' Then the
burgomaster
gave judgment: 'The
present charge is not proven against thee; but an thou beest not
guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears.
present charge is not proven against thee; but an thou beest not
guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v21 to v25 - Rab to Tur
'
"Why, Bon Bec, what is to do? ' quoth he. 'I have made an
ill bargain. O perverse heart, that turneth from doctrine. ' So I
bade him keep his breath to cool his broth: ne'er would I shame
my folk with singing ribald songs.
"Then I to him, 'Take now thy psaltery, and part we here;
for art a walking prison, a walking hell. ' But lo! my master fell
on his knees, and begged me for pity's sake not to turn him off.
What would become of him? He did so love honesty. ' 'Thou
love honesty? ' said I. 'Ay,' said he: 'not to enact it; the saints
forbid: but to look on. 'Tis so fair a thing to look on. Alas,
good Bon Bec,' said he; 'hadst starved peradventure but for me.
Kick not down thy ladder! Call ye that just? Nay, calm thy
choler! Have pity on me! I must have a pal: and how could I
bear one like myself after one so simple as thou? He might cut
my throat for the money that is hid in my belt. 'Tis not much;
'tis not much. With thee I walk at mine ease;
with a sharp I
·
## p. 12137 (#175) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12137
Now I
dare not go before in a narrow way. Alas! forgive me.
know where in thy bonnet lurks the bee, I will 'ware his sting;
I will but pluck the secular goose. ' 'So be it,' said I. 'And
example was contagious: he should be a true man by then we
reached Nürnberg. 'Twas a long way to Nürnberg. ' Seeing
him so humble, I said, 'Well, doff rags, and make thyself decent:
'twill help me forget what thou art. ' And he did so; and we sat
down to our nonemete.
"Presently came by a reverend palmer with hat stuck round.
with cockle-shells from Holy Land, and great rosary of beads.
like eggs of teal, and sandals for shoes. And he leaned aweary
on his long staff, and offered us a shell apiece. My master
would none. But I, to set him a better example, took one, and
for it gave the poor pilgrim two batzen, and had his blessing.
And he was scarce gone when we heard savage cries, and came
a sorry sight,-one leading a wild woman in a chain, all rags,
and howling like a wolf. And when they came nigh us, she fell
to tearing her rags to threads. The man sought an alms of us,
and told us his hard case. 'Twas his wife stark raving mad;
and he could not work in the fields, and leave her in his house
to fire it, nor cure her could he without the saintys help, and
had vowed six pounds of wax to St. Anthony to heal her, and
so was fain beg of charitable folk for the money. And now she
espied us, and flew at me with her long nails, and I was cold
with fear, so devilish showed her face and rolling eyes and nails
like birdys talons. But he with the chain checked her sudden,
and with his whip did cruelly lash her for it, that I cried, "For-
bear! forbear! She knoweth not what she doth;' and gave him
a batz.
"And being gone, said I, 'Master, of those twain I know not
which is the more pitiable. ' And he laughed in my face. 'Be-
hold thy justice, Bon Bec,' said he.
"Thou railest on thy poor,
good, within-an-ace-of-honest master, and bestowest alms on a
vopper. »>
'Vopper! ' said I: 'what is a vopper? ' 'Why,
«<
a trull that feigns madness. That was one of us, that sham
maniac, and wow but she did it clumsily. , I blushed for her
and thee. Also gavest two batzen for a shell from Holy Land,
that came no farther than Normandy. I have culled them myself
on that coast by scores, and sold them to pilgrims true and
pilgrims false, to gull flats like thee withal. ' 'What! ' said I:
'that reverend man? ' 'One of us! ' cried Cul de Jatte; 'one
## p. 12138 (#176) ##########################################
12138
CHARLES READE
of us! In France we call them "Coquillarts,"
» but here "Cal-
mierers. " Railest on me for selling a false relic now and then,
and wastest thy earnings on such as sell naught else. I tell
thee, Bon Bec,' said he, 'there is not one true relic on earth's
face.
The saints died a thousand years agone, and their bones
mixed with the dust: but the trade in relics, it is of yesterday;
and there are forty thousand tramps in Europe live by it, sell-
ing relics of forty or fifty bodies: oh, threadbare lie! And of the
true Cross enow to build Cologne Minster. Why then may not
poor Cul de Jatte turn his penny with the crowd? Art but a
scurvy tyrannical servant to let thy poor master from his share
of the swag with your whorson pilgrims, palmers, and friars,
black, gray, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood
and of our art,-only masters they, and we but poor appren-
tices, in guild. ' For his tongue was an ell and a half.
"A truce to thy irreverend sophistries,' said I, 'and say what
company is this a-coming. ' 'Bohemians,' cried he. 'Ay, ay,
this shall be the rest of the band. ' With that came along so mot-
ley a crew as never your eyes beheld, dear Margaret. Marched
at their head one with a banner on a steel-pointed lance, and
girded with a great long sword, and in velvet doublet and leath-
ern jerkin, the which stuffs ne'er saw I wedded afore on mortal
flesh, and a gay feather in his lordly cap, and a couple of dead
fowls at his back,- the which an the spark had come by hon-
estly, I am much mistook. Him followed wives and babes on
two lean horses, whose flanks still rattled like parchment drum,
being beaten by kettles and caldrons. Next an armed man
a-riding of a horse, which drew a cart full of females and child-
ren: and in it, sitting backwards, a lusty, lazy knave, lance in
hand, with his luxurious feet raised on a holy-water pail that
lay along; and therein a cat, new kittened, sat glowing o'er her
brood, and sparks for eyes. And the cart-horse cavalier had on
his shoulders a round bundle; and thereon did perch a cock and
crowed with zeal, poor ruffler, proud of his brave feathers as the
rest, and haply with more reason, being his own. And on an
ass another wife and new-born child; and one poor quean afoot
scarce dragged herself along, so near her time was she, yet held
two little ones by the hand, and helplessly helped them on the
road. And the little folk were just a farce: some rode sticks
with horses' heads between their legs, which pranced and cara-
coled, and soon wearied the riders so sore they stood stock-still
-
## p. 12139 (#177) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12139
and wept, which cavaliers were presently taken into cart and
cuffed. And one, more grave, lost in a man's hat and feather,
walked in Egyptian darkness, handed by a girl; another had the
great saucepan on his back, and a tremendous three-footed clay
pot sat on his head and shoulders, swallowing him so as he too
went darkling, led by his sweetheart three foot high. When
they were gone by, and we had both laughed lustily, said I,
'Natheless, master, my bowels they yearn for one of that tawdry
band; even for the poor wife so near the down-lying, scarce able
to drag herself, yet still, poor soul, helping the weaker on the
way. '»
Why, wench, pluck up
Kate-"Nay, mother, 'tis not that, I trow, but her father.
And dear heart, why take notice to put her to the blush? ”
Richart-"So I say. "
"And he derided me.
Catherine-"Nay, nay, Margaret.
heart. Certes thou art no Bohemian. ”
'Why, that is a "biltreger," said he,
'and you waste your bowels on a pillow,' or so forth. I told
him he lied. Time would show,' said he: 'wait till they camp. '
And rising after meat and meditation, and traveling forward,
we found them camped between two great trees on a common
by the wayside; and they had lighted a great fire, and on it was
their caldron; and one of the trees slanting o'er the fire, a kid
hung down by a chain from the tree-fork to the fire, and in
the fork was wedged an urchin turning still the chain to keep
the meat from burning, and a gay spark with a feather in his
cap cut up a sheep; and another had spitted a leg of it on a
wooden stake; and a woman ended chanticleer's pride with wring-
ing of his neck.
"And under the other tree four rufflers played at cards and
quarreled, and no word sans oath; and of these lewd gamblers
one had cockles in his hat and was my reverend pilgrim. And a
female, young and comely and dressed like a butterfly, sat and
mended a heap of dirty rags. And Cul de Jatte said, 'Yon is
the "vopper "'; and I looked incredulous, and looked again, and it
was so and at her feet sat he that had so late lashed her- but
I ween he had wist where to strike, or woe betide him; and she
did now oppress him sore, and made him thread her very needle,
the which he did with all humility: so was their comedy turned
seamy side without; and Cul de Jatte told me 'twas still so with
«< voppers" and their men in camp: they would don their bravery
## p. 12140 (#178) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12140
though but for an hour, and with their tinsel, empire; and the
man durst not the least gainsay the 'vopper,' or she would turn
him off at these times, as I my master, and take another tyrant
more submissive. And my master chuckled over me.
