ds bound
accordingly; he feels that he cannot stumble, that if unhappily he
should ever be tempted by an impulse of doubt or humanity, he must
begin by condemning himself and delivering his own body to the flames.

* * * * *

The same method prevails everywhere: first the sensible meaning, which
is then confronted openly, without reserve, by the negation of all
good sense. Some one, for instance, might be tempted to say that as
love is in the soul, there is no need to account for it by the
mysterious working of the Devil. That is surely specious, is it not?

"By no means," says Sprenger.

"I mark a difference. He who cuts wood does not cause it to burn: he
only does so indirectly. The woodcutter is Love; see Denis the
Areopagite, Origen, John of Damascus. Therefore, love is but the
indirect cause of love."

What a thing, you see, to have studied! No weak school could have
turned out such a man. Only Paris, Louvain, or Cologne, had machinery
fit to mould the human brain. The school of Paris was mighty: for
dog-Latin who can be matched with the _Janotus_ of Gargantua?[73] But
mightier yet was Cologne, glorious queen of darkness, whence Hutten
drew the type of his _Obscuri viri_, that thriving and fruitful race
of obscurantists and ignoramuses.[74]

[73] A character in Rabelais. "Date nobis clochas nostras,
&c."--_Gargantua_, ch. 19.--TRANS.

[74] Ulrich von Hutten, friend of Luther, and author of the
witty _Epistolae obscurorum virorum_.--TRANS.

This massive logician, so full of words, so devoid of meaning, sworn
foe of nature as well as reason, takes his seat with a proud reliance
on his books and gown, on his dirt and dust. On one side of his
judgement-table lies the _Sum_, on the other the _Directory_. Beyond
these he never goes: at all else he only smiles. On such a man as he
there is no imposing: he is not the man to utter anent astrology or
alchemy nonsense not so foolish but that others might be led thereby
to observe truly. And yet Sprenger is a freethinker: he is sceptical
about old receipts! Albert the Great may aver, that some sage in a
spring of water will suffice to raise a storm, but Sprenger only
shakes his head. Sage indeed! Tell that to others, I beg. For all my
little experience, I see herein the craft of One who would put us on
the wrong scent, that cunning Prince of the Air; but he will fare
ill, for he has to deal with a doctor more subtle than