Marc's cheek was blackened with the powder of a pistol fired within six inches of his head; a bullet passed through his hat; but his course was not staid until his sword pierced the old officer with the light mustache through and through, at one of the cannons. Then, rising slowly in his saddle until his tall form sat erect, he gazed around, and said sententiously:
"The guns are ours!"
But the scene was terrible; themêléeon the high plateau; the shrieks, the neighing of horses, or their cries of agony; the shouts of rage; men casting away their arms in a wild flight for life, an inexorable foe pursuing; beyond the ravine, ladders crowded with white uniforms and bristling with bayonets; mountaineers defending themselves with the fierce courage of despair; the sides of the slope, the road, and the foot of theabatisheaped with dead, or wounded writhing in anguish; still further away, the masses of the enemy advancing, with musket on shoulder, and officers in the midst urging them on; old Materne, on the crest of the steep, swinging his clubbed rifle with deadly effect, and shouting for his son Frantz, who was rushing at full speed with his command to the fight; Jean-Claude directing the defence; the deafening musketry, now in volleys, now rattling like some terrible hailstorm; and, rolling above all, the vague, weird echoes of mountain and valley. All this was pressed into that one moment.
Marc-Dives was not of a contemplative or poetic turn of mind, however, and wasted no time in useless reflections upon the horrors of war. A glance showed him the position of affairs, and, springing from his horse, he seized one of the levers of the guns, and in a moment had aimed the yet loaded piece at the foot of the ladders. Then he seized a match and fired.
Strange cries arose from afar off, and the smuggler, gazing through the smoke, saw a bloody lane in the enemy's ranks. He shook both his hands above his head exultingly, and a shout of triumph arose from the breastworks.
"Dismount!" he cried to his men. "Now is our time for action! Bring cartridges and balls from your caissons. Load! We will sweep the road! Ready! Fire!"
The smugglers applied themselves to the work, and shot after shot tore through the white masses. The fire enfiladed the ranks, and the tenth discharge was at a flying foe.
"Fire! fire!" shouted Marc. And the partisans, re-enforced by Frantz, regained the position they had for a moment lost.
And now the mountain-side was covered only with dead, wounded, and flying. It was four o'clock in the evening, and night was falling fast. The last cannon-shot fell in the street of Grandfontaine, and, rebounding, overturned the chimney of the "Red Ox."
Six hundred men had perished. Many of the mountaineers had fallen, but many more of the Kaiserliks. Dives's cannonade had saved all; for the partisans were not even one against ten, and the enemy had almost made himself master of their works.
The Austrians, crowded in Grandfontaine, fled toward Framont, on foot and on horseback, flinging their knapsacks away, and looking behind as if they feared the mountaineers were in hot pursuit.
In Grandfontaine, in a sort of spirit of revenge, they broke whatever they could lay hands on, tore out windows, crushed in doors, demanded food and drink, and insulted the people by way of payment. Their imprecations and cries, the commands of their officers, the complaints of the inhabitants, the heavy tramp of feet across the bridge of Framont, and the agonized neigh of wounded horses, all rose in a confused murmur to theabatis.
On the side of the mountain, arms, shakos, knapsacks, dead—all the signs of a rout—were alone seen. Opposite appeared Marc-Dives's guns, ready to open fire anew in case of a new attack.
The partisans had gained the day; but no shout of triumph rose from their intrenchments. Their losses had been too cruel. Silence had succeeded the tumult of battle—silence, deep and solemn—and those who had escaped the carnage gazed earnestly at their fellows, as if wondering to see them yet alive. A few called aloud for friends, some for brothers, who replied not. Then search began throughout the length of the works for Jacob, or Philippe, or Antoine.
And the gray shades of night were falling fast over mountain and valley, and lending a strange mystery to the horrid picture; and men came and went without knowing one another.
Materne wiped his bloody bayonet, and called his boys in hoarse tones:
"Kasper! Frantz!"
And seeing them approach in the half-darkness, he asked:
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
The voice of the old hunter, harsh as it was, trembled.
"We are all three again together; God's mercy be thanked!" he murmured.
And he, who was never known to weep, embraced his boys, while the tears rained down his cheeks, and they, no less moved, sobbed like little children.
