Gustave listened attentively, and was much moved at the goodness of a God justly irritated against him, and he felt the deepest sorrow at having been for so long an offender against his word; but his soul, full of the most bitter vices and most detestable wickedness, is now baptized in the waters of repentance. The body dies, but the soul lives; the Lord has ratified in heaven the absolution that his minister pronounced on earth. Gustave's strength was fast failing, and he felt that he was dying. The recognition between Robert and himself was touching, and the priest wept with joy and regret, blessing the one who was to leave life, and also the one who remained, to practise on earth every Christian virtue.
"Do not let me die alone, kind father," said Gustave to the priest. "I have lived so badly that I have need of your pious assistance to finish life more worthily."
The end was almost come. The physician could not retract his fatal sentence, nor give any hope, for the wound was mortal. The blade of the poniard had penetrated near the heart, and it was a miracle that he had survived so long. He heard his sentence pronounced with resignation, and accepted death as a just expiation for his sins, praying God to make it such. He suffered some days longer, testifying by his patience and his pious prayers the sincerity of his repentance, expiring with sentiments of burning contrition and sorrow for his sins on his lips. Robert was grieved to lose him so soon after his conversion and his return to virtue; and his sad and premature end was a grave warning of the result of worldly passions and giving way to vice, though Robert hardly needed such an example, his chaste and pure soul had always turned with horror and aversion from the licentiousness which beats the imagination and sullies its purity. Yet he was always on his guard, for be knew the feebleness of human nature and the dangers to which it is exposed, and the more he avoided the corrupting vices of the world, the better could he resist them, for no one is so brave in danger but that he may perish; and Gustave's death convinced him that Christianity is the only basis on which we can build immortal happiness, to which we all look forward after terrestrial joys lose their power of satisfying the desire for happiness which agitates man from the cradle to the grave, and which makes him attach such glorious hopes to religion, the only vessel that is never wrecked and that takes us safely to the eternal kingdom of perfect peace.
After having rendered the last sad duties to the unfortunate Gustave, Robert left Venice, but with very different feelings from those be promised himself. He traversed rapidly the Venetian Lombardy kingdom, then Piedmont, and, stopping some days at Turin, went on to Susa at the foot of Mont Cenis. There were two other travellers crossing this mountain at the same time, a man of about sixty years of age, and a young woman, either his wife or daughter. Their carriage followed them at some distance, but from either fear or curiosity they preferred going on foot or on a mule. Robert had bowed respectfully and exchanged a few polite salutations with them, but after that all effort to renew the conversation had been in vain, and he had renounced the hope of making any further acquaintance with the stranger, whose face of manly and severe beauty, though expressive of much mental suffering, had not escaped the eye of the artist, habitually accustomed to read all the emotions on the face. His sad countenance moved Robert so much that he turned round several times, not simply from compassion, but from a sentiment of irresistible and strange interest.
A mysterious and sympathetic influence was felt by the two others, who had certainly never seen him before; for the gentleman followed him with a pleasure for which he could not account, and watched his light and easy step, urging his mule on to keep near him, when the animal gives a sudden spring and throws him into a deep ravine.
"Extend to them the hand of pardon:They have sinned, but heaven forgives!"Lamartine.
Our young hero, wishing to have a view from the highest point of the mountain, was pushing on to reach the spot from where he thought it would be most extensive. When he had almost attained it, his foot slipped and for a moment he lost his balance, and it was this appearance of danger that kept the other traveller watching him, and led to his fall. But Robert was light and active, and raised himself by holding on to the rugged sides of the mountain and getting on a kind of plateau, when the cries, first of the man, then the lady, and then the guide attracted his attention and made him turn quickly. Then at great risk he leaned almost his whole body over the side of the precipice, and saw that imminent and terrible death menaced the man for whom his heart had conceived so much affection. The lady and the guide were both afraid to descend, for there was nothing to hold on to but some loose stones projecting out of the earth. The gentleman's position is both critical and perilous, but Robert descends cautiously to his side and assists him to climb up; and indeed it is almost a miracle that he is saved; and with a face radiant with joy Robert receives the thanks of the lady and the traveller, who, remarking a medallion Robert always wore, and of which he had obtained glimpses in the vivacity of his movements, said to him, in a trembling voice: "Where did you get that medallion, speak quickly!" And as if the reply he would receive was a sentence of life and death, he waited in horrible anxiety, as if his soul was suspended on the lips of Robert. Though surprised at this question, he was too polite not to answer without hesitation when he saw the agitation of the stranger. "This portrait," said he, "comes from my mother; it represents—" "Oh! pardon—the name of your mother?" eagerly interrupted the stranger. "Stephanie Dormeuil." "But what was her other name?" Robert hesitated a moment, then replied, "She was called Madame de Verceuil." At this answer a dazzling fire burned in the eyes of the stranger, and he made such a quick, impetuous movement that the cord which held the medallion was broken, and it fell to the ground. Robert stooped to pick it up, and heard these words, which overwhelmed him with astonishment: "O my God, the remorse I have suffered for twenty-five years!" and fainted, but the care of the lady and Robert soon brought back consciousness, and when he opened his eyes be caught Robert in his arms, and cried, "Oh! thou art my son, my own Robert! and I am thy father. Wilt thou pardon me, my son, my dear child, wilt thou pardon me?" "What! you are my father!" cried the artist, delirious with joy. "If you are, I must press you to my heart, which has so long called for you and needed you. I curse you?—for what? My saintly mother did not teach me this, but the contrary. O my God!" he said on bended knee, "you have fulfilled my prayers, you have given me my father." It is in vain that we can find words to express this touching scene. Robert was folded in his father's arms, repeating in a tender voice, "My father, my father!" He covered him with caresses and kisses, and calls his name with a joy so expressive, and a love so profound, that the count wept bitterly, and cried, raising his eyes to heaven, "O Stephanie, what noble vengeance thou hast given me!" Then gazing on his son, he was filled with pride at seeing the child whom he had lost when an infant, and found when a young man of splendid genius and glorious intellect. He said to him, with some embarrassment but with a lively interest, "My son, where is thy mother? What does she now?"