-
"Natheless we soon espied a wife set with her back against
the tree, and her hair down, and her face white; and by her side.
a wench held up to her eye a new-born babe, with words of
cheer; and the rough fellow, her husband, did bring her hot
wine in a cup, and bade her take courage. And just o'er the
place she sat, they had pinned from bough to bough of those
neighboring trees two shawls, and blankets two, together, to keep
the drizzle off her. And so had another poor little rogue come
into the world: and by her own particular folk tended gipsywise;
but of the roasters and boilers, and voppers and gamblers, no
more noticed -
no, not for a single moment - than sheep which
droppeth her lamb in a field, by travelers upon the way. Then
said I, 'What of thy foul suspicions, master? over-knavery blinds
the eye as well as over-simplicity. ' And he laughed and said,
Triumph, Bon Bec, triumph. The chances were nine in ten
against thee. ' Then I did pity her, to be in a crowd at such a
time; but he rebuked me:-'I should pity rather your queens
and royal duchesses, which by law are condemned to groan in
a crowd of nobles and courtiers, and do writhe with shame as
well as sorrow, being come of decent mothers; whereas these
gipsy women have no more shame under their skins than a
wolf ruth, or a hare valor. And, Bon Bec,' quoth he, 'I espy in
thee a lamentable fault. Wastest thy bowels. Wilt have none
left for thy poor good master which doeth thy will by night and
day. '
"Then we came forward; and he talked with the men in some
strange Hebrew cant whereof no word knew I; and the poor
knaves bade us welcome and denied us naught. With them, and
all they had, 'twas lightly come and lightly go; and when we left
them my master said to me, 'This is thy first lesson, but to-night
we shall lie at Hansburg. Come with me to the "rotboss" there,
and I'll show thee all our folk and their lays; and especially the
"lossners," the "dutzers," the "schleppers," the "gickisses," the
"schwanfelders" (whom in England we call "shivering Jem-
mies"), the "süntvegers," the "schwiegers," the "joners," the
"sessel-degers," the "gennscherers" (in France "marcandiers" or
"rifodés "), the "veranerins," the "stabulers," with a few foreigners
## p. 12141 (#179) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12141
like ourselves, such as "pietres," "francmitoux," "polissons,"
"malingreux," "traters," "rufflers," "whipjalks," "dommerars,"
"glymmerars," "jarkmen," "patricos," "swadders," "autem morts,"
"walking morts » › 'Enow,' cried I, stopping him: 'art as
gleesome as the Evil One a-counting of his imps. I'll jot down
in my tablet all these caitiffs and their accursed names; for
knowledge is knowledge. But go among them, alive or dead,
that will I not with my good will. Moreover,' said I, 'what need,
since I have a companion in thee who is all the knaves on
earth in one? ' and thought to abash him; but his face shone.
with pride, and hand on breast he did bow low to me.
"If thy
wit be scant, good Bon Bec, thy manners are a charm.
made a good bargain. '
I have
"So he to the 'rotboss': and I to a decent inn, and sketched
the landlord's daughter by candlelight, and started at morn batzen
three the richer, but could not find my master; so loitered slowly
on, and presently met him coming west for me, and cursing the
quiens. Why so? Because he could blind the culls but not the
quiens. At last I prevailed on him to leave cursing and canting,
and tell me his adventure.
"Said he, I sat outside the gate of yon monastery, full of
sores, which I showed the passers-by. O Bon Bec, beautifuller
sores you never saw; and it rained coppers in my hat. Pres-
ently the monks came home from some procession, and the con-
vent dogs ran out to meet them, curse the quiens! ' 'What,
did they fall on thee and bite thee, poor soul? ' 'Worse, worse,
dear Bon Bec. Had they bitten me I had earned silver. But
the great idiots-being, as I think, puppies, or little better-
fell on me where I sat, downed me, and fell a-licking my sores
among them.
As thou, false knave, didst swear the whelps in
heaven licked the sores of Lazybones, a beggar of old. ' 'Nay,
nay,' said I, 'I said no such thing. But tell me, since they bit
thee not, but sportfully licked thee, what harm? '—'What harm,
noodle? why, the sores came off. '-'How could that be? ' —
'How could aught else be, and them just fresh put on? Did I
think he was so weak as bite holes in his flesh with ratsbane?
Nay, he was an artist, a painter like his servant; and had put on
sores made of pig's blood, rye meal, and glue. '-'So when the
folk saw my sores go on tongues of puppies, they laughed, and
I saw cord or sack before me. So up I jumped, and shouted,
"A miracle! a miracle! The very dogs of this holy convent be
## p. 12142 (#180) ##########################################
12142
CHARLES READE
holy, and have cured me. Good fathers," cried I, "whose day
is this? " "St. Isidore's," said one. "St. Isidore! " cried I, in a
sort of rapture. "Why, St. Isidore is my patron saint; so that
accounts. " And the simple folk swallowed my miracle as those
accursed quiens my wounds. But the monks took me inside and
shut the gate, and put their heads together: but I have a quick
ear,
and one did say "Caret miraculo monasterium"; which is
Greek patter, I trow-leastways it is no beggar's cant. Finally
they bade the lay brethren give me a hiding, and take me out
a back way and put me on the road; and threatened me did I
come back to the town to hand me to the magistrate and have
me drowned for a plain impostor. "Profit now by the Church's
grace," said they, "and mend thy ways. " So forward, Bon Bec,
for my life is not sure nigh hand this town. '
"As we went he worked his shoulders. 'Wow, but the breth-
ren laid on! And what means yon piece of monk's cant, I
wonder? ' So I told him the words meant 'The monastery is in
want of a miracle,' but the application thereof was dark to me.
'Dark! ' cried he: 'dark as noon. Why, it means they are going
to work the miracle, my miracle, and gather all the grain I
sowed. Therefore these blows on their benefactor's shoulders;
therefore is he that wrought their scurvy miracle driven forth
with stripes and threats. Oh, cozening knaves! ' Said I, 'Be-
comes you to complain of guile. ' 'Alas, Bon Bec,' said he, 'I
but outwit the simple; but these monks would pluck Lucifer of
his wing-feathers. ' And went a league bemoaning himself that
he was not convent-bred like his servant,-'he would put it to
more profit'; and railing on quiens. 'And as for those monks,
there was one Above-' 'Certes,' said I, 'there is one Above:
what then? ' ( - who will call those shavelings to compt, one
day,' quoth he. 'And all deceitful men,' said I.
"At one that afternoon I got armories to paint; so my master
took the yellow jaundice, and went begging through the town,
and with his oily tongue and saffron-water face did fill his hat.
Now in all the towns are certain licensed beggars, and one of
these was an old favorite with the townsfolk; had his station at
St. Martin's porch, the greatest church: a blind man; they called
him Blind Hans. He saw my master drawing coppers on the
other side the street, and knew him by his tricks for an impostor;
so sent and warned the constables, and I met my master in
the constable's hands, and going to his trial in the town-hall.
I
## p. 12143 (#181) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12143
followed, and many more; and he was none abashed, neither by
the pomp of justice nor memory of his misdeeds, but demanded
his accuser like a trumpet. And blind Hans's boy came forward,
but was sifted narrowly by my master, and stammered and
faltered, and owned he had seen nothing, but only carried blind
Hans's tale to the chief constable. This is but hearsay,' said
my master. 'Lo ye, now, here standeth Misfortune backbit by
Envy. But stand thou forth, blind Envy, and vent thine own
lie. ' And blind Hans behoved to stand forth, sore against his
will. Him did my master so press with questions, and so pinch
and torture, asking him again and again how, being blind, he
could see all that befell, and some that befell not, across a way;
and why, an he could not see, he came there holding up his
perjured hand, and maligning the misfortunate, that at last he
groaned aloud and would utter no word more. And an alder-
man said, 'In sooth, Hans, ye are to blame; hast cast more dirt
of suspicion on thyself than on him. ' But the burgomaster, a
wondrous fat man, and methinks of his fat some had gotten into
his head, checked him, and said: 'Nay, Hans we know this
many years, and be he blind or not, he hath passed for blind
so long, 'tis all one. Back to thy porch, good Hans, and let the
strange varlet leave the town incontinent on pain of whipping. '
"Then my master winked to me: but there rose a civic offi-
cer in his gown of state and golden chain,-a Dignity with us
lightly prized, and even shunned of some, but in Germany and
France much courted save by condemned malefactors, to wit the
hangman; and says he, 'An't please you, first let us see why
he weareth his hair so thick and low. ' And his man went and
lifted Cul de Jatte's hair, and lo the upper gristle of both ears
was gone. 'How is this, knave? ' quoth the burgomaster. My
master said carelessly, he minded not precisely: his had been a
life of misfortunes and losses. 'When a poor soul has lost the
use of his legs, noble sirs, these more trivial woes rest lightly in
his memory. ' When he found this would not serve his turn, he
named two famous battles, in each of which he had lost half an
ear, a-fighting like a true man against traitors and rebels. But the
hangman showed them the two cuts were made at one time, and
by measurement. Tis no bungling soldier's-work, my masters,'
said he; "tis ourn.
' Then the burgomaster gave judgment: 'The
present charge is not proven against thee; but an thou beest not
guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears.
## p. 12144 (#182) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12144
Wherefore I send thee to prison for one month, and to give a
florin towards the new hall of the guilds now a-building, and to
be whipt out of the town and pay the hangman's fee for the
same. ' And all the aldermen approved, and my master was haled
to prison with one look of anguish. It did strike my bosom.
"I tried to get speech of him, but the jailer denied me. But
lingering near the jail I heard a whistle, and there was Cul de
Jatte at a narrow window twenty feet from earth. I went under,
and he asked me what made I there? I told him I was loath to
He seemed quite amazed;
better. That was not all
go forward and not bid him farewell.
but soon his suspicious soul got the
mine errand, I told him—not all: the psaltery. Well, what of
that? ' 'Twas not mine, but his: I would pay him the price of
it. Then throw me a rix-dollar,' said he. I counted out my
coins, and they came to a rix-dollar and two batzen. I threw
him up his money in three throws, and when he had got it
all he said, softly, 'Bon Bec. ' 'Master,' said I. Then the poor
rogue was greatly moved. 'I thought ye had been mocking
me,' said he: 'O Bon Bec, Bon Bec, if I had found the world
like thee at starting, I had put my wit to better use, and I had
not lain here. ' Then he whimpered out, I gave not quite a rix-
dollar for the jingler,' and threw me back that he had gone to
cheat me of; honest for once, and over late: and so with many
sighs bade me Godspeed.