But the old man soon recovered himself and cried with a forced gayety:
"We have had a rough day, lads; let us take a cup of wine—I am thirsty."
Throwing a last glance at the bloody slope, and seeing that the sentries whom Hullin had stationed at intervals of thirty paces were all at their posts, the old man led the way to the farm-house.
They were passing carefully through the corpse-piled trench, when a feeble voice exclaimed:
"Is that you, Materne?"
"Ah poor Rochart! Pardon! forgive me if I hurt you," said the old hunter, bending over the wounded man; "how comes it that you are still here?"
"Because I cannot move hence; inasmuch as I have no legs," answered the other with a mournful sort of merriment.
The three hunters stood silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter continued:
"Tell my wife, Materne, that behind the cupboard, in a stocking, she will find six crowns. I saved them in case either of us should fall sick; but I have no further need—"
"Perhaps—perhaps—you may live yet, old friend," interrupted Materne. "We will carry you from here, at all events."
"It is not worth while," returned the wounded man. "An hour more, and you can carry me to my grave."
Materne, without replying, signed to Frantz to help him, and together they raised the old wood-cutter from the ground, despite his wish to be left alone. Thus they arrived at the farm-house.
All the wounded who had strength enough to drag themselves to the hospital were there. Doctor Lorquin and a fellow-surgeon, named Despois, who had come during the day to his assistance, had work enough on hand; and as Materne and his sons with their piteous load traversed the dimly-lighted hall, they heard cries which froze the blood in their veins, and the dying wood-cutter almost shrieked:
"Why do you bring me here! Let me die in peace. They shall not touch me!"
"Open the door Frantz," said Materne, his forehead covered with a cold sweat, "open quick!"
And as Frantz pushed open the door, they saw, on a large kitchen-table in the middle of the low room, with its heavy brown rafters, Colard, the younger, stretched at full length, six candles around him, a man holding each arm, and a bucket beneath. Doctor Lorquin, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a short wide saw in his hand, was about cutting off the poor fellow's leg, while Desbois stood by with a sponge. Blood dripped into the bucket, and Colard was pale as death. Catherine Lefevre was near, with a roll of lint, and seemed firm; but the furrows in her cheeks were deeper than usual, and her teeth were tightly set. She gazed on the ground so as not to see the misery around.
"It is over!" said the doctor at length, turning round.
And casting a glance at the new-comers he added:
"Ah! you here, Father Rochart?"
"Yes; but you must not touch me. I am done for; let me die in peace."
The doctor took up a candle, looked for a moment at the old man's wounds, and said with a grimace:
"It was time, my poor Rochart; you have lost a great deal of blood, and if we wait any longer, it will be too late."
"Do not touch me!" shrieked the old man. "I have suffered enough!"
"As you wish. We will pass to another."
He looked at the long line of mattresses. The two last were empty, although deluged with blood. Materne and Kasper placed their charge upon the last, while Despois went to another of the wounded men, saying:
"It is your turn, Nicholas."
Then they saw tall Nicholas Cerf lift a pale face and eyes glittering with fear.
"Give him a glass of brandy," said the doctor.
"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."
"Where is your pipe?"
"In my vest."
"Good; and your tobacco?"
"In my pantaloons pocket."
"Fill his pipe, Despois. This man is a brave fellow—I like to see such. We will take off your arm in two times and three motions."
"Is there no way of preserving it, Monsieur Lorquin—for my poor children's sake? It is their only support."
"No, the bone is fractured and will not reunite. Light his pipe, Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man, smoke, smoke."
The poor fellow seemed after all to have little wish to do so.
"Are you ready?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," answered the sufferer in a choking voice.
"Good! Attention, Despois; sponge!"
Then with a long knife he cut rapidly around the arm. Nicholas ground his teeth. The blood spirted; Despois tied something. The saw ground for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the floor.
"That is what I call a well-performed operation," observed Lorquin.
Nicholas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. They bound round what remained of his arm with lint, and replaced him on his mattress.
"Another finished! Sponge the table well, Despois, and then for the next," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large basin.
Each time he said, "Now for the next," the wounded men groaned with fear. The shrieks they heard and the glittering knives they saw were enough to strike a chill to their hearts; but what could be done? All the rooms of the farm-house and of the barn were crowded. Only the large hall remained clear, and so the Doctor could not help operating under the eyes of those who must a little later take their turn.