"Alas!" said Robert, pointing to heaven, "she is there! She sees us, and her noble soul rejoices in our happiness."
The count understood it, his head was cast down, overwhelmed by the bitterness of his remembrances and his remorse. Robert had seized his hand and was pressing it affectionately, when he took the young woman and presented her to Robert, saying: "This is thy cousin, Julia de Moranges, who has been to me the best and most indulgent of nieces. I know you will love each other." They shook hands with frank cordiality, but here both filled with emotion at this strange meeting, and as this was not a favorable place for more extended explanations, and the guides were already impatient of so long a delay, they concluded to go on, and God knows the most tender sentiments filled Robert's mind. Filial love had ever been his first and strongest sentiment, and it burned in his heart with a passionate energy that charmed the count, and made him stop each moment to embrace his son, who had been the constant object of his regrets, for whom he had wept so much, and whose loss was the cause of the sorrow which had brought on premature old age.
Arriving at the top of this mountain, which is more than 2000 feet above the level of the sea, our travellers are on a plateau four leagues in circumference and covered with green pasture that charms the eyes, and in the middle of it was a large lake about thirty feet deep, filled with several varieties of fish.
The count was a man of extensive and varied information, and it was a pleasure for Robert to hear him talk, so charming and attractive was his conversation; and questioned by his son, the count related many things concerning Mont Cenis. "There is a certain celebrity," said he, "attached to the mountain we are crossing. Some authors pretend that Hannibal crossed here to enter Italy, and it is certain that Augustus opened a route, that was enlarged by Charlemagne. Thou hast before thee," added he, "the still more recent traces of the work that Napoleon commenced, and which is truly worthy of the great man who brought it thus far to perfection." It was not until they were descending the mountain that the count commenced to relate his life to his son, which we already know from his mother, but we cannot pass over in silence his poignant regrets at the loss of such saintly and sweet intercourse. When he looked at his son, left an orphan at twelve years of age, with no resources but his perseverance and good conduct, and reflected that he had come out of obscurity and made friends and a name, he blessed the wife whom he had so cruelly injured and who had given him a son, the glory of his white hairs and the love of his old age. But his remorse for his treatment of his wife was nothing to the fear that his son would refuse him his esteem and tenderness and would not consent to live with him. But these dread thoughts could not remain long in his mind; the respectful manner and caressing words of his son effaced them. The more he studied the character of Robert the more he felt the need of his love and of pleasing him, and the stronger was his desire to win the heart on which he set so high a price. To obtain this he gave him his entire confidence, and let him read his heart as he would an open book, and Robert saw the remorse his guilty conduct toward his mother had caused him. It was a painful avowal to make his son, but he had the courage; and the next day, after Robert had related to him the principal events of his life, he drew him to him, saying:
"I owe to thee, my child, a history of the years I have passed far from thee and thy mother, but it is not that I wish to make a parade of my regrets and my sufferings, but simply to tell thee in what way God called me to himself and to virtue."
"My father," said Robert, "if the recital gives you pain, if it recalls too vividly your sorrows, do not tell me, I pray you, for I would rather you should chase away all sadness and smile yourself to life. I know I shall love you, and I want you to forget what you have suffered. It is not for me to judge you, and believe me, that, no matter what you say, my respect and love for you will always be the same."
The count took the hand of his son, but could not reply for some moments, then commenced thus: "If thy mother has not spoken to thee of my cruelty and injustice toward her, and, still more, if she has rather exculpated than accused me to thee, I owe it to her memory to avow that I alone was the guilty one, and that she was to me, to the last moment, a model of goodness, patience, and gentleness. She was right to leave me, for I was then so blinded by my passions that the threat which decided her to go I would without doubt have executed, if she had not taken the desperate part which has turned so happily to thy advantage. I say it to my shame, I was barbarous, wicked, and ungrateful to thy mother, and what is more frightful is that I was so with premeditation. Incapable of controlling my temper, and my pride wounded by the reproaches of my family, and by the railleries of the young fools I called my friends, I carried my treatment to blows and insults to her who gave thee birth. I know I make thee shudder and fill thee with horror, but I have cruelly expiated these moments of passion, for at heart I loved thy mother, and, when I reflected, I cursed my feebleness and self-love. Unfortunately these moments were of short duration, and the world and its attractions acted in a fatal manner on my heart, filled with the deplorable maxims of a corrupt, irreligious, frivolous, and mocking society. What, then, could stop me in the mad career which would soon bring me to the abyss already yawning under my feet? Nothing, for I hardly believed there was a God, and had none of the faith which thy mother has planted in thy heart. I was as blind and insensate as a drunken man, who knows neither where he is nor what he says. No curb could be put to my passions, for I was like the brute that obeys his instincts, only more miserable, as I had the voice of conscience to enlighten me while he is deprived of the soul, which is the divine essence. See, then, what I was when thy mother took thee far from me; and I was in a perfect transport of fury when on my return to the house I leaned from the servants that thy mother had gone, taking thee with her. At first, rage was the only passion that possessed my soul, and it was perfectly incomprehensible to me that a being as gentle as thy mother had ever proved herself should have the courage to take such a step; but maternal love was stronger than all things else to her, and when I found thy empty cradle, I wept and tore my hair in despair. It was the first time I had really felt as if I was a father; for when I kissed thy fresh young face, it was more from pride than from paternal tenderness; but when I knew thou wert gone forever, my heart was broken. I awoke at once, under the shock of this most agonizing, torturing sorrow, and from that moment my life of expiation commenced. But I do not date my return to God from that day, for it was a long time before my lips uttered a prayer. I suffered more than tongue can tell in the delirious life into which I was plunged, and which soon destroyed my health and left me with a sickness which was long and dangerous. In my hours of suffering and anguish you were always present to my mind, and I knew no one to whom I could confide my sorrow, and feared to die without seeing you. Days succeeded each other, until they became years; my despair increased and my loneliness was horrible.The sign of a reprobate was marked like the curse of Cain upon my brow, and I was consuming myself in useless regrets, without having recourse to the love and compassion of God, when a providential accident brought near me one of those angels of charity who consecrate their lives to the care of the sick and sorrowing.