"Thus did my master, after often baffling men's justice, fall
by their injustice; for his lost ears proved not his guilt only, but
of that guilt the bitter punishment: so the account was even; yet
they for his chastisement did chastise him. Natheless he was a
parlous rogue. Yet he holp to make a man of me. Thanks to
his good wit, I went forward richer far with my psaltery and
brush than with yon as good as stolen purse; for that must have
run dry in time, like a big trough, but these a little fountain. "
## p. 12145 (#183) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
E
HⓇ
MONK AND FATHER
From The Cloister and the Hearth ›
12145
STAGGERED to his den. "I am safe here," he groaned:
"she will never come near me again,—unmanly, ungrateful
wretch that I am. " And he flung his emaciated, frozen
body down on the floor, not without a secret hope that it might
never rise thence alive.
But presently he saw by the hour-glass that it was past mid-
night. On this, he rose slowly and took off his wet things; and
moaning all the time at the pain he had caused her he loved,
put on the old hermit's cilice of bristles, and over that his breast-
plate. He had never worn either of these before, doubting
himself worthy to don the arms of that tried soldier. But now
he must give himself every aid: the bristles might distract his
earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be holy virtue
in the breastplate.
Then he kneeled down and prayed God humbly to release
him that very night from the burden of the flesh. Then he
lighted all his candles, and recited his psalter doggedly: each
word seemed to come like a lump of lead from a leaden heart,
and to fall leaden to the ground; and in this mechanical office
every now and then he moaned with all his soul. In the midst
of which he suddenly observed a little bundle in the corner
he had not seen before in the feebler light, and at one end of it
something like gold spun into silk.
He went to see what it could be; and he had no sooner
viewed it closer, than he threw up his hands with rapture. "It
is a seraph," he whispered, "a lovely seraph. Heaven hath wit-
nessed my bitter trial, and approves my cruelty; and this flower
of the skies is sent to cheer me, fainting under my burden. "
He fell on his knees, and gazed with ecstasy on its golden
hair, and its tender skin, and cheeks like a peach.
"Let me feast my sad eyes on thee ere thou leavest me for
thine ever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at thy part-
ing, as it did at hers. "
With all this, the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He
opened wide two eyes, the color of heaven; and seeing a strange
figure kneeling over him, he cried piteously, "Mum-ma! Mum-
ma! " And the tears began to run down his little cheeks.
XXI-760
## p. 12146 (#184) ##########################################
12146
CHARLES READE
Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had
not looked on the human face divine, estimated childish beauty
more justly than we can; and in truth, this fair Northern child,
with its long golden hair, was far more angelic than any of our
imagined angels. But now the spell was broken.
Yet not unhappily. Clement, it may be remembered, was
fond of children; and true monastic life fosters this sentiment.
The innocent distress on the cherubic face, the tears that ran so
smoothly from those transparent violets, his eyes, and his pretty,
dismal cry for his only friend, his mother, went through the
hermit's heart. He employed all his gentleness and all his art
to soothe him: and as the little soul was wonderfully intelligent
for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased to cry out,
and wonder took the place of fear; while in silence, broken
only in little gulps, he scanned with great tearful eyes this
strange figure that looked so wild but spoke so kindly, and wore
armor, yet did not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement
was equally perplexed to know how this little human flower
came to lie sparkling and blooming in his gloomy cave. But he
remembered he had left the door wide open; and he was driven
to conclude that owing to this negligence, some unfortunate
creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunity to get
rid of her child for ever. At this his bowels yearned so over the
poor deserted cherub, that the tears of pure tenderness stood in
his eyes; and still, beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the
Divine goodness which had so directed her heartlessness as to
comfort his servant's breaking heart.
"Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I
would not change thee for e'en a cherub in heaven. "”
"At's pooty," replied the infant,-ignoring contemptuously,
after the manner of infants, all remarks that did not interest
him.
"What is pretty here, my love, besides thee? "
"Ookum-gars," said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breast-
plate.
"Quot liberi, tot sententiunculæ! " Hector's child screamed at
his father's glittering casque and nodding crest: and here was a
mediæval babe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs
assuaged.
"There are prettier things here than that," said Clement;
"there are little birds; lovest thou birds? "
## p. 12147 (#185) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12147
"Nay. Ay. En um ittle, ery ittle? Not ike torks. Hate
torks; um bigger an baby. "
He then confided, in very broken language, that the storks,
with their great flapping wings, scared him, and were a great
trouble and worry to him, darkening his existence more or less.
"Ay, but my birds are very little, and good, and oh, so
pretty! "
"Den I ikes 'm," said the child authoritatively. "I ont my
mammy.
"Alas, sweet dove! I doubt I shall have to fill her place as
best I may.
Hast thou no daddy as well as mammy, sweet
one ? »
The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with
it, and in it, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was
down at his knee with a timorous hand upon his shoulder.
"Gerard, you do not reject us. You cannot. "
The startled hermit glared from his nurseling to Margaret,
and from her to him, in amazement equaled only by his agita-
tion at her so unexpected return. The child lay asleep on his
left arm, and she was at his right knee; no longer the pale,
scared, panting girl he had overpowered so easily an hour or two
ago, but an imperial beauty, with blushing cheeks and sparkling
eyes, and lips sweetly parted in triumph, and her whole face
radiant with a look he could not quite read, for he had never
yet seen it on her,-maternal pride.
He stared and stared from the child to her, in throbbing
amazement.
"Us? " he gasped at last. And still his wonder-stricken eyes
turned to and fro.
Margaret was surprised in her turn. It was an age of im-
pressions, not facts. "What! " she cried, "doth not a father
know his own child? and a man of God too? Fie, Gerard, to
pretend! nay, thou art too wise, too good, not to have- why, I
watched thee; and e'en now look at you twain! 'Tis thine own
flesh and blood thou holdest to thine heart. "
Clement trembled. "What words are these? " he stammered;
"this angel mine? "
"Whose else? since he is mine. "
Clement turned on the sleeping child, with a look beyond the
power of the pen to describe, and trembled all over, as his eyes
seemed to absorb the little love.
## p. 12148 (#186) ##########################################
12148
CHARLES READE
Margaret's eyes followed his. "He is not a bit like me," said
she, proudly; "but oh, at whiles he is thy very image in little;
and see this golden hair. Thine was the very color at his age;
ask mother else. And see this mole on his little finger; now
look at thine own: there! 'Twas thy mother let me weet thou
wast marked so before him: and O Gerard, 'twas this our child
found thee for me; for by that little mark on thy finger I knew
thee for his father, when I watched above thy window and saw
thee feed the birds:" here she seized the child's hand and kissed
it eagerly, and got half of it into her mouth, heaven knows how.
"Ah, bless thee! thou didst find thy poor daddy for her, and now
thou hast made us friends again after our little quarrel; the first,
the last. Wast very cruel to me but now, my poor Gerard, and
I forgive thee-for loving of thy child. "
## p. 12148 (#187) ##########################################
## p. 12148 (#188) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN.
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## p. 12148 (#190) ##########################################
اور اس امر کی تو را
ERNEST RENAN.
## p. 12149 (#191) ##########################################
12149
ERNEST RENAN
(1823-1892)
BY FERDINAND BRUNETIÈRE
N THE Preface to his 'Recollections of Infancy and Youth,'
Ernest Renan himself recalled the legend of that town of
Is, long ago engulfed by the sea in punishment of its
crimes, the sound of whose bells one hears on calm days, rising from
the depths of the abyss, where they continue always to call together
for prayer a people who have not yet finished paying the debt of
their repentance. And he adds: "It often seems to me that I have
at the bottom of my heart a town of Is, that still resounds with bells
continuing to call to sacred rites the faithful who no longer hear. "
This was "the state of his soul" when, nearing the sixties, having
almost completed his life work, he tried to represent himself by this
poetic comparison; where he re-found, mingled with memories of his
devout infancy, all the melancholy that weeps in the heart of the
people and soil of Brittany. But he characterized at the same time,
perhaps without knowing it, the nature of his own talent; and he
gave us the reason of his great reputation as a writer. We also,
during forty years, have heard sounding in his work the far-off bells
of the town of Is; we have heard the thrill of their voice vibrating
even in the unthanked works of the philologue and the exegete:
and he himself, do what he might, has never been able to make
himself wholly unfaithful to his first beginnings. The vase has kept
its perfume, quo recens imbuta semel; and if the originality of Ernest
Renan is anywhere, it is there, in the strange and often displeasing
but sometimes exquisite combination, developing itself in him, of
the sincerest emotionalism with the narrow rationalism of the scholar
and the philologue. The originality of a great writer, in a literature
like the French literature of our time, is always a little composite:
we are Alexandrians; that is not our fault, and we could not be re-
proached with it if we did not abuse it by abandoning ourselves to
the pleasure of dilettanteism. This is a reproach, as will be seen,
that Renan did not always know how to avoid.
He was born in 1823 at Tréguier, in the Department of the Côtes
du Nord, under the shadow of an old cathedral full of mystery and
incense; and he was educated for the priesthood. His family being
## p. 12150 (#192) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12150
humble, did his mother's ambition go beyond a vague hope of
some day seeing him the celebrant at the high altar of their native
town? But from the depths of his province, his successes in schol-
arship attracted the attention of the Abbé Dupanloup; the same who
afterwards became the blustering bishop of Orléans, but who was
then only the converter of M. de Talleyrand-Charles Maurice de
Talleyrand-Périgord—and the superior or director of the Little Sem-
inary of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet. The Little Seminary of St. Nico-
las du Chardonnet was a "free institution of secondary instruction,"
where the best families of the Faubourg Saint-Germain sent their
children to be educated. One of these children, afterwards the Duke
de Noailles, - that Frenchman who since Tocqueville has understood
America best,- kept a most vivid recollection of Renan; and I re-
member to have read some pages that he wrote upon his old school-
fellow, - pages that unfortunately have not seen nor perhaps ever
will see the light.