Materne could see no more. Even the dog, Pluto, who stood behind the doctor, seemed to tremble at the horrible sight. The old hunter hastened to breathe the cold air without, and cried:
"And to think, my boys, that this might have happened to us!"
"God is good," said Frantz, "and why should we let sights even like these affright us from our duty? We are in his hands."
A murmur of voices arose to their right.
"It is Marc-Dives and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.
"Yes, they have just come from the breastwork they made behind the fir-wood for the cannon," added Frantz.
They listened again. Footsteps approached.
"You are embarrassed with your three prisoners," said Hullin, in short tones. "You return to Falkenstein to-night; why can you not take them with you?"
"But where shall I put them?"
"Parbleu!In the prison of Abreschwiller; we cannot keep them here."
"I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they attempt to escape on the way, I will plant my rapier between their shoulders."
"You must!"
They reached the door, and Hullin, seeing Materne, cried joyously:
"You here, old friend? I have been seeking you for an hour. Where were you?"
"We were carrying old Rochart to the hospital."
Jean-Claude dropped his head sadly; but his joy at the result of the day's battle soon gained the upper hand, and he said:
"Yes, it is mournful, indeed. But such is the fortune of war. Are you or your sons hurt?"
"Not a scratch."
"Thank Heaven! Materne, those who passed through this day's work may well rejoice."
"Yes," cried Marc-Dives, laughing, "I saw old Materne ready to beat a retreat; without those little cannon-shots, things would have had a different ending."
Materne reddened and glanced angrily at the smuggler.
"It is very possible," he answered; "but without the cannon-shots at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end, and old Rochart and fifty brave fellows would yet have legs and arms—a thing which would not have hurt our victory."
"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, who saw a dispute likely to arise. "Quit this discussion. Every man has done his duty."
Then addressing Materne, he added:
"I have sent a flag of truce to Framont, to tell the enemy to remove their wounded. They will arrive in about an hour, doubtless, and you must order our outposts to let them advance; but without arms, and with torches. If they come otherwise, fire on them."
"I will go at once," replied the old hunter.
"Return with your sons, and have supper with us at the farm-house, when you have carried out your orders."
"Very well, Jean-Claude."
Hullin ordered Frantz and Kasper to have large bivouac-fires lighted for the night, and Marc to have his horses fed and to go at once for more ammunition, and, seeing them depart on their way, he entered the farm-house.
Translated From The French.
[Footnote 158]
[Footnote 158: A discourse pronounced by the Archbishop of Malines on his first pastoral visit to the city and university of Louvain.]
I have not been able to come among you as soon as I desired. The duties of my office, and especially the difficulties which always surround one's initiation to a new sphere of duties, are the causes of this delay. Had I the leisure, my first visit after my entrance into this vast diocese would have been to Louvain—to Louvain, so celebrated for its glorious traditions—to Louvain, which has ever remained true to them. To the attraction of great historical remembrances are joined in my case ties of a more intimate nature. This pulpit recalls to my mind the days of a ministry which must always be dear to my heart, and which was far less onerous than that which has replaced it; for if in those days I spoke of the cross, it was surely without carrying the one which now weighs upon my shoulders. Yet it is with joy that I address for the first time, as pastor of their souls, the children of this city, twice blessed by the Church for the signal services she has rendered to the Christian world, both by her ancient university, and by the one which lives again in our time with so much lustre.
Louvain bears a great title, because she symbolizes a great thing—the unity of science and faith. How, then, my brethren, can I avoid speaking of her, and of that unity which men now strive to banish from the schools of learning? Everywhere it seems as if some invincible power had given the command to expel Christianity from our schools in the name of science. I gladly seize, therefore, the first opportunity which has been offered me to consider this question, because it deeply interests the living minds of the age, because it is one of the great cares of our social life, and because here the two interests are united in one place: the interests of science, because I speak of Louvain; the interests, of religion, because I speak from this sacred pulpit.
