better helpmate?”

“Because all men are alike. Even the holy patriarchs were guided by outward appearances in choosing their wives. Scripture tells us that Laban had two daughters, Leah and Rachel: ‘Leah was tender-eyed; but Rachel was beautiful, and Jacob loved Rachel.’”

This was more than Moida could gainsay; therefore she let the subject drop and asked about the bird.

“I have given him his liberty,” said Walburga.

“Have you truly? Well, I declare!”

This was all that Moida could utter. Then, putting on her hat and shawl, Walburga quitted the room, leaving her friend repeating to herself:

“What a sentimental girl she is! What a sentimental girl she is!”

We may be sure that while on her way to the picture gallery Walburga thought only of the one whom she expected to meet there, and she quite agreed with Moida that Conrad did not seem like a man to play at courtship. Yet, admitting that he was in earnest, would he not prove to be in the end like the great majority of his sex—a blind follower only of what his eyes revealed to him? Would he dive below the surface and judge her by her inner self?

“I will try not to indulge any hope,” thought Walburga. Yet, at this very moment, down in her heart’s depths the flower of hope was already beginning to bud, and no doubt that was why her step this morning was lighter than usual. As for Conrad having lost his faith, however much she regretted it, and pious girl though she was, this did not lead her to believe that he was a bad man. Walburga had sense enough to discern the difficulties which lie in the way of belief in the revelation to those who have wandered from, or never known, the truth; she knew, too, that the universities were full of learned professors who spoke of God as a myth. “And even some saints,” she said, “have been racked by doubt, and overcame this, the greatest of all the temptations of the arch-fiend, only by severe self-tortures. Therefore I will continue to pray for Conrad Seinsheim.” (Walburga had remembered him in 319her prayers ever since she had heard that he was an unbeliever). “And I will pray also for dear Ulrich, who is young and confiding, and is much in Conrad’s power.”

A quarter of an hour later and the girl was busy at her easel, and working swiftly too. “For I must accomplish all I can before he arrives,” she murmured to herself.

But Conrad did not allow her time to do much. Presently his voice was heard bidding her good-morning. Whereupon she returned his greeting in a cheery tone, but without looking round.

“Gracious lady,” he began, “doubtless Miss Hofer has already told you of her pleasant visit to Loewenstein. The weather was delightful, the old place looked charming, and I should not have let her return so soon, nor come myself either, only that I longed to see you again.”

“Dear Moida enjoyed it very much, but she knows that ’tis impossible for me to get along without her,” answered Walburga, revealing only by a faint flush the emotion excited by Conrad’s words. Her hand, however, was steadier than it had been the first time he paid her a compliment. Then the other, after observing her a moment in silence, went on:

“How rapidly you paint, Miss Von Loewenstein! And what life you throw into your picture!”

“Well, yes, sir, I am a quick worker. I hope my brother is not disappointing you and dawdling over his task.”

“No, indeed! And I consider myself very fortunate in having found such an artist. There he was, seated amid the ruins of the old castle, when I arrived, apparently waiting for me to appear; and if you saw the tower now you would hardly recognize it. Why, some of the frescos, since Ulrich has restored them, are as fine as anything in this gallery.”

“Really!” exclaimed Walburga.

“Yes, really. And he declares his skill and energy are all due to Moida. Ulrich says she spurs him on, and I believe it. Oh! nothing like a woman to put fire into a man.”

“Well, some gentlemen, sir, manage to live and prosper without any such spurring,” rejoined Walburga, with a smile lurking on her lips.

“I am exceedingly hard to please; that is why I am still a bachelor,” said her admirer, wincing a little at this remark.

“Well, believe me, sir, ’tis foolish to be so fastidious. Why, in any town of ten, nay, of even five thousand inhabitants a good man may find a good woman to be his wife.”

“Do you think so?”

“’Tis my conviction. This hunting up and down the world for an ideal woman is nonsense.” Then, with a slight gesture of impatience: “O these lips!” exclaimed Walburga—“these lips! when shall I get them right?”

“Well, you see, Miss Von Loewenstein, what a severe critic you are of your exquisite copy of Carlo Dolce; whereas to me it seems already perfect.”

“Oh! but this is a picture, not a living being. Here the eye is our only guide. In the other case—”

“Then a blind man might do as well as one who had sight in choosing a wife?” interrupted Conrad, laughing.

Walburga laughed, too, then answered:

“Verily, sir, there is more truth in that than you imagine. He knows little of a woman who knows 320only what his eyes tell him of her.”

“Well, you may be right,” he added musingly; “you may be right. Yet I trust a good deal to mine.”

“If women did the same, might there not be fewer weddings?” said Walburga. “Besides, I know I am right. Why, the happiest lady in Munich—I know her intimately—is wedded to a little squab of a man, who squints so badly that his two eyes seem blended into one.”

Here a pause ensued, during which Conrad made up his mind that Ulrich’s sister was no ordinary character. She had ideas of her own, and was not afraid to express them. Then, unable to resist the temptation to speak something else that was flattering, he said:

“I wonder how a person so gifted as yourself should be content to remain a mere copyist.”

“’Tis all one can be in our age,” replied Walburga. “The days of originality are gone by. We need another deluge to blot out whatever mankind has wrought in literature and art; then, after the flood should have subsided, artists and writers might begin anew.”

“Oh! but surely there are original things painted and written nowadays?” said Conrad.

“It may appear so, sir. But ’tis only because the ignorant public does not know where lies hidden the musty parchment or worm-eaten canvas whence the so-called genius has stolen his prize. No, no; originality, in this age of the world, is the art of knowing how to pilfer. True originality is stark dead.” And the girl ended these words with a sigh, which proved that she, at least, believed what she said to be true.

“Well, if all copyists did their duty as faithfully as yourself,” pursued Conrad, “we might readily forego any more originals.” Then, while the bright color which this speech brought to her cheek was still glowing upon it, he added: “And now, gracious lady, let me remind you that I once asked if your picture was for sale, and you told me ‘yes.’ But we came to no bargain.”

“Well, what will you give me for it?” said Walburga, little dreaming what a weighty response her question would draw forth.

“A castle and my own poor self with it,” answered Conrad.

For full a minute the girl stayed silent; her brush fell to her lap, and, without giving him a glance, she bowed her head. Then presently, resuming her work: “Come back, sir,” she said, “in three days and you shall have my decision.”

“Oh! but why not to-day? now? at this moment? Nobody is near to hear what you say,” pleaded Conrad, and so fervent was his tone that Walburga’s resolution was half shaken. Then, while her right hand hung quivering upon the canvas, he seized it and pressed it to his lips.

The effect of this kiss was magical; it thrilled like lightning through every vein in her body, and from that instant Walburga’s heart was won.

But presently, to Conrad’s amazement, the glow faded from her cheek and she heaved a sigh; then came a tear.

“What can it mean?” he asked himself, strongly tempted to sweep the bright jewel away with another kiss. “What can it mean?” And again he implored her to end his suspense, to let him know his fate at once.

“Please do not urge me; I would rather not,” said Walburga, 321in a voice little above a whisper. “I believe, sir, you love me; therefore wait and be patient.”

These last words lent fire to Conrad’s hopes, and scarcely doubting that her response, when it came, would be favorable, he allowed her hand to go free.