"A good sister of the order of St. Vincent de Paul came one day to excite my interest in favor of the poor, and her angelic face and her tender and persuasive voice touched me deeply. I was strangely attracted to her, and could not help contrasting her manner with the means used by women of the world to obtain what they desire. It was with pleasure, I might even say joy, that I gave her my purse, and we became engaged in conversation. She had read in my face the ravages of passion and the storms of the heart; and, as all sorrows were familiar to her, she easily guessed those of my soul, and forced me by her winning manner to confess to her the cause of my sufferings. Then when she knew all, she spoke to me in a language so filled with faith and charity that my frozen soul thawed under the warmth of her burning words. The name of God was so eloquent in her pure mouth that before she left me I pronounced it with faith and confidence. From this moment I prayed, and the saintly woman came several times to finish her work of grace. By her cares my body regained some strength, and my soul felt all the hopes of a Christian, all the salutary truths of our sublime religion. My repentance took the character of resignation, which gave some calmness and tranquillity to my desolate days. I bade adieu to the world, putting far from me its perfidious and deceitful charms, which I had before so eagerly sought, and all the illusions which had appeared seductive and worthy of my homage were dispelled. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and I loved now what I had hated. Thy mother appeared to me with her virtues and her touching simplicity and her charming candor and purity, and, now that I was in a state to appreciate her, I could behold her no more. At this time I lost my sister Helena, of whom thy mother has spoken to thee, and she left a daughter, thy cousin Julia. I took her to my home and heart, but still she did not console me for thy loss; for, good and amiable as she was, she was not my son, and the lost happiness is what we always sigh for, and which can never be replaced. My niece married and soon became a widow, when she returned to me, and, finding all her efforts to diminish my sadness without effect, she proposed our traveling. We have been all over Europe, and everywhere I looked for you and enquired for you, for a secret voice said to me always, 'Go on! go on! thou wilt find him.' I had already explored Italy from one end to the other, had visited cold England, crossed the German States, been through Spain and Portugal, when the fiery inquietude which kept me always moving made me turn my steps a second time toward Italy. It was doubtless a presentiment, since it was on this earth, a thousand times blessed, that I found thee—that we met! I feel that God as pardoned me, and my sorrows are at an end. Thou art the conciliating angel, the treasure and consolation and the last happiness of a penitent old man who has lost and suffered much. Oh! may thy love be the sign of the forgiveness thy mother has sent me, and a bond of peace and felicity. But," said the count, in a suppliant tone, in terminating this long and painful confession, "thou wilt not leave me, Robert? thou wilt live with me, my son? It would be too cruel to deprive me of thy presence, and, after having found my earthly heaven, thou wilt not plunge me into the depths of hell; for if I lose thy tenderness, I lose all."
"My father," replied Robert, "I could not leave you. I am too happy to possess your love to deprive myself of so sweet a joy. God has reunited us, and we will never again separate!"
"Nothing can be dearer to a manthan a father he is proud of."
Some days after this interview, Robert, the count, and Julia were travelling toward l'Auvergne. If the dead could feel in their cold graves, certainly Robert's mother would have felt a deep and holy joy in seeing her son and her husband kneeling on her tomb. But their eyes were not on the grave, but raised toward heaven, and Robert saw the same vision which had appeared to him in his youth, and he cried out: "I see it! O my father, I see it! She blesses us."
The name of Dormeuil was effaced from the modest stone, and that of Countess de Verceuil substituted, to the great astonishment of the people of the surrounding country. Then the count visited the little house which had fallen in ruins, and here Robert called up a thousand tender memories, and thanked God for the manifestation of his love in permitting him to find his father. But it was not for the rank he would have in the world, nor for the titles society would look upon with jealous eyes, nor for this wonderful elevation of his talent, which dazzled and made him happy. It was the power which God had put into his hands, to enable him to do good to others, and the knowledge of the future of repose and comfort he could ensure to the two objects of his early affection, good Madame Gaudin and the old soldier of the guard. It was of them that he thought when he said. "I am rich." How he longed to see Paris, and to be folded again to the hearts of his friends, from whom he had so long been separated. His father, seeing his impatience, smiled at the projects he formed for them, but was none the less anxious to know them and thank them for the cares they had bestowed on his son. At last they arrived, and when they reached the house a cruel thought crossed Robert's mind, that they might be "no more." His heart beat, and he scarcely dared to knock, but listened a moment, and—oh! what happiness—two well-known voices fell upon his ear. One said: "Six months have passed since his last letter, and no news of our dear child. What can have happened him?" "You must have patience, good woman," said the other voice, "he can't always find opportunities to write. I believe the reason he does not write is, that be intends to come some day soon." "Ah! I know he is not sick, and it is the faith of Cyprien says it. The Lord is too just to make so good a boy ill."