Not always in their efforts against the unity of science and religion do we find our opponents frankly declaring war upon Christianity. No; its enemies prefer to extinguish it by stratagem. They wisely fear the love of parents for their offspring; and while they are eager to destroy the faith of the one, they hope to accomplish their task without the knowledge of the other. It is on this account that they have sought and found the proper word to conceal their design, and this word isneutrality in teaching. I wish, then, to show you two things:
First. That neutrality in teaching, as far as it regards the Christian religion, is evidently impossible; that a teacher must unavoidably declare himself for or against the Christian faith, even as Christ himself said, "He that is not for me is against me."
Second. Science cannot declare itself against the Christian faith without denying itself, without being unfaithful to its own principle, which is reason, and without renouncing the very conditions of a free, perfect, and progressive science.
May the Mother of Science and Faith,Mater Agnitionis, obtain for us from the incarnated Wisdom the light which we need!
When I speak of instruction, I do not intend to designate certain branches of study in particular, but I refer to the whole course of teaching in each of its three degrees. I affirm, then, that neutrality in teaching is an evident impossibility, so far as it regards Christianity in each of these three degrees, and more especially in the highest grade of instruction. This could be demonstrated by running over a great number of the various branches of study; but in order to be more concise, though not less conclusive, I will speak of only two among them, history and morals, upon which no school can be silent. They will suffice to convince you that the school which is not Christian is necessarily antichristian, and that it will ever be impossible to be neutral.
Let us begin with history. If the Christian religion were a mythology, certainly we could separate it from the teaching of history, and banish it to the domain of fable; but Christianity before as well as after the Incarnation is a great historical fact; nay, it is the greatest fact of history. This fact is a living one in that religious society which embraces every nation. This living fact speaks and affirms itself divine; not divine in man who accepts it, but divine in that which constitutes its essence, in its doctrine, in its worship, and in its doctrinal and sanctifying power.
Christian teaching affirms that Christianity is adivinefact. Anti-Christian instruction denies it. What, then, can neutral instruction be? If it neither affirm nor deny, necessarily it doubts, and consequently it must teach doubt. But is not the teaching of doubt formally antichristian? The divine Author of Christianity teaches us that, in the presence of the proofs of his mission, doubt is inexcusable: "If I had not come and spoken to them, they would not have sin: but now they have no excuse for their sin." (John xv. 22.)
We will see, in a few moments, why this doubt is inexcusable; but we only affirm a self-evident truth when we declare neutrality to be impossible, because he who is not for the faith is necessarily against it, and to teach doubt is only another way to deny truth. But perhaps it will be said that neutral instruction will say nothing concerning this matter; that it will pass by the fact of the Christian religion in silence; and that, without relegating it to the domain of mythology, it will quietly ignore its existence.Now, the absurdity of this position is still more manifest, for Christianity is linked to everything in this world. We cannot take a step in history without meeting with it; if you search the annals of antiquity, of the first centuries of the Christian era, of the middle ages, or of modern times, at every age alike you will see Christianity before you, and everywhere it governs all other things from its lofty height.
The pretence of silence in this matter is therefore one of two things: it is either nonsense or it is hypocrisy. It is nonsense when it is said, as I have recently been informed it is in a certain classic work adopted by our schools, that it will contain no question about sacred history, nor about the history of the church, whether of the old or the new alliance, because these questions are all beyond the scope of history. The chain of facts which a Bossuet has unrolled in his discourse upon universal history—that marvellous chain of facts beyond the scope of history! The expectation of redemption among all the people of the globe, which is proved by the universality of expiatory sacrifices, and by foreshadowings which redemption can alone make intelligible; the establishment of Christianity in its last and definite form, its civilizing influence, its trials, its long-continued struggles, its triumphant existence—these are all beyond the scope of history! This pretended silence, then, is not nonsense, it is hypocrisy; it is only, like the neutrality which it defends, the hollow mask of infidelity.
Again, neutrality is not less impossible in the sphere of morals than in history. What is morality? It is the science of duty. By itself, it is the science of means furnished by reason to overcome our passions. Therefore to morals belong these absorbing questions: Why have the passions revolted against reason? Why does not the same beautiful harmony reign in the moral as in the physical order? Why are there, as it were, two men within us, and why do we know what we ought to do, and why do we follow the opposite? What is the cause of this deep-seated evil, which is only too well known to us all? What is the remedy for it? Where shall we find the strength to conquer this interior revolt? Where are the arms with which we can triumph?