But any more work was out of the question for the fair artist; while the other, albeit longing to linger in her company, judged it would be best to withdraw. And so Conrad went away, full of gladness, leaving Walburga cherishing, too, the fond belief that here was a man who was not like other men—a man who would take her for her inner worth, who would give her that home, that celestial harmony of loving hearts, which had been for years the craving of her soul.

TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

HELL AND SCIENCE.

The editor of Popular Science Monthly gave us in one of his late issues an article concerning the belief in hell. The article begins by referring to the lively discussion which has recently been carried on in the pulpit and the press as to whether there is a state of eternal torments. According to Prof. Youmans, this discussion shows that “there has been, thanks to the influence of science, a pretty rapid liberalizing of theological opinion during the past generation, and is an instructive indication of the advance that has been made.” After this expression of satisfaction he very naturally remarks that the question of the existence of a veritable hell is a theological one, which he cheerfully leaves “to those interested,” as if men of science, especially those of a certain school, were not interested in the question of knowing what is kept in store for those who sin against truth and against God. But “the topic,” he adds, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the idea, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone; and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” Whence he concludes that a few suggestions concerning this view of the subject may not be inappropriate.

This preamble, though the least objectionable portion of Prof. Youmans’ article, is full of questionable assertions. First, the discussion about the existence of eternal punishment does not show any “rapid liberalizing” of theological opinion. For, on the one hand, the doctrine of hell is not a theological opinion but a revealed dogma; and, on the other, the foolish attempt of discrediting it among the ignorant did not proceed from theologians, but from such men as have been, 322and are, the worst enemies of theology. Theology is essentially based on authority; hence theology has no existence in the Protestant sects, whose very reason of being is a contemptuous disregard of authority and the assumed right of private interpretation. Now, all those who ventured to argue against the existence of eternal punishment belonged to Protestant sects. And, therefore, their “liberal” view of the subject does not constitute “theological opinion.” Protestants may, indeed, assume the title of “divines”; but the title is not the thing. There is no real theology outside of the Catholic Church. When Catholic divines shall discuss the existence of hell as a free theological opinion—which, of course, will never happen—then only Prof. Youmans will be welcome to say that there has been “a liberalizing of theological opinion.”

But, secondly, the very idea of “liberalizing” Protestant thought is supremely ludicrous. For who has been the forerunner, the inventor, the father, and the fosterer of liberalism but Protestant thought? Whence did religious scepticism spring but from Protestant inconsistency? Liberalism is nothing but Protestantism applied to philosophical, political, and social questions. It is Protestant thought, therefore, that has liberalized a portion of modern society, not modern thought that has liberalized Protestant opinion. To liberalize Protestant thought is like carrying coal to Newcastle.

Thirdly, it is not true that the recent discussion of the doctrine of hell shows “the influence of science.” It simply shows the ignorance of some Protestant divines and the wickedness of perverted human hearts. Science, as now understood, is exclusively concerned with things that fall under observation and experiment, or that can be logically inferred or mathematically deduced from experiment and observation. Now, surely, the torments of hell are not a matter of observation and experiment during the present life, as even Prof. Youmans will concede. And therefore it is evident that the doctrine of hell cannot be made the subject of scientific reasoning. On the other hand, how can science influence the opinion of men as to believing or not believing in a future state of eternal punishment? Our advanced thinkers assume that science knows everything, and that what is unknown to science has no existence. It is on this ground that they ignore revelation, creation, immortality, and a number of other important truths. But the absurdity of such an assumption is so evident that there can be no mistake about it. Science knows, or pretends to know, matter and force; but it knows nothing about right and wrong, nothing about virtue and vice, nothing about religion and moral law, nothing about the origin and the finality of things, and it is so ignorant (we speak of advanced science) that it even fails to see the absolute necessity of a Creator. Is it not ridiculous, then, to assume that there may be no hell because modern science professes to know nothing about its existence?

But “the topic,” continues Prof. Youmans, “has also a scientific side. The rise and course of the idea, or what may be called the natural history of the belief in hell, is a subject quite within the sphere of scientific inquiry. It is legitimate to ask as to how the notion originated, as to its antiquity, the 323extent to which it has been entertained, the forms it has assumed, and the changes it has undergone, and from this point of view it of course involves the principle of evolution.” This reasoning, on which the professor endeavors to ground a scientific claim to meddle with a revealed doctrine, is altogether preposterous. For, although it be legitimate to ask how the notion of hell originated, and how ancient it is, and how ignorance and vulgar prejudices may have distorted it, nevertheless it is not from natural science that an answer to such questions can be expected. The theologian, the historian, and the moral philosopher are the only competent authorities on the subject. The scientist, as such, is not qualified to speak of the origin of revealed doctrines; for science, especially advanced science, has no knowledge of revelation. Hence, when our scientists venture to pass a judgment upon matters connected with revelation, they deserve to be reminded of the good old precept: Let the cobbler stick to his last.

The reader will have remarked that Prof. Youmans proposes to deal with the “forms” which the doctrine of eternal punishment has assumed, and with the “changes” it has undergone. This, of course, has no bearing on the question of the existence of hell; for the existence of things does not depend on the changeable views entertained as to their mode of existing. But the professor, who is wise in his generation, perceived that by insisting on the changes undergone by the doctrine two advantages could be gained. On the one hand, a precious opportunity would be offered of confounding our revealed doctrine with the fabulous conceptions of the pagan world; on the other hand, the professor would be enabled to treat our revealed doctrine as a mere development of old fables, according to certain principles of evolution which modern science has invented though never established. But we would remark that, since the professor meant to show, as we see from the conclusion of his article, that our Christian doctrine of hell “should be eliminated from the popular creed,” the argument drawn from the discordant views of heathen and barbarous nations should have been considered preposterous. For what does it matter if the pagan fables took different forms and underwent any number of changes? It is quite enough for us that our own doctrine has been invariably the same. It is a blunder, therefore, to condemn the latter for the variations of the former.

Prof. Youmans begins to develop his subject in the following manner: “In the first place, it is necessary to rise above that narrowness of view which regards the doctrine of hell as especially a Christian doctrine or as the monopoly of any particular religion. On the contrary, it is as ancient and universal as the systems of religious faith that have overspread the world.” In our opinion, this pretended necessity of rising “above the narrowness of view” which regards the doctrine of hell as especially Christian doctrine is only a futile pretext for putting on the same level the Christian dogma and the pagan inventions. In the recent discussion of the doctrine by the Protestant sects there had been no question about the existence of the imaginary hell of the pagans; the whole question 324regarded the Scriptural hell. Hence a reference to pagan ideas could not be necessary. Nor is it true that the view which regards the doctrine of hell as a specially Christian doctrine is “narrow.” We see that different sects have kept or borrowed some points of doctrine from the Catholic Church, and that they have perverted them more or less, as was the case with the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, of the Eucharist, of justification, and of other supernatural truths; and yet no one will say that it is a “narrow view” to regard these doctrines as essentially and exclusively Catholic. For to whom were they originally revealed but to the Catholic Church? and where are they to be found in their primitive entirety but in the Catholic Church? The vagaries of sectarian thought are surely not to be considered as a development of doctrine; they are only a travesty and an adulteration of truth, just in the same manner as the evolution of species is no part of natural science, being only a mass of absurdities, as we have abundantly shown in some of our past numbers. To mix together doctrinal truth and doctrinal error is not to avoid narrowness but to produce confusion. Were we to collect all the errors of modern scientists about force or about the constitution of matter, we could easily prove, by Prof. Youmans’ method, that science is a mere imposition and a disgrace to the age. But our logic differs from that of the professor; hence we do not consider it “narrowness” to distinguish science from the errors of scientists, that truth and error may not be involved indiscriminately in the same condemnation. But let us proceed:

“The oldest religions of which we have any knowledge—Hindoo, Egyptian, and the various Oriental systems of worship—all affirm the doctrine of a future life with accompanying hells for the torture of condemned souls. We certainly cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin; but, if not, then the question forces itself upon us how they came to this belief. The old historic religious systems involved advanced and complicated creeds and rituals, and if they were not real divine revelations in this elaborate shape, we are compelled to regard them as having had a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition. To explain these religions we must go behind them. There is a prehistoric, rudimentary theology of the primitive man, the quality of which has to be deduced from his low, infantine condition of mind, interpreted by what we observe among the inferior types of mankind in the present time.”