Completely reassured, Robert knocked and entered immediately. Two cries came at the same time from two hearts that joy suffocated. Robert raised Madame Gaudin in his arms; her too sudden surprise had overwhelmed her with emotion, and Cyprien cried, "It is you, it is you!" wiping away a tear. "I am happy, now, Mister Robert. I knew you would come back, but I have had a time consoling this poor woman, who saw everything in blackness and despair."
Robert pressed the faithful soldier to his heart, then covered Madame Gaudin with caresses, enquired for her health, and wished to know if either of them had suffered in any way since he left them. When the confusion of this sudden meeting had subsided a little, both Cyprien and dame Gaudin perceived that Robert had no luggage. "Where are your effects, my child?" said the good woman. Robert smiled, and said he had left them at home, "How at home? And do you not intend to remain with us, my dear Robert?" "Yes, of course, but we will live in another house, and I will take you to your new home." She opened her astonished eyes, and followed Robert, who descended the steps, and, calling a carriage, made his friends get in, and directed the coachman to drive them all to No. 110, rue Grenelle, Saint Germain.
On the way Madame Gaudin tried to draw from him his secret, but all attempts were useless, for he took delight now in teasing her. Stopping in front of the hotel where his father was, he took the arm of his worthy benefactress and conducted her to the saloon where the Count de Verceuil waited. "Father," said he, as he entered, "here is the excellent woman who has taken the place of a mother to me, and who for my sake generously sacrificed all she had." "Madam," said the count with amiable courtesy, "excuse me that I did not come for you myself, as it was my duty to do, but I wished to allow Robert the pleasure of surprising you. You are at home here, madam, in the house of my son, and I hope you will always be his friend." "Your son?" she said, half stupefied. "Who, then, is your son? Ah! I know," she cried with lively anguish, a secret sentiment of jealousy coming into her heart; "it is Robert. God is just, and has given him this recompense. What I have done for your son, monsieur, anyone else would have done in my place, for no one could have helped loving so good and generous a child. But I do not merit so much kindness at your hands. I am only a poor creature, without either education or manners, so how can I live with you?" "These things are of little value in my eyes, my dear madam. What I honor in you, and what all honest and virtuous people would consider above everything else, is the nobleness of your soul and the virtues of which you have given so bright an example. You will give me great pain if you refuse an offer that comes from the heart, and that I make you in my name and the name of my son. We will live and enjoy together the favors God has been pleased to bestow upon us. And you will be ours, my brave Cyprien" said the count, taking the hand of the old soldier. "I know you love my son, and this entitles you to my friendship. Will you accept it?" "Oh! yes; with all my heart," replied Cyprien, looking affectionately at Robert, who was watching silently the interview between his father and his friends.
His father was kind and good, and often he blessed the day they met. Nothing can be dearer to a man's heart than a father he is proud of. Robert had experienced this feeling for his mother, whom he venerated almost as much as God. She was to him the type of every virtue. His misfortunes and affliction had entirely changed his father, and to the vain pleasures of the world had succeeded the practices of religion and the duties of the Christian. All the virtues he admired in his mother he found in the paternal heart, tried in the crucible of adversity. In a word, the father was worthy of the son as the son was worthy of the father, and a sweet harmony reigned in this family, bound to each other by the tenderest ties. All rank was effaced, and the noble count, the heir of a great name and an immense fortune, and the old woman and the old soldier lived with no other desire than to make each other happy. Robert did not give up his profession, and his name is now illustrious in the world of art! He married his cousin Julia de Moranges, and crowned with joy and happiness the last days of his father, who now sleeps the sleep of the just. Thus ends our story. We have tried to trace the struggling life of Robert, and its glorious recompense. We have tried faithfully to reproduce his touching virtues and the noble and beautiful sentiments that adorned his soul, and also to inspire our young readers with a desire to imitate him. We have tried to show the efficacious and all-powerful help of religion in nourishing the teachings of a Christian mother, and that a good and persevering child can overcome all obstacles. Have we, then, succeeded and obtained your approbation? If there are among you, my dear readers, some poor little orphans like Robert, call down the blessings of your mother upon your heads, and, though she lives in heaven, she will watch over you with tender solicitude, and the God of the motherless will be your sure refuge and your final Saviour.Think not that you can live without constant prayer to God, the author of your beings and the giver of every good and perfect gift. Put your whole trust and confidence in him and his mercy, and whether obscurity or fame be yours, always remember that he knows best, and places you in whatever position best suits you. Should he give you the transcendent gift of genius, you must struggle hard to obtain its rewards, and, whatsoever you do, remember to do it for the honor and glory of God and the good of mankind; and then, when you are called to leave this life for that better world where all cares cease, you can welcome death, which will open for you the gate of life, and exchange with joy the changing scenes of earth for the unfading bliss of heaven!
"Confess therefore your sinsone to another."—St. James v. 16.By Richard Storrs Willis.When to God alone I make confession,Why, my shameful heart! so light thy task?While so deep the shame and the emotionWhen to man thou must thy guilt unmask?Only here we find the true abasement:More than God we dread the eye of man!Hence the justice that, by heaven's ordaining,Human guilt a human eye should scan!Ah! how oft, by some great sin o'ermastered,Hearts in secret pray, but all in vain!Not till human ear has heard the storyPeace descends and Guilt can smile again!Thus must sin requite both earth and heaven;Since 'gainst man the wrong as well as God!Just amends are due the Heavenly Father—Due my brother of this earthly sod!Ye who fain would find a peace that's vanished.Heaven demands no long, desponding search!Seek the kind, attentive ear of Jesus,Seek his listening human ear—the Church!