From St. Nicolas du Chardonnet, where rhetoric completed the
course, Ernest Renan passed to the Seminary of Issy, which stands
somewhat in the relation of a preparatory school to the great semi-
nary of St. Sulpice; and it was there that he began to experience
his first doubts as to the justifiability of the vocation to which until
then he had believed himself called. In his 'Recollections of Youth,'
which he wrote thirty years later, he undertook to explain the nature
of that crisis; and one would suppose, to hear him speak, that neither
the desire of the world,- that avidity of living which is so character-
istic of the twentieth year,- nor philosophy even, nor the sudden
revelation of science, played the least part in it. It would seem that
his reasons for doubting were purely philological; and that textual
criticism alone swept away the faith of his childhood. We shall
not contradict this. But the publication of his Correspondence' has
revealed to us since then another influence that affected the forma-
tion of his character,-the most powerful perhaps of all: it was that
of his sister Henriette. This girl, poor and highly cultivated, who
conducted far from her family, in Poland or Russia, the education of
the children of a great lady, was gnawed by resentment; and in her
triple rôle of woman, hired teacher, and native of Brittany, suffered
cruelly from being unable to satisfy or even to relieve it by giving
it expression. It was through her brother that she found her oppor-
tunity. As soon as the first doubts began to show themselves in the
seminarist, it was his sister who encouraged them; or rather she
communicated to him her own boldness of spirit: and putting her
savings to the service of her passion, it was she who supplied Ernest
Renan with the means of quitting St. Sulpice, and of resuming thus
the life of a layman. We are able to-day to affirm that Henriette
## p. 12151 (#193) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12151
Renan was the great worker of her brother's unbelief; she was the
patient worker, the impassioned worker: and only later did exegesis
or philology furnish Renan with the reasons he needed for establish-
ing the convictions his sister had breathed into him.
It is right to add that both were utterly sincere, and that for
Ernest Renan the sacrifice was painful. He was born to be a priest,
as he himself has said; and his life was to be, if one may use the
expression, that of a priest of science. With that suppleness of mind
which was one day to characterize him, and procure him the means
of being more at ease in the midst of contradictions than are many
believers in the fortress of their dogmatism, he would have found
without doubt the art of reconciling his studious tastes with the
practice and observances of a dead faith. But with a care for his
dignity which did him honor, he did not desire this. He liked better
in this country of France, where the conduct of the priest who
renounces the altar is so eagerly laid to the lightest [les plus "joy-
eux"]—that is to say, to the lowest-motives, he found it more loyal
and noble to brave the anger of some, the pleasantries of others,
the distrust of all. He resumed his studies; he took his univer-
sity degrees; and in 1847 he made his début as "philologue" and as
"Hebraist," by a brilliant stroke, submitting to the Institute of France
the paper which became, a few years later, his 'General and Compar-
ative History of the Semitic Languages. '
We have from him, written about the same time, an important
book which appeared later-much later; indeed, in 1890: it is The
Future of Science,' of which it can truthfully be said that this
"future of science" is in his work that "thought of youth realized
by ripe age," that a great poet has set before the ambitions of young
men as the image or the ideal of a noble life. The whole of Renan
is in his Future of Science'; he was to draw, all his life, upon his
vast Purana, as he liked to call it himself: nevertheless, he was not
to make for himself a law of conforming during forty years to all the
convictions of the beginning of his career. But he was not to abjure
them; and in the future as in the present, when it is desired to form
a just opinion of the type of mind, the personal method, and even
the work of Ernest Renan, it is in this vast book that they must be
sought.
Let us go on to consider his first great works given to the public:
his thesis for the doctorate, upon ‘Averroës and Averroïsm,' 1852; his
'General History of the Semitic Languages,' 1855; his 'Studies of
Religious History,' 1857; his translation of the Book of Job, 1858;
his book on the Origin of Language,' 1858; his 'Essays, Moral and
Critical, 1859. Their charm of style is incomparable; and never
have subjects so severe been treated with more precision, ease, and
## p. 12152 (#194) ##########################################
12152
ERNEST RENAN
lucidity. This is saying too little: for the real truth is that there is
something "Platonic" in this first manner of Renan, were it only the
art with which he envelops his most abstract ideas in the most
ingenious metaphors, or the most captivating and poetic images.
With him, as with the author of the 'Cratylus' and the 'Gorgias,'
comparisons, in spite of the proverb, are often reasons, explanations,
solutions. Equally notable in these first writings is a keen percep-
tion of the analogies between natural history and philology; which
enables him to bind together by insensible transitions, and nuances
contrived with infinite art, that which is most "human" in us—that is,
language - with that which is most instinctive, which is the imprint
we receive from surrounding nature. There is a good example of
it in the development of the celebrated formula, "The desert is
monotheistic"; and who does not see that on this basis it would
indeed be possible to establish an entire new science, to be called
"the Geography of the Religions"? As to the scientific or technical
value of these same works, it is attested by the fact that in 1856 it
came about that the Academy of Inscriptions elected the young
author to succeed the brilliant historian of the Conquest of England
by the Normans. ' He was appointed librarian of the National Library
in the department of manuscripts. The imperial government charged
him with a mission to Phoenicia. But what is more interesting than
all else to affirm here, is that from this time forth he knew what
he wished to do; he approached his whole life work on all sides at
once and already good judges, like Sainte-Beuve in his 'New Mon-
days,' or like Edmond Schérer in his 'Studies of Religious History,'
saw its first lineaments outlined.
The attempt was novel and the undertaking bold. Convinced that
all the great races of men which have appeared in turn or together
upon the world's stage have left us in the remains of their language,
and still more conclusively in the monuments of their literature, the
surest witnesses to their highest aspirations, it was precisely these
aspirations that Renan proposed to rediscover; and he saw in phi-
lology, to use his own expression, "the science of the productions of
the human soul. " Therefore, just as under the superfluous matter
with which the hand of an ignorant copyist has covered a precious
palimpsest, palæography endeavors to find again the authentic text of
Virgil or Homer, and as soon as it begins to decipher it, calls to its
aid, to further its efforts to fix it in a way to remain, all the resources
of grammar, criticism, and history, so Renan, brushing away the
dust with which time has covered, as it were, the archives of human-
ity, proposed to re-establish their true meaning, altered or disfig-
ured by superstition. From all these archives, he chose the religious
archives as the most significant of all, to make them the object of a
-
## p. 12153 (#195) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12153
more profound study: the Vedas of the Hindus, the Zend-Avesta
of the Persians, the Pentateuch of the Hebrews, the Koran of the
Arabs; and in truth, since there is no religion which is not at the
same time a system of the world, an expression of the relations that
man believes that he sustains with the nature which surrounds him,
and a solution of the enigma of destiny, what surer means could be
imagined of penetrating more deeply into what is innermost in the
mind of the races ? Aryans or Semites, Mussulmans or Buddhists, it
is in the intimate constitution of our race spirit that we find the
first principle, the reason for the forms of our belief, the limits also
of our religions! And believing that he saw at last in this very
formula a way of reconciling the sincerity, the ardor of his idealism
with the complete independence of his thought, Renan proposed to
disengage "religion," in so far as necessary or innate in humanity,
from the midst of the "religions" which have been until now in
history, at least from his point of view, only its multiple expression,
changeable and superstitious. From Indian Buddhism, from Greek
polytheism, from the monotheism of the Mussulman, and generally
from the particular content of the symbolism, rites, and dogma of all
the religions, when we have eliminated whatever they include that is
"local," dependent on time or circumstance,-when we have, as it
were, purified them above all of whatever they include that is ethni-
cal, what remains? This is the thought that, floating about for the
last hundred years, more or less, began a little while ago to condense,
to take shape, to "concrete" itself so to speak, in the Congress of
Religions at Chicago; and whatever may be its future, the propaga-
tion of this thought in the history of the contemporary mind is the
work of Ernest Renan.
―
Undoubtedly there is no need of showing in how many points it
differs from the thought of Voltaire or of Condorcet; but in how
many points also it approaches their thought! It comes so near it,
that like the philosophy of the eighteenth century itself, it ends in
the constitution of a "natural religion. " But while the natural reli-
gion of Voltaire is a creation of pure reason, a deduction of good
sense, common-sense, opposed to all things of any depth that the
positive religions teach, decidedly on the contrary it is from the
fundamental history of the positive religions, studied scientifically.
and impartially, that the "natural religion" of Renan is derived; and
hence its truths have no value except through their conformity to
whatever is most concrete and most intimate in the world. Or in
still other words, it appears that the same conclusion is reached,
but by different roads,-and that is the important point here,- in
every domain, in science itself, in physics or in psychology. "Discov-
eries » are nothing,-all lies in the manner in which they are made;
## p. 12154 (#196) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12154
and it is not the verities that enrich the human intellect, but the
"methods" that have led to them. The exclusive employment of the
philological or exegetical method suffices to establish between Vol-
taire's religion and Renan's a difference that Renan himself, in his
latter years, by means of an affected impiety, could not wholly suc-
ceed in effacing. In vain did he compare David to Troppmann; and
with less provoking coarseness, but in the same spirit, the prophet
Amos to some living "anarchist. " These pleasantries belied his
good taste; they led some persons to doubt his "sincerity" but his
"method" was the strongest; and it is this that keeps intact, with
the greatness of his name, whatever is most original and solid in his
work.
Meanwhile the moment of the struggle approached. "When a
man writes upon the rulers of Nineveh or upon the Pharaohs of
Egypt," said D. F. Strauss, "he can take only an historical interest!
"Why, Bon Bec, what is to do? ' quoth he. 'I have made an
ill bargain. O perverse heart, that turneth from doctrine. ' So I
bade him keep his breath to cool his broth: ne'er would I shame
my folk with singing ribald songs.