This passage contains the main argument of Prof. Youmans’ article, by which he intends to show that the doctrine of hell has no ground in divine revelation, but simply originated in human ignorance. Unfortunately, Professor Youmans’ interpretation of history cannot be depended upon. The fact that Hindoos, Egyptians, and all other nations admitted in some shape the doctrine of hell is a very good evidence that the doctrine of the existence of hell was co-extensive with humanity, and therefore had its origin in a primitive tradition of the race, and not in the imagination of isolated individuals or families. This primitive tradition, as well as the primitive religion, must be traced to Noe and his family. It is Noe’s religion, not the Hindoo or the Egyptian or any other Oriental religion, that has been “the oldest religion of which we have any knowledge”; and this oldest religion had its secure foundation in 325the knowledge of the true God and of his supreme, omnipotent, provident will. Hence, when Prof. Youmans, forsaking all mention of this primitive religion derived from direct divine revelation, resorts to other systems of worship more or less corrupt, and declares that “we cannot assume that all these systems are true and of divine origin,” he shows either a perverse desire of deceiving his readers, or at least a strange ignorance of ancient history.

The consequence he draws from the preceding assertions is even more unreasonable. If the religious systems of the ancient heathens were not divine revelations, “we are compelled,” he says, “to regard them as having a natural development out of lower and cruder forms of superstition.” This conclusion is so contrary to all we know of mankind that it required the inventive genius of an advanced scientist to formulate it. The known truth is that the objectionable systems of worship invented among different nations were not a progress of humanity from a lower form of superstition, but a departure from the form of worship originally practised according to God’s prescription, a fall from the region of light into the darkness of error. Noe’s religion was no superstition; and it is from Noe’s religion that the pagan nations apostatized by a gradual corruption of revealed truth.

Our advanced scientist invents also “a prehistoric rudimentary theology of the primitive man.” The invention is quite new and deserves to be patented. And the primitive man was still “in a low, infantine condition of mind”; which is another great discovery. The pity is that it has no ground. The Darwinian theory of evolution cannot be appealed to; for it is philosophically, historically, and even scientifically exploded, so that only “the inferior types of mankind”—that is, “the low and infantine minds”—can hear of it without shaking their heads. The primitive man knew his noble origin, conversed with his Creator, received his orders, and learned from him his own destiny. Adam was a great deal sharper, wittier, and more instructed in all important things than his modern scientific descendants; and Noe, the second father of our race, the second propagator and witness of divine revelation, was as eminent a man at least as any of our contemporaries; for he it was who transmitted to his descendants that knowledge of astronomy, architecture, philosophy, history, agriculture, and other arts and sciences by which the post-diluvian world, as soon as sufficiently repeopled, displayed in the wonderful magnificence of Babylonian and Egyptian civilization the intellectual treasures inherited from the antediluvian culture. Such was the man who handed down to us the fundamental truths of primitive religion. If such a man is said to have been “in a low and infantine condition of mind,” could we not say as much of the average scientist of the time?

The professor remarks that the early men, in profound ignorance of the surrounding world and of their own nature, must have grossly misinterpreted outward appearances and their internal experiences, and this, he says, “is certain.” Indeed? How did the professor ascertain this? Men whose lives were measured by centuries could not have sufficient experience of things to save them from gross mistakes! They made no sufficient observations 326to enable them to interpret exterior and interior phenomena! They did not even know their own natures! Their ignorance was profound! Adam had the advantage of nine hundred and thirty years of experience, and yet “it is certain” that he remained in profound ignorance of the surrounding world! His descendants soon invented different useful arts, as metallurgy, architecture, and music both vocal and instrumental; they built cities, and reached that high degree of civilization and refinement without which the subsequent universal corruption would have been impossible; and yet, if we believe our professor, they did not know their natures nor what they were doing!

Then we are told that the analysis of the conditions of early men “has abundantly shown how these primitive misunderstandings led inevitably to manifold superstitions.” It is plain, however, that the conditions of early men have never been analyzed by those who reject the Mosaic history, for the first requisite for proceeding to such an analysis is a knowledge of the conditions themselves which are to be analyzed; and these conditions are found nowhere but in the book of Genesis. And as to “primitive misunderstandings” and the “inevitable superstitions” to which they have led, can Prof. Youmans give us more detailed information? Did Adam, in his “profound ignorance of the surrounding world,” imagine that the sun was a god? or the moon a goddess? Or was it possible for him to fall into “inevitable superstition,” seeing that he had been in frequent direct communication with his true Creator and God?

It is altogether ridiculous to pretend that Herbert Spencer “has carefully traced out this working of the primitive mind, and explained how the early men, by their crude misconceptions of natural things, were gradually led to the belief in a ghost-realm of beings appended to the existing order.” Herbert Spencer did nothing of the kind. He analyzed fictions, not facts, and his conclusions are worthless.

But, says Mr. Youmans, “the idea of a life after death, so universally entertained among races of the lowest grades of intelligence, is accounted for, and is only to be accounted for, in this way. Through experiences of sleep, dreams, and loss and return of consciousness at irregular times, ... there grew up the idea of a double nature—of a part that goes away leaving the body lifeless, and returns again to revivify it; and thus originated the theory of immaterial ghosts or spirits.” This is just what we could expect from an admirer of Herbert Spencer’s philosophical method. Prof. Youmans does not know, apparently, that the idea of a life after death is a simple corollary of a manifest truth—viz., that the reasoning principle which is in man is neither matter, nor an affection or modification of matter, but a distinct substance, and one which possesses powers and properties of a much higher order than the powers and properties of matter. This truth, against which materialists can allege nothing which has not been refuted a hundred times, combined with another obvious truth which even advanced science admits—viz., that no substance is or can be naturally annihilated—leads directly to the consequence that our reasoning principle, our soul, will naturally survive the death of our body. This mere hint concerning the substantiality, spirituality, 327and natural immortality of the human soul may here suffice. It shows that men had no need of resorting to the experiences of dreams, swoons, catalepsy, trance, and other forms of insensibility to be enabled to infer that the human soul is a spiritual substance. Every act of our intellectual faculties proclaims that our soul is a self-moving and self-possessing being. Dreams and swoons and catalepsy, being common to the lower animals, have never been considered a proof of the spirituality and immortality of the human soul. It is childish, therefore, to derive the idea of spirituality and immortality from the experience of such phenomena.