[Footnote 46: This article is not written by a Catholic, which the reader will easily see from some of its expressions. With these exceptions the article is very interesting.—C. W.]
Universities are not mentioned in mediaeval documents before the beginning of the thirteenth century. At that period, however, they stand before the eyes of the historian already fully developed, and in the very prime of vigorous manhood, without offering any clue as to their birth and lineage, except such as they bear visibly imprinted in their very nature. This remark holds good only for the most ancient universities—Paris, Oxford, andBologna—all the other institutions of the kind being easily traced to their foundation, and recognized as copies of the ancient types. There are, indeed, documents extant which refer the foundation of the three mentioned universities to a very respectable antiquity, and according to which Paris claims Charlemagne as its founder; Oxford, Alfred the Great; Bologna, the Emperor Theodosius II.; and Naples, the Emperor Augustus. But these documents are each and all the fabrications of later times, which, agreeably to mediaeval disregard of critical investigation, could easily spring up and find credence, because they supplied by fables what could not be gained by historic evidence, the halo of remote antiquity. Setting, therefore, apart these spurious credentials, we prefer to trace the lineage of our venerable institutions as near as possible to their source by reading and interpreting the record they bear of themselves.
Twice during the middle ages the church saved literature from utter ruin: first when barbarous nations overflooded Europe in the great migration, and a second time during the confusion which arose upon the death of Charlemagne. Science was indeed theenfant trouvé, to take care of which there was no one in the wide world but the church alone. Under its fostering care literature and learning started on a new career in the asylums erected in the schools of abbeys, monasteries, and convents—a career, however, characterized by a peculiar timidity, which shrank from a critical analysis of sacred and profane literature alike—abhorring the latter for its savor of heathenism, revering the former with too much awe to subject it to dissecting criticism. In this narrowness of space, this timidity of development, the youthful plant might have been stunted in its growth, but for the breath of life which the genius of human civilization imparted to its feeble offshoot to rear it to the full vigor of manhood. This inspiration again proceeded from the church, which made the very marrow of her substance over to the school, that it might feed on it and wax strong, so as to become the bearer of mediaeval civilization, the leader of society in science and education. At a period when the church had given form to its doctrines by investing them in a dogmatic garb, so as to remove them from beneath the ruder or careless touch of experimenting heresy, faith was satisfied, and in its satisfaction felt secure from any perilous raid on its domain. Hence, it became less timid in facing the dissecting-knife of the philosopher; nay, on the contrary, it soon detected the new additional strength it might derive from the disquisitions of philosophical science; and thus it came to pass that the dogma of the church left the bosom of the mother that gave it birth, and placed itself under the guardianship of the school.The result of this transmigration is but too evident. First of all, the interest of philosophical inquiry was duly regarded by obtaining by the side of faith its share in the cultivation of the human mind, and, on the other hand, the dogma or symbol of faith, which hitherto had evaded the grasp of human intellect, and therefore assumed the position of a power which, though not hostile, was yet not friendly to the aspirations of the human mind, now turned its most intimate and faithful ally. The motto of this alliance between dogma and philosophy—the well-known "Credo ut intelligam"—is the key-note of scholasticism. Thus, then, theology became the science of the school, when the dogma was completely confirmed and established, and the school sufficiently developed to receive it within its precincts; and this alliance, which produced a Christian philosophy in scholasticism, was the principal agent also in bringing about a new phase of the mediaeval school in theStudium GeneraleorUniversity.
From the earliest centuries it had been a practice with the Christian church in newly converted countries to erect schools by the side of cathedrals. Where our Lord had his temple, science had a chapel close by. These cathedral schools became in the course of time less exclusively clerical, at the same rate as the chapters of cathedrals turned more secular in their tendencies. In consequence of this metamorphosis the cathedral school attracted a large number of secular students, while the monastic schools more properly limited themselves to the education of the clerical order. But for all that the cathedral school bore a decidedly clerical character. The bishop continued to be the head of the schools in his diocese, and through his chancellor(cancellarius)exercised over the students the same authority as over all others that stood under episcopal jurisdiction. Very often we meet with several or many schools connected with different churches of one and the same diocese. In this case each school had its own "rector," but all of them were subject to the supervision and jurisdiction of the bishop, or his representative the chancellor. Though they followed their literary and educational pursuits each within its own walls and independently of the others, yet on certain occasions they were reminded of their consanguinity of birth and their relationship to the church, when on festive celebrations, such as the feast of the patron saint of the diocese, rectors, teachers, and students of the different schools rallied round the banner of their diocesan, and appeared as one body under their common head, the bishop. Thus we see the cathedral schools brought nearer to each other by two agencies of a uniting tendency—the jurisdiction of the bishop and their relation to the church. That which had grown spontaneously out of the circumstances of the time awaited only the "fiat" of the mighty to accomplish its metamorphosis, and assume its final shape in theStudium Generale. The church required an able expositor of her dogmas, a subtle defender of her canonical presumptions, and both she found in the school. Popes then granted privileges and immunities to the cathedral and monastic schools of certain cities, and these schools, following the impulse and tendencies of the age, united in corporations and became universities. Under the circumstances it must appear a vain attempt to search for documentary evidence as to the first foundation of the three ancient universities. We can only adduce facts to show when and where such establishments are first mentioned, and yet we must not draw the conclusion that universities are contemporary with those documents which first bear direct testimony to their existence. For we all know that in primitive ages, when new institutions are gradually being developed, centuries may pass before the new-born child of a new civilization is christened, and receives that name which shall bear record of its existence to future generations.As