He who knows not this knows nothing. But faith has positive answers for these fundamental questions. It teaches us that the revolt of passions in human nature is the first result of the revolt of the human mind against God; that the soul, which did not wish to submit to its Creator and its Master, has rightly suffered the uprising of its own slaves, the senses and the appetites; that, if it would vanquish them, it must humiliate its pride, lament its evil deeds, implore the grace of God, pray to obtain again its lost strength. It teaches us that by prayer we seize familiarly the divine armor, "armaturam Dei orantes" and that only by its aid can we hope to combat and to triumph. This is Christian teaching. And will not that teaching be antichristian which denies what Christianity, in this respect, declares to be true? Certainly it must, because in the teaching of morals, to be silent concerning the necessity of grace and of prayer, by which man freely obtains grace, is to make an avowed profession of antichristianity. To say nothing of the grace which strengthens our nature; to say nothing of grace, which not only strengthens, but elevates nature above itself; to say nothing of the life of grace, as if, when compared with the physical and intellectual life, there was not a far more noble life, which all men have experienced, since no one is completely abandoned by its merciful inspirations—this is not a neutral course; it is antichristian, formally antichristian.
I might prove to you here that instruction upon morals is not only antichristian when it is silent concerning the means given us by faith to conquer these passions, but also when it refuses to recognize the great motives for fulfilling our duties, for these motives are so many Christian truths. I might show, or rather recall the fact, that these truths have transformed private and public morality, that they have begotten modern civilization; and those are indeed blind and ungrateful who enjoy the fruit of this civilization, while they would miserably tear the fair tree from the hearts of their Christian countrymen.
But I must be satisfied with placing these arguments before you; and I am the more readily contented with this sketch, because I know that it is not requisite to say everything, in order to be understood. I am convinced that I have said enough to make it clear, both to your reason and to your conscience, that instruction must be Christian, or it will become antichristian; that science is necessarily either for or against the holy faith; and that its pretended neutrality is only an unmeaning word. Hence it follows that the organization of public instruction on the basis of a deceitful neutrality is in reality the affirmation of antichristianity in the state. [Footnote 159]
[Footnote 159: In Belgium, there is a society which bears the title ofThe League of Instruction. This society is free to organize antichristianity in its schools, but always defraying its own expenses, and at its own risk and peril. This society has become dissatisfied, because its members know that they cannot gain the confidence of the people; hence they have sought to remove the obstacles by imploring the protection of the state.]
It remains for us to see that, when science declares against the Christian faith, it really denies its own principle, that is to say, reason. And why? Because it is reason which invokes the light of faith, and it is reason which recognizes it. It is reason which invokes the light of faith. For what is reason? Reason is that one of our powers which reaches after truth; it is that faculty which is ever forcing us to search out the "why" of things. It has even the same name as its object, for the reason and the "why" of anything are one. Again, we only act reasonably when we knowwhywe are acting. Even in our most insignificant actions, we always propose to ourselves an intention, an end which determines them. In order, therefore, to live reasonably, we must knowwhy. It is necessary to know thewhy, or theend, of life, so that the first words of our catechism answer the first question of reason. Why are you in the world? Is it only to go to the cemetery? Has man been placed upon the earth only that he may be thrown into a grave? Humanity will never accept this doctrine. The generations of the human race kneel at the tombs of their ancestors and protest against this monstrosity—the miserable and absurd system of those who clamorously desire a liberty of the human mind, which can only terminate in corruption and worms. The human conscience and human reason unite in declaring that life is only a journey, that its end is beyond the tomb, and that to die is to attain it. But what do we attain? Where do we arrive?Here reason searches, and trembles while she seeks. She looks, and feels that she is powerless to penetrate single-handed into the abyss of the future life. The learned and the ignorant are equally baffled, and can only say, "It is necessary to return to the other world, in order to know what really is done there." The gospel tells us the same; no one has penetrated the heavens except he who came from them: "No one has ascended into heaven, except he who descended from heaven, the Son of Man who is in heaven."
Let us try then, brethren, to discover what reason asks, and justly asks. It asks the "why" of life; it does not care to exist without knowing "why" and knowing it with certainty. It can obtain certitude in many other spheres of thought; but it wishes to be assured upon this far more than upon any other question. Let us, then, state how reason has certitude in some other matters, and how it wishes and can attain it in this.