Mr. Youmans tells us also that when the conception of a separate and future life arose in men’s minds, such a life could not have been supposed to differ much from that of the present order of things. This he takes for granted, owing to the profound ignorance which, according to advanced science, characterized the primitive men; and he illustrates this view by some examples of savages, who bury food, weapons, implements, etc., with the bodies of their dead friends. But, “as knowledge accumulated, the conception grew incongruous, and underwent important modifications, so that similarity gradually passed into contrast. The intimacy of the intercourse supposed to be carried on between the two worlds decreased; the future world was conceived of as more remote, and as having other occupations and gratifications more consonant with developing ideas of the present life.” Such is the professor’s theory. We need hardly say that, as a scientific theory, it has no value. Science is based on facts; but here we have nothing but dreams exploded by history as well as by philosophy. The origin of the belief in hell is not to be traced to the profound ignorance of the primitive man. This profound ignorance is not a fact but a fiction. The assumption that man’s intellect was originally in an undeveloped condition, and that it has gone on improving all along till it became able to discover the incongruousness of its previous notions and to give them up, is another fiction. That the “accumulation of knowledge,” such as obtained among infidel nations, could enlighten them on a question as to which nothing can be definitely known on merely natural grounds, is a third fiction; whilst the truth is that the pretended knowledge of the heathens, like the pretended science of our modern sceptics, has been rather a source of innumerable absurdities, by which the primitive holy and healthy traditions of the race have been obscured, corrupted, and disfigured.

But the professor has more to say in support of his “scientific” view. “Rude conceptions regarding good and evil could not fail to be early involved with considerations of man’s futurity. Good and evil are inextricably mixed up in this world, which seems always to have been regarded as a faulty arrangement, and, as there was little hope of rectifying it here, the future life came to be regarded as compensatory to the present.... This idea of using the next world to redress the imperfections and wrongs of this grew up early and survives still, and it has exerted a prodigious influence in human affairs.” It is evident that the consideration of man’s futurity, to be rational, must involve the consideration 328of man’s moral nature; for the futurity of a moral being is necessarily connected with the moral order. It would be folly to deny that virtue deserves reward, or that vice deserves punishment; and even the most stupid understand that the future of a scoundrel must differ from the future of a saint. This universal belief “survives still,” as Mr. Youmans himself testifies, and is not “growing obsolete,” as he pretends, but is still universal in our civilized society. Of course a dozen or two of advanced thinkers may be found who reject this universal belief; for, as they suppress God and worship Nature, they would be embarrassed to explain how the good can be rewarded and the wicked punished by their blind goddess that has no knowledge of the moral law. But this shows only the “profound ignorance” of such advanced thinkers regarding things supersensible, and proves to demonstration that, in spite of all their pretensions, they do not belong to the civilized world. The early men, whose conceptions our professor denounces as “rude,” were better and deeper philosophers than he is. They recognized a personal God, the eternal source of morality, the judge of his creatures, the rewarder of justice, and the punisher of crime. They knew, therefore, that the problem of good and evil was to be solved “not by the absorption and disappearance of evil,” but by separating the good from the bad, “the good being all collected in a good place, and the bad ones all turned into a bad place.” Mr. Youmans does not like this solution. He seems to insinuate that the true solution implies the absorption and disappearance of evil. He seems to say: Let virtue be rewarded, but let not wickedness be punished. He may have his reasons for preferring this solution, but we have none for accepting it. Reason as well as revelation declare it to be unacceptable.

What follows is a vulgar tirade against priesthood. All priests indiscriminately are denounced by our liberal professor for having taught the existence of heaven and hell. He says:

“As the grosser superstitions were gradually developed into systematic religions, a priestly class arose, and religious beliefs were embodied in definite creeds. Fundamental among these was the belief in heaven as a place of happiness, and of hell as a place of torment for the wicked. To one or other of these places, it was held, all men are bound to go after death; but to which depended—and here the office of the priesthood assumed a terrible importance, for they knew all about it and had the keys. It is impossible to conceive any other idea of such tremendous power for dominating mankind as this! It raised the priesthood and the ecclesiastical institutions into despotic ascendency, brought it into unholy alliance with civil despotism, and became the mighty means of plundering the people, crushing out their liberties, darkening their hopes, and cursing their lives.”

This bit of declamation might safely be left without answer. But to clear up the confusion made by the scientific writer, we will ask him to explain what he understands by the word “priesthood.” Does he mean the ministers of all religions without exception, or the ministers of false religions only? Does he involve in the same sentence the priest of God and of Christ with the priest of Baal and of Moloch? or does he admit that a distinction should be made? Perhaps he will smile at our simplicity in asking a question about which his habitual readers can entertain no doubt, it being evident that 329a man who worships nothing but matter and force is a natural enemy of Christ and of his ministers. Nevertheless, as no one must be allowed to snarl and bite without motive, we insist on an explanation. If the Christian priesthood is not involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ eloquence is all thrown away; for it is by the Christian priesthood that the doctrine of hell has been most efficiently taught and inculcated all the world over. If, on the contrary, as it is logical to assume, the Christian priesthood is involved in his denunciations, then Mr. Youmans’ brain is surely not in a sound condition. A man in full possession of his reasoning power would never have thought of connecting the Christian priesthood with despotism, or of charging them with plundering the people, crushing their liberties, darkening their hopes, or cursing their lives. No; the professor is not in full possession of his faculties in this matter. Were it otherwise, he would be guilty of the most odious slander. In some of his articles, which we have analyzed not long ago, we had already found what might be taken as unmistakable signs of scientific aberration. The reader may still remember how the professor countenanced the conception of the unthinkable, how he advocated continuous evolution without any actual link of continuity, and how he made life spring from dead, inert matter. But now it is the Christian priesthood that makes an unholy alliance with civil despotism and crushes the liberties of the people! This assertion cannot be excused by the plea of bad logic; for it regards a matter of fact, not of speculation, and logic, whether good or bad, has nothing to do with it. Only a natural or preternatural derangement in a man’s brain can account for the oddity of such a charge. We say natural or preternatural, because it sometimes happens, even in this age of advanced civilization, that a man who makes profession of militant infidelity is taken possession of, either consciously or unconsciously, by “the father of lies,” who makes a fool of him in this world the better to secure his everlasting ruin in the other. We repeat that a man of sound mind, and free from satanic influence, would never make such a silly and unhistorical denunciation of the priesthood as Prof. Youmans has ventured to make. He would rather say that the Christian priesthood has been the most earnest champion of popular liberties in all times and in all countries, as all ecclesiastical and secular history testifies. He would say that their ascendency, far from being despotic, was kind and paternal, and calculated to win, as it did, the love of the people without ceasing to command their respect. He would say that this ascendency was not derived from their threats of the torments of hell, but was the reward of their virtuous life, ardent charity, singular prudence, and superior education; and was used, not to plunder the people, but to protect them against baronial, royal, and imperial plunderers.