"Then I to him, 'Take now thy psaltery, and part we here;
for art a walking prison, a walking hell. ' But lo! my master fell
on his knees, and begged me for pity's sake not to turn him off.
What would become of him? He did so love honesty. ' 'Thou
love honesty? ' said I. 'Ay,' said he: 'not to enact it; the saints
forbid: but to look on. 'Tis so fair a thing to look on. Alas,
good Bon Bec,' said he; 'hadst starved peradventure but for me.
Kick not down thy ladder! Call ye that just? Nay, calm thy
choler! Have pity on me! I must have a pal: and how could I
bear one like myself after one so simple as thou? He might cut
my throat for the money that is hid in my belt. 'Tis not much;
'tis not much. With thee I walk at mine ease;
with a sharp I
·
## p. 12137 (#175) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12137
Now I
dare not go before in a narrow way. Alas! forgive me.
know where in thy bonnet lurks the bee, I will 'ware his sting;
I will but pluck the secular goose. ' 'So be it,' said I. 'And
example was contagious: he should be a true man by then we
reached Nürnberg. 'Twas a long way to Nürnberg. ' Seeing
him so humble, I said, 'Well, doff rags, and make thyself decent:
'twill help me forget what thou art. ' And he did so; and we sat
down to our nonemete.
"Presently came by a reverend palmer with hat stuck round.
with cockle-shells from Holy Land, and great rosary of beads.
like eggs of teal, and sandals for shoes. And he leaned aweary
on his long staff, and offered us a shell apiece. My master
would none. But I, to set him a better example, took one, and
for it gave the poor pilgrim two batzen, and had his blessing.
And he was scarce gone when we heard savage cries, and came
a sorry sight,-one leading a wild woman in a chain, all rags,
and howling like a wolf. And when they came nigh us, she fell
to tearing her rags to threads. The man sought an alms of us,
and told us his hard case. 'Twas his wife stark raving mad;
and he could not work in the fields, and leave her in his house
to fire it, nor cure her could he without the saintys help, and
had vowed six pounds of wax to St. Anthony to heal her, and
so was fain beg of charitable folk for the money. And now she
espied us, and flew at me with her long nails, and I was cold
with fear, so devilish showed her face and rolling eyes and nails
like birdys talons. But he with the chain checked her sudden,
and with his whip did cruelly lash her for it, that I cried, "For-
bear! forbear! She knoweth not what she doth;' and gave him
a batz.
"And being gone, said I, 'Master, of those twain I know not
which is the more pitiable. ' And he laughed in my face. 'Be-
hold thy justice, Bon Bec,' said he.
"Thou railest on thy poor,
good, within-an-ace-of-honest master, and bestowest alms on a
vopper. »>
'Vopper! ' said I: 'what is a vopper? ' 'Why,
«<
a trull that feigns madness. That was one of us, that sham
maniac, and wow but she did it clumsily. , I blushed for her
and thee. Also gavest two batzen for a shell from Holy Land,
that came no farther than Normandy. I have culled them myself
on that coast by scores, and sold them to pilgrims true and
pilgrims false, to gull flats like thee withal. ' 'What! ' said I:
'that reverend man? ' 'One of us! ' cried Cul de Jatte; 'one
## p. 12138 (#176) ##########################################
12138
CHARLES READE
of us! In France we call them "Coquillarts,"
» but here "Cal-
mierers. " Railest on me for selling a false relic now and then,
and wastest thy earnings on such as sell naught else. I tell
thee, Bon Bec,' said he, 'there is not one true relic on earth's
face.
The saints died a thousand years agone, and their bones
mixed with the dust: but the trade in relics, it is of yesterday;
and there are forty thousand tramps in Europe live by it, sell-
ing relics of forty or fifty bodies: oh, threadbare lie! And of the
true Cross enow to build Cologne Minster. Why then may not
poor Cul de Jatte turn his penny with the crowd? Art but a
scurvy tyrannical servant to let thy poor master from his share
of the swag with your whorson pilgrims, palmers, and friars,
black, gray, and crutched; for all these are of our brotherhood
and of our art,-only masters they, and we but poor appren-
tices, in guild. ' For his tongue was an ell and a half.
"A truce to thy irreverend sophistries,' said I, 'and say what
company is this a-coming. ' 'Bohemians,' cried he. 'Ay, ay,
this shall be the rest of the band. ' With that came along so mot-
ley a crew as never your eyes beheld, dear Margaret. Marched
at their head one with a banner on a steel-pointed lance, and
girded with a great long sword, and in velvet doublet and leath-
ern jerkin, the which stuffs ne'er saw I wedded afore on mortal
flesh, and a gay feather in his lordly cap, and a couple of dead
fowls at his back,- the which an the spark had come by hon-
estly, I am much mistook. Him followed wives and babes on
two lean horses, whose flanks still rattled like parchment drum,
being beaten by kettles and caldrons. Next an armed man
a-riding of a horse, which drew a cart full of females and child-
ren: and in it, sitting backwards, a lusty, lazy knave, lance in
hand, with his luxurious feet raised on a holy-water pail that
lay along; and therein a cat, new kittened, sat glowing o'er her
brood, and sparks for eyes. And the cart-horse cavalier had on
his shoulders a round bundle; and thereon did perch a cock and
crowed with zeal, poor ruffler, proud of his brave feathers as the
rest, and haply with more reason, being his own. And on an
ass another wife and new-born child; and one poor quean afoot
scarce dragged herself along, so near her time was she, yet held
two little ones by the hand, and helplessly helped them on the
road. And the little folk were just a farce: some rode sticks
with horses' heads between their legs, which pranced and cara-
coled, and soon wearied the riders so sore they stood stock-still
-
## p. 12139 (#177) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12139
and wept, which cavaliers were presently taken into cart and
cuffed. And one, more grave, lost in a man's hat and feather,
walked in Egyptian darkness, handed by a girl; another had the
great saucepan on his back, and a tremendous three-footed clay
pot sat on his head and shoulders, swallowing him so as he too
went darkling, led by his sweetheart three foot high. When
they were gone by, and we had both laughed lustily, said I,
'Natheless, master, my bowels they yearn for one of that tawdry
band; even for the poor wife so near the down-lying, scarce able
to drag herself, yet still, poor soul, helping the weaker on the
way. '»
Why, wench, pluck up
Kate-"Nay, mother, 'tis not that, I trow, but her father.
And dear heart, why take notice to put her to the blush? ”
Richart-"So I say. "
"And he derided me.
Catherine-"Nay, nay, Margaret.
heart. Certes thou art no Bohemian. ”
'Why, that is a "biltreger," said he,
'and you waste your bowels on a pillow,' or so forth. I told
him he lied. Time would show,' said he: 'wait till they camp. '
And rising after meat and meditation, and traveling forward,
we found them camped between two great trees on a common
by the wayside; and they had lighted a great fire, and on it was
their caldron; and one of the trees slanting o'er the fire, a kid
hung down by a chain from the tree-fork to the fire, and in
the fork was wedged an urchin turning still the chain to keep
the meat from burning, and a gay spark with a feather in his
cap cut up a sheep; and another had spitted a leg of it on a
wooden stake; and a woman ended chanticleer's pride with wring-
ing of his neck.
"And under the other tree four rufflers played at cards and
quarreled, and no word sans oath; and of these lewd gamblers
one had cockles in his hat and was my reverend pilgrim. And a
female, young and comely and dressed like a butterfly, sat and
mended a heap of dirty rags. And Cul de Jatte said, 'Yon is
the "vopper "'; and I looked incredulous, and looked again, and it
was so and at her feet sat he that had so late lashed her- but
I ween he had wist where to strike, or woe betide him; and she
did now oppress him sore, and made him thread her very needle,
the which he did with all humility: so was their comedy turned
seamy side without; and Cul de Jatte told me 'twas still so with
«< voppers" and their men in camp: they would don their bravery
## p. 12140 (#178) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12140
though but for an hour, and with their tinsel, empire; and the
man durst not the least gainsay the 'vopper,' or she would turn
him off at these times, as I my master, and take another tyrant
more submissive. And my master chuckled over me.
-
"Natheless we soon espied a wife set with her back against
the tree, and her hair down, and her face white; and by her side.
a wench held up to her eye a new-born babe, with words of
cheer; and the rough fellow, her husband, did bring her hot
wine in a cup, and bade her take courage. And just o'er the
place she sat, they had pinned from bough to bough of those
neighboring trees two shawls, and blankets two, together, to keep
the drizzle off her. And so had another poor little rogue come
into the world: and by her own particular folk tended gipsywise;
but of the roasters and boilers, and voppers and gamblers, no
more noticed -
no, not for a single moment - than sheep which
droppeth her lamb in a field, by travelers upon the way. Then
said I, 'What of thy foul suspicions, master? over-knavery blinds
the eye as well as over-simplicity. ' And he laughed and said,
Triumph, Bon Bec, triumph. The chances were nine in ten
against thee. ' Then I did pity her, to be in a crowd at such a
time; but he rebuked me:-'I should pity rather your queens
and royal duchesses, which by law are condemned to groan in
a crowd of nobles and courtiers, and do writhe with shame as
well as sorrow, being come of decent mothers; whereas these
gipsy women have no more shame under their skins than a
wolf ruth, or a hare valor. And, Bon Bec,' quoth he, 'I espy in
thee a lamentable fault. Wastest thy bowels. Wilt have none
left for thy poor good master which doeth thy will by night and
day. '
"Then we came forward; and he talked with the men in some
strange Hebrew cant whereof no word knew I; and the poor
knaves bade us welcome and denied us naught. With them, and
all they had, 'twas lightly come and lightly go; and when we left
them my master said to me, 'This is thy first lesson, but to-night
we shall lie at Hansburg. Come with me to the "rotboss" there,
and I'll show thee all our folk and their lays; and especially the
"lossners," the "dutzers," the "schleppers," the "gickisses," the
"schwanfelders" (whom in England we call "shivering Jem-
mies"), the "süntvegers," the "schwiegers," the "joners," the
"sessel-degers," the "gennscherers" (in France "marcandiers" or
"rifodés "), the "veranerins," the "stabulers," with a few foreigners
## p. 12141 (#179) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12141
like ourselves, such as "pietres," "francmitoux," "polissons,"
"malingreux," "traters," "rufflers," "whipjalks," "dommerars,"
"glymmerars," "jarkmen," "patricos," "swadders," "autem morts,"
"walking morts » › 'Enow,' cried I, stopping him: 'art as
gleesome as the Evil One a-counting of his imps. I'll jot down
in my tablet all these caitiffs and their accursed names; for
knowledge is knowledge. But go among them, alive or dead,
that will I not with my good will. Moreover,' said I, 'what need,
since I have a companion in thee who is all the knaves on
earth in one? ' and thought to abash him; but his face shone.
with pride, and hand on breast he did bow low to me.