We know the things of the exterior world with certainty, and reason tells as to admit that which is well attested by the senses. We know the things of the interior world, of that world which is within our own breasts, because reason tells us to admit what is revealed by our self-consciousness. We know the great mass of truths of the intellectual world with certainty, for our reason tells us that we must acknowledge the truths proclaimed by evidence. We know that which is passing upon the earth in the present day. We know events which occur in distant quarters of the world, and we know the facts which are separated from us by long intervals of time, because our reason tells us that history and the testimony of mankind are reliable grounds of certitude.
But that which we wish to know more than all these things is the end of our own existence; and we wish to know this precisely, because we are reasonable beings. Our reason longs to know more of the meaning of our creation; it desires to know what is true in regard to our end, because this truth must be divine and eternal. But to be certain of divine truth, must not reason be willing to obey the voice of God? To be certain of eternal truth, must we not accept the testimony of eternity? The testimony of God was implored in every age, and from this it comes that faith, which is the acceptance by human reason of God's revelation, is a constant, perpetual, universal fact, even as the fact of reason itself. It is ridiculous to urge against the truth of revelation the various religions which claim to be revealed; for the counterfeits of revelation do not prove more against it than the perversion of reason proves against reason. The wanderings of reason do not compel us to deny the truth of human reason, so neither do the misrepresentations and counterfeits of revelation force us to deny its truth. We have seen, therefore, what reason requires; let us see how it recognizes revelation when it meets with it.
There is a certain manner of speaking indifferently of all religions which is used as a cloak to hide the desire to confound them. This is common in the world of letters among men of scanty science. But serious science, like a sincere conscience, discovers divine revelation, in spite of its human alterations, by certain signs and characteristic marks which are unmistakable. These signs have been multiplied by Providence with love; but I wish to insist here upon that token which has not only followed past ages in their course, but has, if I may so speak, grown with their growth: that grand characteristic which reveals the author of nature, and which assures us of the giver of revelation, is unity.The unity of nature reveals God as the creator, the harmony of the heavens and of the earth recount the glory of their author: "The heavens explain the glory of God." It is the chant of the unity of space. But the unity of time is not less splendid than the unity of worlds; it is the harmony of centuries in Jesus Christ, who has revealed God as the author of revelation. Nature and revelation are, then, the two great works in which God is revealed by the same sign—queenly and all-powerful unity! The unity of time in Jesus Christ, and in him alone, is a fact without a parallel; more easy for us to rejoice in than to depict. Yet here is the master-stroke of a great pencil: "These are great facts, clearer than the light of the sun itself, which make us know that our religion is as old as the world, and demonstrate that he only could be its author who, holding all things in his hand, has been able to begin and continue that which holds all centuries in its embrace. To be expected, to come, to be adored by a posterity which will last through every age, is the character of him whom we adore, Jesus Christ, yesterday, to-day, and to endless ages, the same." This, then, is the manifest sign of divine revelation, the unity of time in Jesus Christ.
St. Augustine spoke of this sign, considering it, however, under only one of its aspects, when he answered those persons who envied the good fortune of those who conversed with the risen Christ: "The apostles saw one thing, but they believed another; and because they saw, they believed that which they did not see. They saw Jesus Christ risen, the head of the Church, but they did not yet see this body, this Universal Church, which Jesus Christ announced to them," this marvellous and almost incredible Catholicity, extending over every country, with its unbloody sacrifice of the great invisible Victim, with the manifestation of conscience and remission of sins, with its perpetuity to the end of time, with its centre of unity established by these words: "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." The apostles saw none of these things, and how could they believe in such apparently incredible promises? But they were in the presence of the risen Christ; they had seen him dead and crucified, they saw him living and glorious, and it is from his mouth that they received the promise of that which they did not see. "They have seen the head," says St. Augustine, "and they have believed in the body; we see the body, and we believe in the head. We are like them, because we see, and therefore we believe that which we do not see."
It is necessary for us to recall here what St. Thomas Aquinas says upon this point: "No one believes, unless he sees what is necessary to be believed." It is because we are reasonable that we are believers. It is also because we are believers, we are Christians; and it is as Christians and children of Catholicity that we love with the same affection faith and science, the plenitude of science, the liberty and progress of science. The plenitude of science, for, without its harmony with the sphere of faith and the truths which surround our faith, science must always be incomplete.