Plundering is a masonic virtue; witness the great French Revolution in the last century, and the policy of Italy, Germany, and Switzerland in the present. And who are the men that plunder the American people but the infidel politicians who do not believe in hell? Mr. Youmans may depend upon it, no judicial, legislative, or 330executive power will ever put a stop to such a wholesale plundering until they humbly kneel before the priest, and conjure him to take in hand the education of our citizens and to revive in them a salutary fear of hell. It is not the fear of hell that “curses the lives” or “darkens the hopes” of men. All the world knows, on the contrary, that there has never been on the face of the earth a thriftier and happier people than the Christian has been. Of course criminals are troubled by the remembrance of hell, their lives are galled, and their hopes are darkened; but we presume that Mr. Youmans does not mean to patronize them. After all it is not the priests that have created hell; they merely warn the sinner of its existence, that he may mend his ways and be saved. Indeed, it is sin, not hell, that darkens the hopes and curses the life of man.

From the bitter tone of the passage we have been refuting it would appear that Mr. Youmans is extremely jealous of the authority and ascendency of the priesthood. The jealousy is very natural. The priest, who teaches the Gospel backed by the authority of the universal church, is a very serious obstacle to the propagation of false scientific or unscientific belief. Therefore it is that Mr. Youmans cannot bear to see the Christian priesthood revered and esteemed by the people, and does his best to destroy their reputation and authority. At this we are not astonished; for modern unbelief is so destitute of intrinsic grounds and so incapable of defending itself that it is constrained to go out of its lines and try a diversion. Accordingly, it takes the offensive. But when the offensive is carried on with no other weapons than those recommended by Voltaire, “Mentez, mentez toujours; il faut mentir comme des diables,” then tranquillus judicat orbis terrarum, the world, though wicked, will be heard to pronounce its sentence against the offender.

The professor adds:

“So productive an agency of unscrupulous ambition could not fail to be assiduously cultivated, and the conception of hell, the most potent element in the case by its appeal to fear, was elaborated with the utmost ingenuity. Language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions and the agonies of the damned. We by no means say that these ideas were mere priestly inventions, but only that they grew up under the powerful guidance of a class consecrated to their exposition and incited by the most powerful worldly motives to strengthen their influence. In order to enforce belief, to compel obedience to ecclesiastical requirements, to coerce civil submission, and to extort money, people were threatened with the horrors of hell, which were pictured with all the vividness of rhetorical and poetic fanaticism. As the hierarchical spirit grew in strength and became a tyrannical rule, obedience to its minutest rites was enforced by the most appalling intimidations.”

We did not know, before we read this passage, that preaching the Christian doctrine of hell was productive of “unscrupulous ambition”; we rather thought that it was productive of deep and sincere humility. The preacher of the Gospel believes in the Gospel, and knows that hell is awaiting the bad and “unscrupulous” priest no less than the bad and unscrupulous layman. Hence, if the priest assiduously cultivated the thought and elaborated the doctrine of hell, it would appear that the priest could not be “unscrupulous”—at least, not so unscrupulous as those professors who get rid of hell by the 331final “absorption of evil.” Nor do we understand why a wise man should complain that the priests assiduously cultivated and elaborated the doctrine of hell, and that “language was exhausted in depicting the terrors of the infernal regions.” This fact should be a matter of congratulation, not of blame; for the terrors of hell “exert a prodigious influence,” as the professor acknowledges, in human affairs; they discourage crime, fortify virtue, and contribute to the maintenance of those conditions without which human society would be transformed into a lair of ferocious beasts. A professor who pretends to a high place among the friends of civilization should have seen this.

As to the motives which induced the priesthood to dilate so assiduously on the torments of hell, we admit that they were “powerful”; but that they were “worldly” we do not admit, for had they been worldly they would have lost all their power. In like manner we admit that the hierarchical spirit may have grown in strength; but that it became a “tyrannical rule,” enforcing the minutest rites “by appalling intimidations,” we most confidently deny. These malicious assertions cannot be substantiated. And again, we understand how the fear of the eternal torments may have helped to secure obedience to the lawful authorities, whether civil or ecclesiastical; but we do not see how this fear could be used “to extort money” from the people. The thing is absurd, as it involves the assumption that the most virtuous, venerable, and self-sacrificing friends of the people, the Christian priesthood, were a set of knaves.

The professor’s remark that “the terrors of hell were not mere priestly inventions, but grew up under their powerful guidance,” will receive more light from the passage which follows:

“We must not forget that the future life, being beyond experience and inaccessible to reason, offers an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination. It opens an infinite realm for sensuous imagery and creative invention, stirs the deepest feelings, and concerns itself with the mystery of human destiny. It accordingly offers a favorite topic for poetic treatment, and this is more especially true of the darker aspect of the future world, poets having taken with avidity to delineations of hell.... Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton, working through poems of immortal genius that have fascinated mankind, some of them through thousands of years and others through centuries, have thus combined to familiarize countless millions of people with the conception, and to stamp it deep in the literature of all countries.”

There is some truth in this; for it is true that all our pictures of hell are drawn more or less from our imagination. However, we do not mistake our pictures for the reality. No effort to depict what we have never seen can be a success. But what of that? The belief in the existence of hell is not derived from, or subordinated to, our mode of representing its torments, just as the belief in the existence of heaven is not derived from our wild theories of celestial spaces or from our poor notions of happiness. The future life is indeed “beyond experience,” as Mr. Youmans says, but its existence is not “inaccessible to reason,” as he sophistically assumes; for it is by reasoning that both the ancient and the modern philosophers established the truth of the conception. On the other hand, our pictures of hell are not drawn exclusively from our imagination. The lake of fire and brimstone, 332the undying worm, the weeping and gnashing of teeth, the sempiternal horror, the company of devils, etc., are mentioned in the Bible. Hence, when we use such words as these for describing the state of eternal damnation, we use images authorized by Him who knows what he has prepared for the unrepentant transgressor of his commandments.

From these remarks it clearly follows that if the poet can find in the notion of hell “an attractive playground for the unbridled imagination,” such is not the case with the priest. The imagination of the priest is not “unbridled”; it is ruled by the Scriptural language. The preacher who would countenance Dante’s Inferno from the pulpit would be accounted a traitor or a fool. The hell of the poets may be highly amusing in spite of its terrors, but it makes no conversions, whilst the hell of the Bible has converted millions upon millions of sinful souls. Prof. Youmans strives to confound the hell of the Christians with the hell of the poets. It is lost labor. Fecundity and sterility demand different subjects. It is truth that fructifies. Fiction is barren.

And again, to say that the poetic inventions of Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton “combined to familiarize countless millions of people” with the conception of hell, is to utter a paradox which has no foundation. Prof. Youmans mistakes the effect for the cause. There has been no need of poesy to familiarize the countless millions with the conception. The millions were familiar with it before they ever read the poets; nay, more, it is from the popular conception that the poets collected the first materials for their descriptions of hell. The multitude, the millions, do not read poets. On the other hand, before the invention of typography—that is, for long centuries—books were extremely rare, and the “countless millions” did not even know how to read. Hence Mr. Youmans’ attempt to trace the general belief in hell to poetical inventions is a manifest fallacy.

The professor now comes to our time, and with an air of great satisfaction makes the following assertions:

“Yet the doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete. Originating in ages of savagery and low barbarism, and developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel civil codes, and vindictive punishments, it harmonized with the severities and violence of society, and undoubtedly had use as a means of the harsh discipline of men, when they were moved only by the lowest motives. But with the advance of knowledge, and the cultivation of humaner sentiments, the doctrine has become anomalous and out of harmony with the advance of human nature. Hence, though still a cardinal tenet of orthodoxy, it is now generally entertained in a vague and loose way, and with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it. Only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone, and it is certain that the doctrine in any shape recurs much less prominently in current preaching than it did a generation or two ago. Sober-minded clergymen have got in the way of neglecting it, except now and then when rehearsing the creed, or, as at present, under the spur of controversy, or when rallied about the decay of the old theology.”