far back as the eleventh century, we find atParisschools connected with the churches ofNotre Dame, St. Geneviève, St. Victor,andPetit Pont, but it appears doubtful whether they had been united in aStudium Generalebefore the end of the twelfth century. The first direct mention of a "university" at Paris is made in a document of the year 1209.Oxfordmay, in point of antiquity, claim equality at least with Paris; and the assumption that Alfred the Great planted there, as elsewhere, educational establishments is certainly not without some plausibility. Concerning the existence of monastic schools in that town previously to the twelfth century, not a doubt can be entertained; but to refer the foundation of Oxford University to the times of Alfred the Great is simply an anachronism. Oxford, quite as much as Paris, or rather more so, bears in the rudimentary elements of its constitution the unmistakable traces of its origin in the cathedral and monastic schools.Bolognawas one of the most ancient law schools in Italy. Roman law had never become quite extinct in that country; and in the great struggles between spiritual and temporal power, ever and again renewed since the eleventh century, it was ransacked with great eagerness for the purpose of propping up the claims of either pope or emperor, as the case might be. The Italian law schools, therefore, enjoyed the patronage of powers spiritual and temporal, which raised them to the summit of fame and prosperity, and then again dragged them to the very verge of ruin by involving them in the struggles and consequent miseries of the two parties. The Emperor Frederick Barbarossa well understood how to appreciate the vantage-ground which presented itself in the codices of the ancients for the support of imperial presumptions, and consequently he expressed his favor and good-will to the lawyers of Italy by confirming the ancient law school at Bologna—a confirmation which was combined with extraordinary privileges to professors and students sojourning in that town, or engaged on their journey there or back. Bologna may, therefore, be regarded as a privileged school or university since the year 1158, without, however, being such in the later acceptation of the term, that is, endowed with the four faculties. Concerning this distinction we shall have to advance a few remarks hereafter.
The term university (universitas), in its ancient signification, denotes simply a community, and may, therefore, be applied to the commune of a city. Hence, the distinction will be evident between the expression "Universitas Bolognae" and "Universitas Studii Bonnensis"—the commune of Bologna, and the community of the university of Bologna. The elder title of a university isStudium, a term applied to every higher school, and supplied with the epithetGeneraleeither from the fact of divers faculties being taught, or students of all nations being admitted within its pale. The most distinctive trait of the Generale Studium is manifested in the social position it had gained as a corporate institution invested with certain rights and privileges, like all other guilds or corporations of the middle ages. The university was the privileged guild, the sole competent body from which every authority and license to teach science and literature emanated. The man upon whom it conferred its degrees was, by the very fact of gaining such distinction, stamped as the scholar, competent to profess and teach the liberal arts. The graduate, however, gained his social position not by the act of promotion, but by the privileges which the governing heads of church and state had connected with that act. Hence, it was considered an indispensable condition that a newly erected university should be confirmed in its statutes and privileges by the pope, the representative of the whole community of Christians. The universities having gained a social position, their members were henceforth not merely scholars declared as such by a competent body of men, but they also derived social advantages which lay beyond the reach of those who stood outside the pale of the university.
A short sketch of the universities erected in different European countries after the pattern of the three parent establishments may suffice to give our readers an idea of the zeal and emulation displayed by popes and emperors, princes and citizens, in the promotion of learning and civilization.
In the year 1204 an unfortunate event befell Bologna. Several professors, with a great number of scholars, removed from that place toVicenza, where they opened their schools. This dismemberment of the university of Bologna must have had its cause in some—we do not learn exactly what— internal commotion. The secession was apparently of very little effect, for the university of Vicenza, to which it had given rise in 1204, ceased to exist in the year 1209, most probably in consequence of the professors and scholars returning to the alma of Bologna as soon as this could be opportunely done. A more detailed account has been handed down to us concerning the secession of 1215, when Rofredo da Benevento, professor of civil law, emigrated from Bologna toArezzo, and erected his chair in the cathedral of that city. A crowd of scholars followed the course of the great master. From letters written by Pope Honorius between 1216 and 1220, it would appear that the citizens of Bologna, in order to prevent the dismemberment of their university, tried to impose upon the scholars an oath, by which they were to pledge themselves never, in any way, to further the removal of the Studium from Bologna, or to leave that school for the purpose of settling elsewhere. The students, however, refused to take this oath of allegiance, a refusal in which they were justified by the pope, who advised them rather to leave the city than undertake any engagement prejudicial to their liberties. The result was the rise of the university of Arezzo, where, besides the ancient schools of law, we find in the year 1255 the faculties of arts and medicine. From a similar dissension between the citizens and scholars seems to have been caused the emigration toPadua, where the secessionist professors and scholars established a university which soon became the successful rival of Bologna.
In the year 1222 the Emperor Frederick II., from spite to the Bolognese, and a desire of promoting the interests of his newly erected university ofNaples, commanded all the students and professors at Bologna who belonged as subjects to his Sicilian dominions to repair to Naples. The non-Sicilian members of the Alma Bonnensis he endeavored to allure by making them the most liberal promises. At any other time this ungenerous stratagem might have resulted in the entire ruin of the university of Bologna; this city, however, being a member of the powerful Lombard League, could afford to laugh at Frederick's decrees of annihilation. As long as its founder and benefactor was alive, the university of Naples enjoyed a high degree of fame and excellence among the studia of Italy, for Frederick spared neither expense nor labor in the propagation of science and literature.
Pope Innocent IV. erected the university ofRomeabout the year 1250, and conferred upon it all the privileges enjoyed by other establishments of the kind. But the praise of having raised that university to its most flourishing condition, and endowed it with all the faculties, is due to Pope Boniface VIII.