"If thy
wit be scant, good Bon Bec, thy manners are a charm.
made a good bargain. '
I have
"So he to the 'rotboss': and I to a decent inn, and sketched
the landlord's daughter by candlelight, and started at morn batzen
three the richer, but could not find my master; so loitered slowly
on, and presently met him coming west for me, and cursing the
quiens. Why so? Because he could blind the culls but not the
quiens. At last I prevailed on him to leave cursing and canting,
and tell me his adventure.
"Said he, I sat outside the gate of yon monastery, full of
sores, which I showed the passers-by. O Bon Bec, beautifuller
sores you never saw; and it rained coppers in my hat. Pres-
ently the monks came home from some procession, and the con-
vent dogs ran out to meet them, curse the quiens! ' 'What,
did they fall on thee and bite thee, poor soul? ' 'Worse, worse,
dear Bon Bec. Had they bitten me I had earned silver. But
the great idiots-being, as I think, puppies, or little better-
fell on me where I sat, downed me, and fell a-licking my sores
among them.
As thou, false knave, didst swear the whelps in
heaven licked the sores of Lazybones, a beggar of old. ' 'Nay,
nay,' said I, 'I said no such thing. But tell me, since they bit
thee not, but sportfully licked thee, what harm? '—'What harm,
noodle? why, the sores came off. '-'How could that be? ' —
'How could aught else be, and them just fresh put on? Did I
think he was so weak as bite holes in his flesh with ratsbane?
Nay, he was an artist, a painter like his servant; and had put on
sores made of pig's blood, rye meal, and glue. '-'So when the
folk saw my sores go on tongues of puppies, they laughed, and
I saw cord or sack before me. So up I jumped, and shouted,
"A miracle! a miracle! The very dogs of this holy convent be
## p. 12142 (#180) ##########################################
12142
CHARLES READE
holy, and have cured me. Good fathers," cried I, "whose day
is this? " "St. Isidore's," said one. "St. Isidore! " cried I, in a
sort of rapture. "Why, St. Isidore is my patron saint; so that
accounts. " And the simple folk swallowed my miracle as those
accursed quiens my wounds. But the monks took me inside and
shut the gate, and put their heads together: but I have a quick
ear,
and one did say "Caret miraculo monasterium"; which is
Greek patter, I trow-leastways it is no beggar's cant. Finally
they bade the lay brethren give me a hiding, and take me out
a back way and put me on the road; and threatened me did I
come back to the town to hand me to the magistrate and have
me drowned for a plain impostor. "Profit now by the Church's
grace," said they, "and mend thy ways. " So forward, Bon Bec,
for my life is not sure nigh hand this town. '
"As we went he worked his shoulders. 'Wow, but the breth-
ren laid on! And what means yon piece of monk's cant, I
wonder? ' So I told him the words meant 'The monastery is in
want of a miracle,' but the application thereof was dark to me.
'Dark! ' cried he: 'dark as noon. Why, it means they are going
to work the miracle, my miracle, and gather all the grain I
sowed. Therefore these blows on their benefactor's shoulders;
therefore is he that wrought their scurvy miracle driven forth
with stripes and threats. Oh, cozening knaves! ' Said I, 'Be-
comes you to complain of guile. ' 'Alas, Bon Bec,' said he, 'I
but outwit the simple; but these monks would pluck Lucifer of
his wing-feathers. ' And went a league bemoaning himself that
he was not convent-bred like his servant,-'he would put it to
more profit'; and railing on quiens. 'And as for those monks,
there was one Above-' 'Certes,' said I, 'there is one Above:
what then? ' ( - who will call those shavelings to compt, one
day,' quoth he. 'And all deceitful men,' said I.
"At one that afternoon I got armories to paint; so my master
took the yellow jaundice, and went begging through the town,
and with his oily tongue and saffron-water face did fill his hat.
Now in all the towns are certain licensed beggars, and one of
these was an old favorite with the townsfolk; had his station at
St. Martin's porch, the greatest church: a blind man; they called
him Blind Hans. He saw my master drawing coppers on the
other side the street, and knew him by his tricks for an impostor;
so sent and warned the constables, and I met my master in
the constable's hands, and going to his trial in the town-hall.
I
## p. 12143 (#181) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12143
followed, and many more; and he was none abashed, neither by
the pomp of justice nor memory of his misdeeds, but demanded
his accuser like a trumpet. And blind Hans's boy came forward,
but was sifted narrowly by my master, and stammered and
faltered, and owned he had seen nothing, but only carried blind
Hans's tale to the chief constable. This is but hearsay,' said
my master. 'Lo ye, now, here standeth Misfortune backbit by
Envy. But stand thou forth, blind Envy, and vent thine own
lie. ' And blind Hans behoved to stand forth, sore against his
will. Him did my master so press with questions, and so pinch
and torture, asking him again and again how, being blind, he
could see all that befell, and some that befell not, across a way;
and why, an he could not see, he came there holding up his
perjured hand, and maligning the misfortunate, that at last he
groaned aloud and would utter no word more. And an alder-
man said, 'In sooth, Hans, ye are to blame; hast cast more dirt
of suspicion on thyself than on him. ' But the burgomaster, a
wondrous fat man, and methinks of his fat some had gotten into
his head, checked him, and said: 'Nay, Hans we know this
many years, and be he blind or not, he hath passed for blind
so long, 'tis all one. Back to thy porch, good Hans, and let the
strange varlet leave the town incontinent on pain of whipping. '
"Then my master winked to me: but there rose a civic offi-
cer in his gown of state and golden chain,-a Dignity with us
lightly prized, and even shunned of some, but in Germany and
France much courted save by condemned malefactors, to wit the
hangman; and says he, 'An't please you, first let us see why
he weareth his hair so thick and low. ' And his man went and
lifted Cul de Jatte's hair, and lo the upper gristle of both ears
was gone. 'How is this, knave? ' quoth the burgomaster. My
master said carelessly, he minded not precisely: his had been a
life of misfortunes and losses. 'When a poor soul has lost the
use of his legs, noble sirs, these more trivial woes rest lightly in
his memory. ' When he found this would not serve his turn, he
named two famous battles, in each of which he had lost half an
ear, a-fighting like a true man against traitors and rebels. But the
hangman showed them the two cuts were made at one time, and
by measurement. Tis no bungling soldier's-work, my masters,'
said he; "tis ourn.
' Then the burgomaster gave judgment: 'The
present charge is not proven against thee; but an thou beest not
guilty now, thou hast been at other times, witness thine ears.
## p. 12144 (#182) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12144
Wherefore I send thee to prison for one month, and to give a
florin towards the new hall of the guilds now a-building, and to
be whipt out of the town and pay the hangman's fee for the
same. ' And all the aldermen approved, and my master was haled
to prison with one look of anguish. It did strike my bosom.
"I tried to get speech of him, but the jailer denied me. But
lingering near the jail I heard a whistle, and there was Cul de
Jatte at a narrow window twenty feet from earth. I went under,
and he asked me what made I there? I told him I was loath to
He seemed quite amazed;
better. That was not all
go forward and not bid him farewell.
but soon his suspicious soul got the
mine errand, I told him—not all: the psaltery. Well, what of
that? ' 'Twas not mine, but his: I would pay him the price of
it. Then throw me a rix-dollar,' said he. I counted out my
coins, and they came to a rix-dollar and two batzen. I threw
him up his money in three throws, and when he had got it
all he said, softly, 'Bon Bec. ' 'Master,' said I. Then the poor
rogue was greatly moved. 'I thought ye had been mocking
me,' said he: 'O Bon Bec, Bon Bec, if I had found the world
like thee at starting, I had put my wit to better use, and I had
not lain here. ' Then he whimpered out, I gave not quite a rix-
dollar for the jingler,' and threw me back that he had gone to
cheat me of; honest for once, and over late: and so with many
sighs bade me Godspeed.
"Thus did my master, after often baffling men's justice, fall
by their injustice; for his lost ears proved not his guilt only, but
of that guilt the bitter punishment: so the account was even; yet
they for his chastisement did chastise him. Natheless he was a
parlous rogue. Yet he holp to make a man of me. Thanks to
his good wit, I went forward richer far with my psaltery and
brush than with yon as good as stolen purse; for that must have
run dry in time, like a big trough, but these a little fountain. "
## p. 12145 (#183) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
E
HⓇ
MONK AND FATHER
From The Cloister and the Hearth ›
12145
STAGGERED to his den. "I am safe here," he groaned:
"she will never come near me again,—unmanly, ungrateful
wretch that I am. " And he flung his emaciated, frozen
body down on the floor, not without a secret hope that it might
never rise thence alive.