Here Mr. Youmans surpasses himself; for, though he has given us already other proofs of his recklessness, yet here he displays his power of misrepresentation with an effrontery that beggars description. “The doctrine of hell is now growing obsolete”! Is this a fact? No. It is only a desire and a delusion 333of the anti-Christian sects. Were it a fact, the church, too, would be growing obsolete; for the doctrine of hell is one of the “cardinal” tenets of the church, as Mr. Youmans himself testifies. But we see, on the contrary, that the church is everywhere gaining new ground and extending her conquests. We are not ignorant that a spirit of apostasy has pervaded a portion of the ruling classes, and that Freemasonry makes daily some converts to Satan; but, while we are sorry to see this ruin of souls, we are far from regarding it as a loss to the militant church. The church cannot but thrive better when cowardice and hypocrisy cease to conceal themselves under her glorious banner. Can the apostasy of her unworthy sons cause her faith to grow obsolete? No. The third part of the angels, according to a received view, refused obedience to God and became his enemies; yet obedience to God did not grow obsolete. At the time of the Lutheran Reformation the authority of the popes was fiercely denounced, vilified, and rejected throughout all Germany, Switzerland, and other countries; yet the pope’s authority did not grow obsolete. What does it matter, then, if a set of fools who have no God but the “unthinkable” agree to reject the doctrine of hell? So long as two hundred millions of Catholics believe the doctrine as a “cardinal tenet” of the church, and so long as the rest of the world, Protestants, Jews, and pagans, believe either the same or an analogous doctrine, it is absurd to call it obsolete. Opinions may grow obsolete, dogmatic truths never; for the church and her doctrine, whether respected or disregarded by our modern wiseacres, will last to the end of time.

The doctrine of hell “originated in ages of savagery and barbarism”! The sapient writer who makes this assertion should be asked to point out a definite age in which the doctrine originated, and to give some proof of the savagery and barbarism of such an age. Will Mr. Youmans give us any evidence on these two points? No; he cannot. He will merely appeal to prehistoric time—that is, to the unknown and unknowable. This is now the style of many scientific jugglers; they draw their conclusions from unknown premises! We have already shown, by reference to the Bible, how the doctrine of hell originated. Let Mr. Youmans examine our statement of facts, and we do not doubt but that, in a lucid interval, he will see the absurdity of his assertion, and the futility of his struggle against historical truth.

The doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecutions, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments”! Much might be said about this bold untruth. Perhaps we might reverse the whole phrase, and say that it is the hostility to the doctrine of hell that was developed in a period of fierce intolerance, sanguinary persecution, cruel codes, and vindictive punishments. Unbelief had a period of triumph in the great French Revolution. Its intolerance was so fierce that it brought about “the Reign of Terror”; its persecution was decidedly sanguinary; its code the will of a drunken mob or the caprice of a profligate dictator. That period is past, but another, and not a better one, is approaching. Freemasonry is maturing new diabolic plans, and, if allowed to conquer, when the time comes 334will not stop midway in their execution. Meanwhile these enemies of “fierce intolerance” are satisfied with a Bismarckian humanity, and these denouncers of “sanguinary persecutions” wash their innocent hands in the blood of Colombian and Ecuadorian citizens, priests, and bishops who have had manhood enough to oppose the tyranny of the sect. We might add much more, of course, to unmask these virtuous Pharisees, who are so scandalized at the intolerance of Christianity; but we must return to our subject.

The assertion that the doctrine of hell “was developed in periods of fierce intolerance,” etc., is really nonsensical. For the truth is that this doctrine was never developed. The doctrine, as now held in the universal church, does not contain anything besides what it contained at the time of the apostles. Hence the development of the doctrine of hell is a “scientific” invention of Mr. Youmans’ brain. Nor can he exculpate himself by pretending that his phrase refers to the barbarous inhabitants of the primitive world. For civil codes had then no existence, and nothing allows the assumption that the early men passed through periods of fierce intolerance and sanguinary persecution. These words are meant to stigmatize Christianity and the middle ages as contrasted with the scepticism of the present age. If our professor had a correct idea of what the middle ages really were, we fancy that, though a man of progress, he would admire their culture, wisdom, and humanity.

The doctrine of hell was used as “a means of harsh discipline when men were moved only by the lowest motives”! Be humble, Mr. Youmans; you are not a competent judge in matters of this sort. First, you know not the facts. Secondly, you know not the nature and value of supernatural motives. Thirdly, you know not that a “harsh discipline” is as much needed to-day to curb the unruly passions as it was a thousand years ago. Fourthly, you do not know that the lowest motives do not exclude the highest. Fifthly, you do not know that no motive is low which is suggested and inculcated by God. Sixthly, you do not know that your words are a crushing condemnation of modern liberalism, whose god is the almighty Dollar, and whose best motives are infinitely lower than those which animated the chivalric and high-spirited Christians of the mediæval time.

“With the advance of knowledge and the cultivation of humaner sentiments the doctrine of hell has become anomalous”! What does this mean? Did the advance of geography, physics, mechanics, cosmogony, chemistry, or other branches of science alter the conception or diminish the certainty of the doctrine of hell? Common sense says no. And yet these are the only branches of knowledge that claim to have advanced. But we must notice that “knowledge,” according to Prof. Youmans’ phraseology, comprises all the wild hypotheses of our modern speculators, and that among these there is a theory which has charmed our professor, and to which he certainly alludes when he reminds us of the advance of knowledge. This is Darwin’s theory of the descent of man. If man is a modified ape, it is quite plain that the doctrine of hell becomes “anomalous”; for apes do not go to hell. But, if such be the case, 335then “the advance of human nature” is retrogressive, and we cannot boast of “humaner sentiments” without inconsistency. The truth is that we have advanced a little in the knowledge of matter; but our moral advance has been, and still is, badly cramped by false ideas of civilization. The very effort of advanced thinkers to suppress hell reveals the hollowness of their humane sentiments, and proves that their philanthropy is a sham.

The doctrine of hell “is now generally entertained with reservations and protests that virtually destroy it.” By whom?—perhaps by the professor’s friends. And the doctrine is entertained “in a vague and loose manner.” Again by whom?—by sceptics, we suppose. But scepticism is ignorance; it deserves pity, not approval. Yet “only revival preachers of the Moody stamp still affirm the literal lake of fire and brimstone”! Perhaps Prof. Youmans will be glad to be informed that the literal lake of fire and brimstone is preached even now all over the earth, and in the very centres of civilization, by men of a far higher stamp of intellect than Moody and Sankey. The “sober-mindedness” of the Protestant clergymen who “have got in the way of neglecting” the Scriptural hell is nothing but scepticism, or, worse still, cowardice. But the silence of these men proves nothing. They have no mission to teach. They are not “the salt of the earth”; and their defection does no harm to the dogmas of Christianity.