Lombardy owed its literary fame to the noble Galeazzo Visconti, who formed the design of erecting a university close to Milan which should provide for the increased wants in science and education among the population of that capital and the surrounding cities.The site chosen for the purpose wasPavia, which had for a long time been the resort of literati of every description who had been educated in the neighboring university of Bologna. The new university soon acquired great fame, enjoying the special patronage of the Emperor Charles IV. of Germany.
The French universities were organized after the model of Paris, but most of them had to be contented with one or several of the faculties, exclusive of theology, which was, and continued to be, a privileged science reserved to Paris and a few of the more ancient universities. Thus we see thatOrleans, where a flourishing school of law had existed since 1284, was provided in 1312 with the charters and privilege of of the Studium Generale.MontpelierUniversity, according to some historians, was founded in 1196 by Pope Urban V.; but with certainty we can trace its famous school of medicine only as far back as the year 1221. To this was added the faculty of law in 1230, and Nicolas IV. finally established, in 1286, the faculties of civil and canon law, medicine and arts.Grenoble,Anjou, and a few others, though entitled to claim the privileges of the Studium Generale, hardly ever exceeded the limits of ordinary schools, whether in arts, law, or medicine.
The system of centralization, which at that time had already gained the upper hand in the church and state of France, impressed its type on social and scientific life as well. Paris became the all-absorbing vortex which engulfed every symptom of provincial independence; and the Alma Parisiensis developed in her bosom, as spontaneous productions of her own body, the colleges which were founded on so grand a scale as to outweigh in importance all the minor universities, each college forming, so to say, a "universitas in universitate." This observation holds good for England and the English universities.
Turning our attention to Germany, we find, in accordance with the social conditions of the country, the development of academic life taking a somewhat intermediate course between the Italian universities on the one side, and Paris and Oxford on the other. Though emperors and territorial princes vie with each other in the promotion of educational establishments, Germany nevertheless bears a close resemblance to Italy in so far as in both countries the opulent citizens are among the first to exert themselves in the propagation of science and the diffusion of knowledge. The university ofPrague, founded by the Emperor Charles IV. in 1318, was soon followed by that ofVienna, founded in 1365 by Albertus Contraetus, duke of Austria, andHeidelberg, erected by Rupert of the Palatinate, and confirmed by the pope in 1386. The university of Cologne owed its origin to the exertions made by the municipal council, who succeeded in gaining a charter from Pope Urban VI. in 1388.Erfurtalso is mainly indebted to the zeal of the citizens and the town council for its erection, which took place in 1392.Leipzigwas founded, in its rudiments at least, in 1409 by the Elector Frederick I. of Saxony, but it started into the full vigor of academic life under the impulse imparted to it by the immigration of two thousand students, Catholic Germans, who, to escape Hussite persecution, had departed in a body from the university of Prague.
Spain, which we should expect to see forward in promoting institutions of learning, did not much avail herself of those fruits of science which had ripened to unequalled splendor under the Arabs in the eleventh century. Recalling, however, to mind the fearful struggles between the Christian and Arab population, struggles which for centuries shook that country to its very foundations, we can readily make allowance for the slow advance of learning in this state of bellicose turmoil. Yet, in spite of these unfavorable conditions, the schools received no inconsiderable attention from the Christian rulers of the country.The ancient school ofOsca, orHuesca, was revived;Saragossa, which is said to have been founded in 990 by Roderico à S. AElia, began to thrive again;Valentiawas founded by Alphonse of Leon, andSalamancain 1239 by Ferdinand of Castile and Leon, both of which schools arrived at their greatest splendor and the position of universities at the beginning of the sixteenth century, as did also those ofValladolid, Barcelona, SaragossaandAlcala.
In order to give a general survey of the progress of academic establishments in the different European countries, we subjoin a list of all mediaeval universities, with the dates of foundation, which in doubtful cases are accompanied by a note of interrogation. The dates of the most ancient universities require no further remark after our previous observations:
Entering upon the subject of the constitution or organization of the universities, we need hardly remind our readers that, in accordance with the nature of their origin and with the spirit of uniformity which pervaded the middle ages, the constitution of the different universities was everywhere essentially the same. The university of the most ancient date was not an exclusive school or establishment existing only for the higher branches of erudition, but it was a system or various schools, which chiefly aimed at the education of a competent body of teachers, a corporation of scientific men. This purpose could be, and indeed was, attained without splendidly endowed colleges or spacious lecture-rooms. The university, in its first rudimentary appearance, is an ideal rather than a reality. There are no traces of buildings exclusively appropriated to academic purposes, but the first house or cottage or barn, if need were, was made subservient to scientific pursuits, whenever a licensed teacher or magister pleased to erect his throne there. Nor did the Studium Generale confine itself to giving finishing touches of education, but it comprised the whole sphere of development from boyhood to manhood, so that the boy still "living under the rod" could boast of being a member of the university with the same right as the bearded scholar of thirty or forty years of age. The same academic privileges which were enjoyed by the magister or doctor extended to the lowest of the "famuli" that trod in the train of the academicalcortége.ACorpus Academicum, with its various degrees of membership, its distinction of nations and faculties, its peculiar organization and constitution—such are the characteristic traits of all the mediaeval universities which we are about to examine. To the Corpus Academicum belonged thestudents(scholares),bachelors(baccalaurei),licentiates, masters(magistri), and doctors, with the governing heads, the proctors (procuratores), thedeans(decani), and therectorandchancellor(cancellarius). To these were added officials and servants of various denominations, and finally the trades-people of the university, designated asacademic citizens. Every student was obliged to present himself within a certain time before the rector of the university in order to have his name put down in the album of the university (matricula), to be matriculated. He pledged his