But presently he saw by the hour-glass that it was past mid-
night. On this, he rose slowly and took off his wet things; and
moaning all the time at the pain he had caused her he loved,
put on the old hermit's cilice of bristles, and over that his breast-
plate. He had never worn either of these before, doubting
himself worthy to don the arms of that tried soldier. But now
he must give himself every aid: the bristles might distract his
earthly remorse by bodily pain, and there might be holy virtue
in the breastplate.
Then he kneeled down and prayed God humbly to release
him that very night from the burden of the flesh. Then he
lighted all his candles, and recited his psalter doggedly: each
word seemed to come like a lump of lead from a leaden heart,
and to fall leaden to the ground; and in this mechanical office
every now and then he moaned with all his soul. In the midst
of which he suddenly observed a little bundle in the corner
he had not seen before in the feebler light, and at one end of it
something like gold spun into silk.
He went to see what it could be; and he had no sooner
viewed it closer, than he threw up his hands with rapture. "It
is a seraph," he whispered, "a lovely seraph. Heaven hath wit-
nessed my bitter trial, and approves my cruelty; and this flower
of the skies is sent to cheer me, fainting under my burden. "
He fell on his knees, and gazed with ecstasy on its golden
hair, and its tender skin, and cheeks like a peach.
"Let me feast my sad eyes on thee ere thou leavest me for
thine ever-blessed abode, and my cell darkens again at thy part-
ing, as it did at hers. "
With all this, the hermit disturbed the lovely visitor. He
opened wide two eyes, the color of heaven; and seeing a strange
figure kneeling over him, he cried piteously, "Mum-ma! Mum-
ma! " And the tears began to run down his little cheeks.
XXI-760
## p. 12146 (#184) ##########################################
12146
CHARLES READE
Perhaps, after all, Clement, who for more than six months had
not looked on the human face divine, estimated childish beauty
more justly than we can; and in truth, this fair Northern child,
with its long golden hair, was far more angelic than any of our
imagined angels. But now the spell was broken.
Yet not unhappily. Clement, it may be remembered, was
fond of children; and true monastic life fosters this sentiment.
The innocent distress on the cherubic face, the tears that ran so
smoothly from those transparent violets, his eyes, and his pretty,
dismal cry for his only friend, his mother, went through the
hermit's heart. He employed all his gentleness and all his art
to soothe him: and as the little soul was wonderfully intelligent
for his age, presently succeeded so far that he ceased to cry out,
and wonder took the place of fear; while in silence, broken
only in little gulps, he scanned with great tearful eyes this
strange figure that looked so wild but spoke so kindly, and wore
armor, yet did not kill little boys, but coaxed them. Clement
was equally perplexed to know how this little human flower
came to lie sparkling and blooming in his gloomy cave. But he
remembered he had left the door wide open; and he was driven
to conclude that owing to this negligence, some unfortunate
creature of high or low degree had seized this opportunity to get
rid of her child for ever. At this his bowels yearned so over the
poor deserted cherub, that the tears of pure tenderness stood in
his eyes; and still, beneath the crime of the mother, he saw the
Divine goodness which had so directed her heartlessness as to
comfort his servant's breaking heart.
"Now bless thee, bless thee, bless thee, sweet innocent, I
would not change thee for e'en a cherub in heaven. "”
"At's pooty," replied the infant,-ignoring contemptuously,
after the manner of infants, all remarks that did not interest
him.
"What is pretty here, my love, besides thee? "
"Ookum-gars," said the boy, pointing to the hermit's breast-
plate.
"Quot liberi, tot sententiunculæ! " Hector's child screamed at
his father's glittering casque and nodding crest: and here was a
mediæval babe charmed with a polished cuirass, and his griefs
assuaged.
"There are prettier things here than that," said Clement;
"there are little birds; lovest thou birds? "
## p. 12147 (#185) ##########################################
CHARLES READE
12147
"Nay. Ay. En um ittle, ery ittle? Not ike torks. Hate
torks; um bigger an baby. "
He then confided, in very broken language, that the storks,
with their great flapping wings, scared him, and were a great
trouble and worry to him, darkening his existence more or less.
"Ay, but my birds are very little, and good, and oh, so
pretty! "
"Den I ikes 'm," said the child authoritatively. "I ont my
mammy.
"Alas, sweet dove! I doubt I shall have to fill her place as
best I may.
Hast thou no daddy as well as mammy, sweet
one ? »
The next moment the moonlight burst into his cell, and with
it, and in it, and almost as swift as it, Margaret Brandt was
down at his knee with a timorous hand upon his shoulder.
"Gerard, you do not reject us. You cannot. "
The startled hermit glared from his nurseling to Margaret,
and from her to him, in amazement equaled only by his agita-
tion at her so unexpected return. The child lay asleep on his
left arm, and she was at his right knee; no longer the pale,
scared, panting girl he had overpowered so easily an hour or two
ago, but an imperial beauty, with blushing cheeks and sparkling
eyes, and lips sweetly parted in triumph, and her whole face
radiant with a look he could not quite read, for he had never
yet seen it on her,-maternal pride.
He stared and stared from the child to her, in throbbing
amazement.
"Us? " he gasped at last. And still his wonder-stricken eyes
turned to and fro.
Margaret was surprised in her turn. It was an age of im-
pressions, not facts. "What! " she cried, "doth not a father
know his own child? and a man of God too? Fie, Gerard, to
pretend! nay, thou art too wise, too good, not to have- why, I
watched thee; and e'en now look at you twain! 'Tis thine own
flesh and blood thou holdest to thine heart. "
Clement trembled. "What words are these? " he stammered;
"this angel mine? "
"Whose else? since he is mine. "
Clement turned on the sleeping child, with a look beyond the
power of the pen to describe, and trembled all over, as his eyes
seemed to absorb the little love.
## p. 12148 (#186) ##########################################
12148
CHARLES READE
Margaret's eyes followed his. "He is not a bit like me," said
she, proudly; "but oh, at whiles he is thy very image in little;
and see this golden hair. Thine was the very color at his age;
ask mother else. And see this mole on his little finger; now
look at thine own: there! 'Twas thy mother let me weet thou
wast marked so before him: and O Gerard, 'twas this our child
found thee for me; for by that little mark on thy finger I knew
thee for his father, when I watched above thy window and saw
thee feed the birds:" here she seized the child's hand and kissed
it eagerly, and got half of it into her mouth, heaven knows how.
"Ah, bless thee! thou didst find thy poor daddy for her, and now
thou hast made us friends again after our little quarrel; the first,
the last. Wast very cruel to me but now, my poor Gerard, and
I forgive thee-for loving of thy child. "
## p. 12148 (#187) ##########################################
## p. 12148 (#188) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN.
## p. 12148 (#189) ##########################################
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## p. 12148 (#190) ##########################################
اور اس امر کی تو را
ERNEST RENAN.
## p. 12149 (#191) ##########################################
12149
ERNEST RENAN
(1823-1892)
BY FERDINAND BRUNETIÈRE
N THE Preface to his 'Recollections of Infancy and Youth,'
Ernest Renan himself recalled the legend of that town of
Is, long ago engulfed by the sea in punishment of its
crimes, the sound of whose bells one hears on calm days, rising from
the depths of the abyss, where they continue always to call together
for prayer a people who have not yet finished paying the debt of
their repentance. And he adds: "It often seems to me that I have
at the bottom of my heart a town of Is, that still resounds with bells
continuing to call to sacred rites the faithful who no longer hear. "
This was "the state of his soul" when, nearing the sixties, having
almost completed his life work, he tried to represent himself by this
poetic comparison; where he re-found, mingled with memories of his
devout infancy, all the melancholy that weeps in the heart of the
people and soil of Brittany. But he characterized at the same time,
perhaps without knowing it, the nature of his own talent; and he
gave us the reason of his great reputation as a writer. We also,
during forty years, have heard sounding in his work the far-off bells
of the town of Is; we have heard the thrill of their voice vibrating
even in the unthanked works of the philologue and the exegete:
and he himself, do what he might, has never been able to make
himself wholly unfaithful to his first beginnings. The vase has kept
its perfume, quo recens imbuta semel; and if the originality of Ernest
Renan is anywhere, it is there, in the strange and often displeasing
but sometimes exquisite combination, developing itself in him, of
the sincerest emotionalism with the narrow rationalism of the scholar
and the philologue. The originality of a great writer, in a literature
like the French literature of our time, is always a little composite:
we are Alexandrians; that is not our fault, and we could not be re-
proached with it if we did not abuse it by abandoning ourselves to
the pleasure of dilettanteism. This is a reproach, as will be seen,
that Renan did not always know how to avoid.
He was born in 1823 at Tréguier, in the Department of the Côtes
du Nord, under the shadow of an old cathedral full of mystery and
incense; and he was educated for the priesthood. His family being
## p. 12150 (#192) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12150
humble, did his mother's ambition go beyond a vague hope of
some day seeing him the celebrant at the high altar of their native
town? But from the depths of his province, his successes in schol-
arship attracted the attention of the Abbé Dupanloup; the same who
afterwards became the blustering bishop of Orléans, but who was
then only the converter of M. de Talleyrand-Charles Maurice de
Talleyrand-Périgord—and the superior or director of the Little Sem-
inary of St. Nicolas du Chardonnet. The Little Seminary of St. Nico-
las du Chardonnet was a "free institution of secondary instruction,"
where the best families of the Faubourg Saint-Germain sent their
children to be educated. One of these children, afterwards the Duke
de Noailles, - that Frenchman who since Tocqueville has understood
America best,- kept a most vivid recollection of Renan; and I re-
member to have read some pages that he wrote upon his old school-
fellow, - pages that unfortunately have not seen nor perhaps ever
will see the light.