Mr. Youmans concludes thus:

“In the recent pulpit utterance there is a perfect chaos of discordant speculation, open repudiation, tacit disavowal, and ingenious refining away, but no stern and sturdy defence of it, in the old form and spirit, from any source that commands respect. The doctrine of hell is still conserved in popular creeds, but, if not eliminated, it will be pretty certain to carry the creeds with it into the limbo of abandoned superstitions.”

This conclusion would be unanswerable, if the Protestant pulpit were the standard of religious doctrine. But why did not Mr. Youmans reflect that his clergymen are only leaders of sects whose Christianity is nearly extinct, and whose words have no authority? Is it not plain that, if the blind lead the blind, both will fall into a ditch?

But we must conclude without entering into further developments. The Christian doctrine of hell is incontrovertible. It is universal, it is reasonable, and it is revealed in unequivocal terms. Advanced scientists may not like it; yet, instead of sowing malicious doubts about it, they should bear in mind that they themselves are of all men the most likely to fall into the lake of fire in which they disbelieve. To Prof. Youmans we offer a text from St. John’s Apocalypse, chapter fourteen:

“And the third angel followed them, saying with a loud voice: If any man shall adore the beast and his image, and receive his mark in his forehead or in his hand, he also shall drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is mingled with pure wine in the cup of his wrath, and he shall be tormented with fire and brimstone in the sight of the holy angels, and in the sight of the Lamb; and the smoke of their torments shall ascend up for ever and ever.”

Professor Youmans need not be informed that this great beast with its adorers and followers is a symbolic representation of anti-Christianism. Its soul is the spirit of apostasy; its heads and horns are governments and kings; its body is an organic confederation of all 336secret societies, comprising diplomatists, statesmen, politicians, godless newspaper editors, authors of infamous books, writers of “scientific” articles against revelation, and the whole army of the enemies of Christ. The beast will have great power, God so permitting; but its reign will be short. Jesus Christ will defeat it, and its followers will find no mercy. Their portion shall be “in the lake of fire and brimstone,” and their punishment shall last “for ever and ever.” We think that no sensible man can deceive himself so as to undervalue this solemn prophecy. The great beast, which is now walking upon the earth, has been minutely described by the evangelist and by Daniel; and it would be odd to pretend that they could, without a revelation from God, foresee, thousands of years ago, what was to happen in this time of ours. But if their words have come from God, then the lake of fire and brimstone and the eternity of the torments deserve the most serious consideration, especially on the part of our professors of anti-Christianity. Materialism will not help them in the day of wrath. Friends will not save them. Faith, repentance, and a timely satisfaction for past delinquencies are the sole chance of salvation.

We earnestly entreat Prof. Youmans to ponder over this momentous truth. It may be unattractive, but it has the merit of being absolutely certain.

SORROW.

Sorrow and I so long have lived together

How would it seem now if we had to part?

So many storms we two have had to weather,

Such thunders heard! following the lightning’s dart!

Come, Sorrow, now what say you to a truce?

Wilt lift the cloudy curtain so long hung

Around our fates, those heavy rings unloose,

Let fly the fetters that have made us one?

And yet it might be—I should miss thee, Sorrow!

Thy constancy to me has been so great,

Thy shadow banished from my life to-morrow,

What earthly lover on me thus would wait?

For thou art sent from heaven, a sacred guest.

And though, sweet Sorrow, I’ll not bid thee stay,

Yet to those sins I bear one more confest

Were this: that I turned Heaven’s guest away.

A. T. L.

337

KITTY DARCY.

“You have overdone it, Bertram.”

“Not a bit of it, father.”

“You must get away.”

“Can’t afford expensive luxuries.”

“Do you consider health a luxury?”

“A necessity.”

“And yet, for the sake of piling up a few hundred dollars, you fling, yes, actually fling, it from you as though you were tired of it.”

“I love my profession too much not to make some little concession to it.”

“Come, now, Bertram, this won’t do. You have overworked yourself, and off you must go. This is the right time to start.”

“Whither?”

“To Paris.”

“Paris! Why not say Timbuctoo?”

“I say Paris.”

“You are surely jesting.”

“I do not jest on so serious a subject as your health, my boy.”

“It can’t be done, father.”

“It must be done, Bertram. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday, and with him you shall go. He hopes to be in time for the opening of the Exhibition.”

“My Uncle Kirwan goes on business.”

“His nephew shall go on pleasure. Why, what’s the matter with you? Half the young fellows in New York would be half-mad with delight to be in your place.” Doctor Bertram Martin laughs. The idea is ridiculous, absurd. He cannot, he dare not leave his patients. That delightful case of tetanus, that splendid fracture of the hip, that exquisite tumor yielding to a new treatment, that interesting consumption, that curious cardiac dropsy, that superb typhus!

Bertram Martin, although but twenty-four years of age, is regarded by the profession as the coming man. His work on aneurism is considered the ablest essay yet written upon the subject, and his reputation with the “knife” is second to none. He is highly cultured, earnest, a calm intelligence, with the fires of enthusiasm well banked up; but he is full of latent purpose, an energy that is ever on the spring, and of lava that eventually cools into solid success. He has a great future before him, and he feels it.

His father, in whose Turkey-rugged, book-lined office he reclines in a low chair—one of those delightful chairs that fondle and caress the weary occupant—is also a physician, and who, having amassed a considerable fortune, now that he has safely launched the good ship that bears his name, is about to enjoy a well-earned otium cum dignitate.

Bertram’s mother has noted the increasing pallor in the young physician’s face, the drag under the eye, the hard, dark lines, and the weariness of tone, that denote an active brain heated to a white heat, and has determined, coûte que coûte, that her eldest-born shall “drop both spade and plough for a revel amongst the daisies.”

“Exhibitions are played out, 338father,” exclaims Bertram. “The last and best was at Philadelphia, and no show on the earth could beat that.”

He is intensely American, regarding Europe as effete, old-world, used up.

“Paris is not played out.”

“I should much prefer seeing Paris at any other time.”

“That’s what everybody will say who can’t go. I may as well tell you, Bertram, that there’s a little conspiracy got up against you, and at the head of it is your mother.”

“Yes, Bertie,” exclaims Mrs. Martin, who enters, “we have undermined you. Your Uncle Kirwan starts on Wednesday by the Scythia, and here’s the ticket for your state-rooms,” handing him the article in question.

“Why, mother—”

“My darling child, you look dreadfully ill, and it is fretting my heart out. I spoke to Doctor Lynch, and he orders change of air and total cessation from work. You never opposed me in your young life; you are not going to commence now.”

“But—”

“But me no buts, Bertie.”

“This trip would take two months.”

“Three.”

“I should be out of the race in three months.”

“You’ll return fresh and vigorous, and to win.”

“This is sheer folly. I never felt better in my life.”

“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”

“I could not, even if I listened to this absurd proposal, be ready before two weeks.”

“Next Wednesday, Bertie.”

In vain does the young doctor expostulate, contesting the ground inch by inch. In vain does he plead for time. His pickets are driven in, the enemy is upon him in force, and, ere he can well realize the exact posture of affairs, his mother has obtained his solemn promise that he will leave for Europe by the Scythia upon the following Wednesday in company with his uncle, Walter Kirwan.

A bright and joyous group was assembled at the Cunard wharf to see him off, and to bid him Godspeed across the waste of waters. Mr. Kirwan, a fine, handsome man of five-and-thirty, over six feet high, with a winning eye and a wooing voice, stood “one bumper at parting” in his state-room, which was decorated with a profusion of glorious flowers, the offerings of very near and very dear friends. One bouquet, composed exclusively of forget-me-nots and mignonette, caused any number of “Oh! my’s,” “How beautiful!” “Isn’t it lovely!” from pouting female lips.