There is a science to-day which calls itself "positive" meaning that it is founded on well-attested facts. It is indeed good to rely upon facts. Facts should undoubtedly be the basis of natural science. Still the natural sciences are not the only ones which should be sustained by facts. The moral order, as well as the physical, appears to be a magnificent assemblage of facts. Humanity with its reason, its conscience, its sublime inclinations, its immortal yearnings—is not humanity a grand fact? Then this great fact must be considered as it really exists, in its entirety, and not as mutilated by the false spirit of a system. If the order of facts to which positivism would limit us were the only order, do you know what humanity would be? An ant which disputes with the grains of sand. But humanity will never allow itself to be thus dishonored.
To the moral fact of humanity corresponds that which we have seen triumph over centuries—the fact of revelation. I say it corresponds to them, because Christian revelation offers the only satisfactory reply to questions which philosophers have always asked and never answered. I say it corresponds, because Christian revelation has alone thrown a flood of light upon the mysteries of thepositivestate of humanity, and it alone affirms that it bears a sovereign remedy for the moral disorder of our nature: "Come to me, and I will refresh you." Do we really possess science, then, if, in the presence of these two great facts and of this divine appeal to experience, we obstinately close our eyes and shut our ears? Have we science when, without investigation, we assert as the first condition the gratuitous denial of the possibility of the things that were to be examined? What is really this pretended scientific position? It is the attitude of fear. If science would be perfect, it must investigate every order of facts, investigate their character, declare their harmony. It is when it states the harmony of the facts of the natural order with the facts (I sayfacts) of the supernatural order, the harmony of the actual condition of the human race with the revelation which enlightens its depths, then it is that science becomes perfect, or at least always tends more and more toward perfection. The very names which represent this harmony are, as you are well aware, the greatest names of science.
But will science be free, some one asks, if it is bound by revelation? Does it cease to be free because it is bound by nature? That which troubles certain minds on this point is due to a false and pitiable notion of liberty. In what respect is liberty everywhere distinguished from license? In this, that liberty always moves within the sphere of law, and license always beyond it. In the order of science, the law is the truth established. The liberty of science is not, then, absolute in its independence, as has been recently declared by an academician. No; liberty is not the independence of science, for it consists precisely in the fact of its dependence upon truth. The servitude of science, on the contrary, consists in its dependence upon opinion. Indeed, it is not the freedom of the human mind, but license, mother of servitude, which pretends to-day to reduce everything to opinion. This pretence is the negation of science. To possess science is to know with certainty; to have only opinions is to doubt; and to submit to doubt is slavery. The true man of learning never asserts when he is ignorant; but science does not require less certainty, and only becomes science when she can attain it. Science is thereforescienceonly because the truth controls it, and by controlling it, preserves it from the servitude of opinion, so that this shining sentence of our Lord concerns also the learned: "The truth shall make you free."
"But does not experience show that in bearing the yoke of truth we are sure to yield to illusions?" I answer, is it not proven that those who resist the evidence of a divine order, whether in the work of revelation or in the work of nature, bend beneath every breath that passes, turning to every wind of doctrine, yield to every caprice of intellect, and frame their convictions according to the phrases which are daily set forth by the press of both hemispheres? Have you never met with one of these slaves? They are ready to believe anything that is affirmed without evidence, provided it is contrary to the faith, and they are willing to accept any theory as a demonstrated fact, so long as it can be used against Christianity. What is this but the credulity of incredulity?