word by oath to submit to the laws and statutes of the university, and to the rector in all that is right and lawful (licitis et honestis), and to promote the welfare of his university by every means in his power. At the same time he had to deposit a fee in the box (archa) of the academic community, the amount of which was fixed according to the rank of the candidate, as it was not unusual for bishops, canons, abbots, noblemen, doctors, and other graduates to apply for membership in some university. After being matriculated and recognized as a member of the body, the student had to assume the academic dress, which characterized him as such to the world at large. The dress was identical with that of the clergy, and from this and other incidents every member of the school was termedclericus, and all the members collectivelyclerus universitatiswhenceclericus(clerc) came to designate ascholar, andlaicusa layman and adunceas well. The wearing of secular dress was strictly prohibited, and we can appreciate the benefit of this arrangement on considering the exorbitant fashions which prevailed in those days, to the prejudice of propriety and the ruin of pecuniary means. To carry arms, chiefly a kind of long sword, was a matter allowed sometimes, more often connived at, but frequently prohibited at times of disturbances among the scholars themselves, or during feuds with the citizens. Against visiting gambling-houses or other places of bad repute, passing the nights in taverns, engaging in dances or revels, or other diversions unseemly in a "clerc," we find repeated and earnest injunctions in the statutes of the universities. Where scholars were living together in the same house under proper surveillance, they formed a community known asbursa. Bursa originally denoted the contribution which each scholar had to pay toward the maintenance of the community, whence the term was applied to the community itself. The bursae had, like inns and public-houses, their proper devices and appellations, commonly derived from the name and character of the house-owner orhospes(host). Corresponding with the Continental bursae were the English hospitia and aulae, or halls, which, however, may be traced to higher antiquity than the former. It is not difficult to recognize in these institutes the germs of the later colleges. At the head of the hospitium or bursa stood theconventor, who was commonly appointed by the rector, in some places elected by the members of the bursa, and who had to direct the course of study, guard the morals of the students, etc. If the hospes or host was a master or bachelor, the functions of conventor naturally devolved upon him. Theprovisortook charge of the victuals, watched over the purchase and preparation of the same, and settled the pecuniary affairs with the hospes. Discipline in the bursae and halls was rigorous and severe, and it could not be otherwise at a time when the individual man was not restrained by a thousand formalities and conventionalities, but allowed to develop freely his inherent faculties and powers, often to such a degree as to prove prejudicial to the peace of society, unless they were curbed by the severe punishment which followed transgression.We meet in the earliest times of the universities with but very few systematic regulations as far as internal discipline is concerned. This was a matter of practice, and left rather to be settled according to the requirements of each case as it arose. Practice, again, taught the pupil a lesson of abstemiousness and self-denial which might go far to outdo in its effect our best text-books on moral philosophy. The convictorial houses, as well as the university at large, were poor, being without any funds but those which flowed from the contributions of the scholars and members of the university. A life of toil and endurance was that of the scholar. If he had a fire in the winter season to warm his limbs, and just sufficient food to satisfy his gastronomic cravings, be found himself entitled to praise his stars. The lecture-rooms did not boast of anything like luxury in the outfitting. Some rough structure of the carpenter's making which represented the pulpit was the only requisite piece of furniture; chairs were not wanted, as the pupils found sitting accommodation on the floor, which was strewn with straw or some other substance of nature's own providing, and on which ardent disciples cowered down to listen to the words of wisdom flowing from the lips of some celebrated master. When, at a later period, the university of Paris went so far in fastidious innovations as to procure wooden stools for the pupils to sit upon, the papal legates who had come on a visitation severely censured the authorities for their indiscretion in opening the university to the current of luxury, which would not fail, they affirmed, to have an enervating effect on the mind and body of the pupil; and for a time the scholars had to descend again from the stool to the floor. Early rising was so general a habit in those days as to make it almost superfluous to mention that the pupils had gone through their morning worship and several lessons by the time the more refined student of modern days is accustomed to rise.
The lowest of academical degrees was that ofBachelor(Baccalaureus). [Footnote 47] Certain historical evidence of the creation of bachelors at Paris appears in the bull of Pope Gregory IX., of the year 1281, though the degree must be of a remoter date, for the pope alludes to it not as a novel institution, but in terms which induce us to admit its previous existence. When a scholar had attended the course of lectures prescribed by his faculty, and gone through a certain number of disputations, he might present himself as a candidate for the bachelorship. Having passed his examination before the doctors (magistri) of his faculty to their satisfaction, and taken the usual oath of fidelity and obedience to the university, he gained the actual promotion by the chancellor. Hereupon be proceeded with his friends and others whom he chose to invite, in a more or less brilliantcortége, to the banquet which he provided in honor of the occasion. In the procession the staff or sceptre (baculus, sceptrum, virga) of the university was carried in front of the new-made bachelor, as the emblem of his recently gained academical dignity. The bachelors were still only a higher class of students, and as such they are frequently calledArchischolares. They, of course, preceded the students in rank, were allowed to wear a gown of choicer material, and the cap calledQuadtatum, while theBirrettum[Footnote 48] was reserved for the doctors.
[Footnote 47: As to the derivation of this term hardly a doubt can be entertained. The ancient custom of carrying the academic staff or scepter (baculus) before the candidates on his promotion to the first degree, undoubtedly gave origin to the termsBaculariusandBaculariatus, which only in later times were corrupted intoBacculariusandBaccalaureus. Thus with Kink against Balaeus, Voight, and others, who give the most fantastic derivations, such asbataille(batalarius),bas-chevalier, etc.]
[Footnote 48:Quadratum, the square cap;birrettum, a term still preserved in the Frenchbarrette, a cardinal's hat; in German the termbarrettis used for the cap worn by priests when in official dress.]