“Who sent it to you, Bertram?” asked Mrs. Martin.

“It may not be for me, mother.”

“Oh! yes, it is; here is the card with your name upon it.”

“I have no idea.”

“No idea?”

“None in the world.”

A tall, lithe, graceful girl stands a little aside, trifling with the fringe of her parasol, as these questions are being put, her embarrassed looks and blushing cheeks denoting fierce and scarce controlled agitation.

“Did you send me this bouquet, Miss Reed?” asks Bertram in a low tone.

“I—I—that is—I hope you will—that they will—look pretty,” is the murmured response.

“Did Carrie Reed send those flowers to Bertram?” asks Mrs. Martin of her sister, Mrs. Kirwan, in freezing tones.

339“Yes; I heard her admit it just now.”

“What a forward minx! I’ve a great mind to tell her so.”

How severe these mothers are when “my son” is approached by youth and beauty! The idea of marriage is a horror.

“And this is Liverpool!” exclaims Bertie, as the good ship steams up the Mersey. “I’m awfully sorry to have been asleep when we were at Queenstown; why didn’t you shake me up, uncle?”

“Because you want all the sleep you can get. You were nearly in for a dose of insomnia, and that would have pretty soon squared your account, my boy.”

“Pshaw! you all made me out worse than I really was.”

“Not a bit of it. You allowed a nice lot of sand to run out of your glass. But isn’t that a sight, Bertie? There are masts—a forest. There are docks—the docks of the world.”

“What docks we’ll have in twenty years at New York!”

“You don’t believe in anything outside of the stars and stripes.”

“Not much,” with a laugh; adding, “Shall we make any stay in Liverpool?”

Mr. Kirwan consults his watch.

“We shall only just catch that train due in London at 6.40. The Dover express starts at 7.35. This will decant us in Paris to-morrow morning at six. We shall have nice time for a big wash, a big breakfast, and then for the opening of the Exhibition.”

“This is close shaving.”

“That’s my principle. Narrow margins. They pay best all round.”

Mr. Kirwan’s calculations, based Upon professional experience, proved correct. A vague soup and an ill-dressed cutlet at Charing Cross, a thick omelette and a thin wine at Amiens, did duty for refreshment. In the sheen of dazzling early sunlight Bertram Martin first saw Paris, the bright, the joyous, the glittering, the beautiful. A dream of his life was about to be realized.

Mr. Kirwan having telegraphed for apartments, he with our hero was “skied” at the Hôtel du Louvre, and after a breakfast which would have done honor to a navvy had been disposed of by Bertie, who in New York would flirt with a slice of toast and coquette with a fresh egg, cigars were lighted and the two gentlemen set forth in the direction of the Champ de Mars.

“This is the best sight I have ever seen,” cried the young physician, as they strolled along the Rue de Rivoli. “Why, it’s nearly as bright as Broadway.”

“What a thorough Yank you are, Bertie! Come here, now; just take a look around you, and confess that you are fairly dumbfounded.”

They stood at the Place de la Concorde. The fountains were throwing feathery sprays high in air; the flowers were blooming in a myriad hues. Thousands of vehicles were flashing past, tens of thousands of pedestrians. The great tide of human life had set in towards the Trocadero. Regiments in gorgeous uniforms, headed by bands playing superbly, marched onwards, quaint costumes of every nationality under the sun flitted by—bizarre groups chatting and laughing and gesticulating!

Behind them the blackened walls of the Tuileries, in front the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe, on the left the Chamber of Deputies, on the right the glorious Madeleine.

340“It is magnificent,” exclaimed Bertie at length, in a subdued tone of emotion.

“Nearly as bright as Broadway,” laughed Kirwan.

“Wait! Twenty years, and our up-town will be as gorgeous as this. We have the taste, we have the money, all we want is the time; that we have not.”

“And never will have. We rush too much. But come along; we must be at the Exhibition building early or our chances of getting in will be a little thin. We shall have, as we say in New York, to take a back seat, doctor.”

“I should prefer to stop here. What a sight this is! What contrasts; how vivid! Look at that grim sergent-de-ville, and beside him that piquante girl in the Normandy cap as high as his cocked hat, and earrings as long as his sword. See that ouvrier in the blouse; how cheerfully he smokes his cigar, carrying his two children! I do believe he would carry his wife into the bargain. How coquettishly she is attired, and how cheaply! See the artistic manner that two-dollar shawl is draped over her shoulder, and how that five-cent ribbon hangs. I’ll wager that these fellows coming along as if walking on air are of the Quartier Latin, the students’ quarter. They, poor fellows! have come to see the crowd. I suppose their united wealth at this moment will scarcely do more than omelette and beer them. What flashing equipages! How beautifully finished! We do want these liveries in Central Park. Imagine those yellows, and purples, and blues, and saffrons, and whites glancing amongst our green trees or up Fifth Avenue. What cavalry! How superbly those dragoons sit their horses—Centaurs every man of them. It must have been by sheer force of numbers that they bit the dust in the late war. What fountains! what flowers! what trees—four rows of them up to that magnificent arch—and what residences!” gushed Bertram Martin.

“These gilded pagodas, and Swiss chalets, and marble palaces, and fairy bowers are for open-air concerts. Wait till you see them lighted up, and I tell you what it is, Bertie, you’ll go into raptures. Why, no tale in the Arabian Nights equals them for glitter. And the music, my boy, sparkles like champagne,” cried Kirwan enthusiastically.

Arrived at the Champ de Mars, the crowd gradually filtered into the Exhibition building. At the turnstile Bertie was separated from his uncle, who made a rush for another entrance. Immediately in front of him was a young girl, lissome and lithe of figure, attired in a raiment of soft, filmy, cloudy, floating white. He could detect a delicate little ear, and a white neck from which the hair was scrupulously lifted and arranged—she had removed her hat—dark and lustrous, tight and trim, in a fashion exceedingly becoming to the beautiful, but trying to the more ordinary of womankind.

Have we not all at some time or another felt that something strange was going to happen to us? that steps were coming nearer and nearer? that a voice was calling to us at a great way off that would presently become more distinct?

A something urged Bertram Martin to see this girl’s face. Was it mere curiosity? No. The impulse was indefinable as a subtle perfume, indefinable as a sweet sound in music. A shapely head, 341and lustrous hair, and a lissome form—this was a very ordinary scaffolding whereon to build a romance, and, although the young doctor would have laughed anybody to scorn who would have taxed him with being romantic, there was no boy of half his age and quarter his experience more likely to make a fool of himself about a woman than Bertie Martin.

He had led his life amongst his books, his profession his mistress. Too much absorbed in the engrossing duties attendant upon the alleviation of the ills the flesh is heir to, he was in the world and yet not of it, beholding it as through a polished sheet of plate-glass. His mother, a woman of the highest culture, refinement, taste, and ability, had vainly urged upon him the necessity of taking part in the gayeties of a very extended and highly fashionable circle—vainly, indeed; for having on a few occasions attended “swell” receptions and upper-crust entertainments, he squarely pilloried himself in a cui bono? and from that hour the butterfly world knew him no more.