The notion of progress is not less false among them than that of liberty. Do they not say every day that faith is incompatible with progress, because revelation is immutable? Is not nature also immutable? Is the immutability of nature an obstacle to the progress of natural science? Why, then, is the immutability of revelation, which we have seen clothed with the same divine sign as nature—why, then, is this immutability an obstacle to the progress of the moral sciences? Is it not concerning the progress of these sacred sciences that Pius IX. has recently adopted the words of Vincent of Lerins, and made them his own? "Progress exists, and it is very great; but it is the true progress of faith, which is not constant change. It must be that the intelligence, the science, the wisdom of all ages, as well as of each one in particular, of all ages and centuries of the whole church, should, like individuals, increase and make great, very great progress; so that posterity may have the good fortune to understand that which antiquity venerated without comprehending; so that the precious stones of divine dogma may be cut, exactly adapted, wisely ornamented, that they may enrich us with their grace, their splendor, and their beauty, but always of the same kind, that is to say, the same doctrine, in the same sense and with the same substance, so that, when we use new terms, we do not say new things." You understand then, my brethren, that the immutability of revelation does not offer a greater obstacle to the progress of sacred science than the immutability of nature places in the way of the natural sciences.
The popes were not only the friends of the progress of the sacred sciences; they were the most ardent supporters of all science, as well as of the progress of letters and arts. The facts which prove this are so numerous that I shall content myself with recalling those which concern you more directly. Who founded the universities of Oxford and Cambridge in England? The popes. Who founded the universities of Paris, Bologna, Ferrara, Salamanca, Coimbra, Alcala, Heidelberg, Prague, Cologne, Vienna, Louvain, and Copenhagen? Again the popes. Who instituted the professorships of the Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and Chaldaic Languages at Paris, Oxford, Bologna, and Salamanca? A pope—Clement V. By whom, during two centuries, were sustained, encouraged, recompensed, the works of savants which finally led to the knowledge of the system of the world? By the popes and the cardinals of the holy Roman Church. This is what those ignore who do not blush to perpetuate the fabulous condemnation of Galileo by the Church.Neither the Church nor the sovereign pontiffs have ever condemned Galileo. Galileo was condemned by a tribunal of theologians, who soon withdrew this condemnation to give astronomy the same liberty which was granted to Galileo himself, whose sombre prison is only a romance. Where was this system of the movement of the earth adopted by Copernicus, and then first taught by Galileo? At Rome, in 1495, by Nicholas de Cusa, professor in the Roman University, forty-eight years before the birth of Copernicus, and one hundred and thirty-nine before that of Galileo. Nicholas de Cusa defended at that time this system in a work, dedicated to his professor, Cardinal Julian Cesarini. Pope Nicholas V. raised Nicholas de Cusa to the cardinalate, and named him Bishop of Brixen, in Tyrol. Again, it was at Rome, toward the year 1500, that Copernicus explained and defended this system before an audience of two thousand scholars. Copernicus was made Canon of Königsberg. Celius Calcagnini, who taught the system of Cusa and Copernicus, in Italy, about 1518, was appointed apostolic prothonotary by Clement VIII., and confirmed in this position of honor by Paul III.; it was to Paul III. that Copernicus dedicated his workDe Revolutionibus Orbium Caelestium.At last, when the renowned Kepler, who developed and completed the system of Copernicus, was on this account persecuted by the Protestant theologians of Tübingen, the Holy See used its utmost endeavors to place in the University of Bologna this savant, so Christian in his ideas, and who had not merely embraced the system of Galileo, but had given it an immense weight by the authority of his immortal discoveries. If I insist on this episode, it is because bad faith is stubborn in its efforts to find an argument against the conduct of the popes in the great history of the moral progress of science. The Church never fears the light. She knows and teaches that the light of reason and the light of faith come from the same source. She knows that one of these truths will never contradict the other, and that among the proofs of revelation we must not forget its harmony with the sciences. The sects cannot withstand the presence of science; never has pagan or mussulman become a savant without losing his poor, bewildering faith. It is not so of the true religion. From Clement of Alexandria and Origen to Descartes, Leibnitz, Pascal, Kepler, and De Maistre, to say nothing of our contemporaries, science and faith have dwelt together in the greatest minds of Christendom.
Continue this glorious tradition, young men of the Catholic university, and remain always worthy of yourAlma Mater!Become truly men, and you will be men the more powerful and useful the more faithful Christians you are.
And you, city of Louvain, be justly proud of remaining, through your university, the object of noble envy to the nations which surround you. Ireland has taken you for her model; France and Catholic Germany look upon you, and endeavor that they too may possess something which resembles you. Never cease to be yourself, the city of science and of religion, that your children, ever faithful to these two lights, may be consoled, during their life and at the hour of death, by the thought that their love has never divided these two great things which have been united by the infinite wisdom of God.