From St. Nicolas du Chardonnet, where rhetoric completed the
course, Ernest Renan passed to the Seminary of Issy, which stands
somewhat in the relation of a preparatory school to the great semi-
nary of St. Sulpice; and it was there that he began to experience
his first doubts as to the justifiability of the vocation to which until
then he had believed himself called. In his 'Recollections of Youth,'
which he wrote thirty years later, he undertook to explain the nature
of that crisis; and one would suppose, to hear him speak, that neither
the desire of the world,- that avidity of living which is so character-
istic of the twentieth year,- nor philosophy even, nor the sudden
revelation of science, played the least part in it. It would seem that
his reasons for doubting were purely philological; and that textual
criticism alone swept away the faith of his childhood. We shall
not contradict this. But the publication of his Correspondence' has
revealed to us since then another influence that affected the forma-
tion of his character,-the most powerful perhaps of all: it was that
of his sister Henriette. This girl, poor and highly cultivated, who
conducted far from her family, in Poland or Russia, the education of
the children of a great lady, was gnawed by resentment; and in her
triple rôle of woman, hired teacher, and native of Brittany, suffered
cruelly from being unable to satisfy or even to relieve it by giving
it expression. It was through her brother that she found her oppor-
tunity. As soon as the first doubts began to show themselves in the
seminarist, it was his sister who encouraged them; or rather she
communicated to him her own boldness of spirit: and putting her
savings to the service of her passion, it was she who supplied Ernest
Renan with the means of quitting St. Sulpice, and of resuming thus
the life of a layman. We are able to-day to affirm that Henriette
## p. 12151 (#193) ##########################################
ERNEST RENAN
12151
Renan was the great worker of her brother's unbelief; she was the
patient worker, the impassioned worker: and only later did exegesis
or philology furnish Renan with the reasons he needed for establish-
ing the convictions his sister had breathed into him.
It is right to add that both were utterly sincere, and that for
Ernest Renan the sacrifice was painful. He was born to be a priest,
as he himself has said; and his life was to be, if one may use the
expression, that of a priest of science. With that suppleness of mind
which was one day to characterize him, and procure him the means
of being more at ease in the midst of contradictions than are many
believers in the fortress of their dogmatism, he would have found
without doubt the art of reconciling his studious tastes with the
practice and observances of a dead faith. But with a care for his
dignity which did him honor, he did not desire this. He liked better
in this country of France, where the conduct of the priest who
renounces the altar is so eagerly laid to the lightest [les plus "joy-
eux"]—that is to say, to the lowest-motives, he found it more loyal
and noble to brave the anger of some, the pleasantries of others,
the distrust of all. He resumed his studies; he took his univer-
sity degrees; and in 1847 he made his début as "philologue" and as
"Hebraist," by a brilliant stroke, submitting to the Institute of France
the paper which became, a few years later, his 'General and Compar-
ative History of the Semitic Languages. '
We have from him, written about the same time, an important
book which appeared later-much later; indeed, in 1890: it is The
Future of Science,' of which it can truthfully be said that this
"future of science" is in his work that "thought of youth realized
by ripe age," that a great poet has set before the ambitions of young
men as the image or the ideal of a noble life. The whole of Renan
is in his Future of Science'; he was to draw, all his life, upon his
vast Purana, as he liked to call it himself: nevertheless, he was not
to make for himself a law of conforming during forty years to all the
convictions of the beginning of his career. But he was not to abjure
them; and in the future as in the present, when it is desired to form
a just opinion of the type of mind, the personal method, and even
the work of Ernest Renan, it is in this vast book that they must be
sought.
Let us go on to consider his first great works given to the public:
his thesis for the doctorate, upon ‘Averroës and Averroïsm,' 1852; his
'General History of the Semitic Languages,' 1855; his 'Studies of
Religious History,' 1857; his translation of the Book of Job, 1858;
his book on the Origin of Language,' 1858; his 'Essays, Moral and
Critical, 1859. Their charm of style is incomparable; and never
have subjects so severe been treated with more precision, ease, and
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lucidity. This is saying too little: for the real truth is that there is
something "Platonic" in this first manner of Renan, were it only the
art with which he envelops his most abstract ideas in the most
ingenious metaphors, or the most captivating and poetic images.
With him, as with the author of the 'Cratylus' and the 'Gorgias,'
comparisons, in spite of the proverb, are often reasons, explanations,
solutions. Equally notable in these first writings is a keen percep-
tion of the analogies between natural history and philology; which
enables him to bind together by insensible transitions, and nuances
contrived with infinite art, that which is most "human" in us—that is,
language - with that which is most instinctive, which is the imprint
we receive from surrounding nature. There is a good example of
it in the development of the celebrated formula, "The desert is
monotheistic"; and who does not see that on this basis it would
indeed be possible to establish an entire new science, to be called
"the Geography of the Religions"? As to the scientific or technical
value of these same works, it is attested by the fact that in 1856 it
came about that the Academy of Inscriptions elected the young
author to succeed the brilliant historian of the Conquest of England
by the Normans. ' He was appointed librarian of the National Library
in the department of manuscripts. The imperial government charged
him with a mission to Phoenicia. But what is more interesting than
all else to affirm here, is that from this time forth he knew what
he wished to do; he approached his whole life work on all sides at
once and already good judges, like Sainte-Beuve in his 'New Mon-
days,' or like Edmond Schérer in his 'Studies of Religious History,'
saw its first lineaments outlined.
The attempt was novel and the undertaking bold. Convinced that
all the great races of men which have appeared in turn or together
upon the world's stage have left us in the remains of their language,
and still more conclusively in the monuments of their literature, the
surest witnesses to their highest aspirations, it was precisely these
aspirations that Renan proposed to rediscover; and he saw in phi-
lology, to use his own expression, "the science of the productions of
the human soul. " Therefore, just as under the superfluous matter
with which the hand of an ignorant copyist has covered a precious
palimpsest, palæography endeavors to find again the authentic text of
Virgil or Homer, and as soon as it begins to decipher it, calls to its
aid, to further its efforts to fix it in a way to remain, all the resources
of grammar, criticism, and history, so Renan, brushing away the
dust with which time has covered, as it were, the archives of human-
ity, proposed to re-establish their true meaning, altered or disfig-
ured by superstition. From all these archives, he chose the religious
archives as the most significant of all, to make them the object of a
-
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more profound study: the Vedas of the Hindus, the Zend-Avesta
of the Persians, the Pentateuch of the Hebrews, the Koran of the
Arabs; and in truth, since there is no religion which is not at the
same time a system of the world, an expression of the relations that
man believes that he sustains with the nature which surrounds him,
and a solution of the enigma of destiny, what surer means could be
imagined of penetrating more deeply into what is innermost in the
mind of the races ? Aryans or Semites, Mussulmans or Buddhists, it
is in the intimate constitution of our race spirit that we find the
first principle, the reason for the forms of our belief, the limits also
of our religions! And believing that he saw at last in this very
formula a way of reconciling the sincerity, the ardor of his idealism
with the complete independence of his thought, Renan proposed to
disengage "religion," in so far as necessary or innate in humanity,
from the midst of the "religions" which have been until now in
history, at least from his point of view, only its multiple expression,
changeable and superstitious. From Indian Buddhism, from Greek
polytheism, from the monotheism of the Mussulman, and generally
from the particular content of the symbolism, rites, and dogma of all
the religions, when we have eliminated whatever they include that is
"local," dependent on time or circumstance,-when we have, as it
were, purified them above all of whatever they include that is ethni-
cal, what remains? This is the thought that, floating about for the
last hundred years, more or less, began a little while ago to condense,
to take shape, to "concrete" itself so to speak, in the Congress of
Religions at Chicago; and whatever may be its future, the propaga-
tion of this thought in the history of the contemporary mind is the
work of Ernest Renan.
―
Undoubtedly there is no need of showing in how many points it
differs from the thought of Voltaire or of Condorcet; but in how
many points also it approaches their thought! It comes so near it,
that like the philosophy of the eighteenth century itself, it ends in
the constitution of a "natural religion. " But while the natural reli-
gion of Voltaire is a creation of pure reason, a deduction of good
sense, common-sense, opposed to all things of any depth that the
positive religions teach, decidedly on the contrary it is from the
fundamental history of the positive religions, studied scientifically.
and impartially, that the "natural religion" of Renan is derived; and
hence its truths have no value except through their conformity to
whatever is most concrete and most intimate in the world. Or in
still other words, it appears that the same conclusion is reached,
but by different roads,-and that is the important point here,- in
every domain, in science itself, in physics or in psychology. "Discov-
eries » are nothing,-all lies in the manner in which they are made;
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and it is not the verities that enrich the human intellect, but the
"methods" that have led to them. The exclusive employment of the
philological or exegetical method suffices to establish between Vol-
taire's religion and Renan's a difference that Renan himself, in his
latter years, by means of an affected impiety, could not wholly suc-
ceed in effacing. In vain did he compare David to Troppmann; and
with less provoking coarseness, but in the same spirit, the prophet
Amos to some living "anarchist. " These pleasantries belied his
good taste; they led some persons to doubt his "sincerity" but his
"method" was the strongest; and it is this that keeps intact, with
the greatness of his name, whatever is most original and solid in his
work.
Meanwhile the moment of the struggle approached. "When a
man writes upon the rulers of Nineveh or upon the Pharaohs of
Egypt," said D. F. Strauss, "he can take only an historical interest!
